luxuriance, and gorgeousness of colour are greater than their strength or stamina: they are forced, not lasting, nor will they bear transplanting from the rank and noxious soil in which they grow. Or rather, perhaps, they bear the same relation to eloquence that artificial flowers do to real ones-alike, yet not the same, without vital heat or the power of reproduction, painted, passionless, specious mockeries. They are, in fact, not the growth of truth, of nature, and feeling, but of state policy, of art, and practice. To deny that Mr. Canning has arrived to a great perfection (perhaps the greatest) in the manufacture of these sort of common-places, elegant, but somewhat tarnished, imposing, but not solid, would, we think, show a want of candour : to affirm that he has ever done any thing more (in his serious attempts) would, we think, show an equal want of taste and understanding.*

* We e once heard it said, that "Mr. Canning had the most elegant mind since Virgil." But we could not assent to this remark, as we just then happened to think of Claude

Lorraine.

The way in which Mr. Canning gets up the staple-commodity of his speeches appears to be this. He hears an observation on the excellence of the English Constitution, or on the dangers of Reform and the fickleness and headstrong humours of the people, dropped by some Member of the House, or he meets 'with it in an old Debate in the time of Sir Robert Walpole, or in Paley's Moral and Political Philosophy, which our accomplished scholar read, of course, as the established textbook at the University. He turns it in his mind by dint of memory and ingenuity he illustrates it by the application of some wellknown and well-authenticated simile at hand, such as "the vessel of the state," "the torrent of popular fury," "the precipice of reform," "the thunder-bolt of war," "the smile of peace," etc. He improves the hint by the help of a little play upon words and upon an idle fancy into an allegory, he hooks this on to a verbal inference, which takes you by surprise, equally from the novelty of the premises and the flatness of the conclusion, refers to a passage in Cicero in support of his argument,

quotes his authority, relieves exhausted attention by a sounding passage from Virgil, "like the morn risen on mid-noon," and launches the whole freight of wisdom, wit, learning, and fancy, on the floor of St. Stephen's Chapel, where it floats and glitters amidst the mingled curiosity and admiration of both sides of the House

"Scylla heard,

And fell Charybdis murmur'd soft applause." Beneath the broad and gilded chandelier that throws its light upon "the nation's Great Divan," Mr. Canning piles the lofty harangue, high over-arched with metaphor, dazzling with epithets, sparkling with jests-take it out of doors, or examine it by the light of common sense, and it is no more than a paltry string of sophisms, of trite truisms, and sorry fooneries. There is also a House-of-Commons jargon as well as a scholastic pedantry in this gentleman's style of oratory, which is very displeasing to all but professional ears. “The Honourable and Learned Gentleman," and "his Honourable and Gallant Friend," are trolled over the tongue of the Honourable

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Speaker, "loud as a trumpet with a silver sound," and fill up the pauses of the sense or

the gaps in the logic with a degree of burlesque self-complacency and pompous inanity. Mr. Canning speaks by rote; and if the words he utters become the mouth and round a period well, he cares little how cheaply he comes by them, or how dear they cost the country! Such mechanic helps to style and technical flourishes and trappings of upstart self-importance are, however, unworthy of the meanest underling of office.

There is, notwithstanding, a facility, a brilliancy, and an elegance in Mr. Canning's general style, always graceful, never abrupt, never meagre, never dry, copious without confusion, dignified without stiffness, perspicuous yet remote from common life, that must excite surprise in an extempore speaker. Mr. Canning, we apprehend, is not an extempore speaker. He only makes set speeches on set occasions. He indeed hooks them in as answers to some one that has gone before him in the debate, by taking up and commenting on a single sentence or so, but he immediate

ly recurs to some old and favourite topic, launches into the middle of the stream, or mounts upon the high horse, and rides it to the end of the chapter. He never (that we are aware of) grappled with a powerful antagonist, overthrew him on the spot, or contested the point with him foot to foot. Mr. Canning's replies are evasions. He indeed made a capital and very deservedly-admired reply to Sir John Coxe Hippesley; but Sir John had given notice of all his motions a month beforehand, and Mr. Canning had only to lie in ambush for him with a whole magazine of facts, arguments, alliterations, quotations, jests, and squibs, prepared ready to explode and blow him up into the air in an instant. In this manner he contrives to slip into the debate and speak to the question, as if he had lately entered the House and heard the arguments on the other side stated for the first time in his life. He has conned his speeches over for a week or a month previously, but he gives these premeditated effusions the effect of witty impromptus-the spontaneous ebullitions of the laughter or indignation or lofty