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 is free from egotism and abuse of Southey and Coleridge. Nobody is capable of such a unique combination unless Southey be suggested; and he is 'buried under his own historical quartos.' The worthy author that is, is chuckling to himself because he is able to interpose this marvellous production between his stupendous labours. The Doctor was not all that Southey fancied, and yet one is grateful for the illusions which cheered him. Certainly, he did not make a rival to Tristram Shandy. He had not the humour; nor could even Sterne have accomplished Tristram Shandy if he had worked under Southey's conditions. It is easy enough to be odd, but to make mere oddity the vehicle for true humour requires an artistic elaboration which cannot be produced without the leisurely thought which can wait for the felicitous combination. Southey, in attempting the 'Shandy' vein, achieves oddity and incoherence without genuine humour; he imitates, in Burke's phrase, the contortions without the inspiration of the Sibyl. But, in spite of that, the Doctor is a very delightful book; a book 'for the bedside,' which is always entertaining without endangering sleep. Like Burton's Anatomy, it is, of course, a commonplace book in disguise. But,