that if people did not pay church rates they ought to be quodded,' and he would 'quod' them. I ventured to tell him that this was rather hard language, and that people thought it harsh. In reply he utterly disclaimed any intention of meaning prison by 'quod,' which at least showed a laudable ignorance of the force of slang expressions. It is well known that he had promised to give a thousand a year towards that magnificent tower of that now magnificent chapel of St. John's College, Cambridge, the foundation stone of which he laid. He expressly stipulated that this annual payment was only to be while he was living, and by his death this resource failed the college after two years' payments. Peace to his honoured memory! He was good, worthy, useful; but the idea of manufacturing a big book about him appears to us to be exceedingly incongruous.

In some respects better, but in other respects immeasurably worse, is Mr. James Grant's life of Sir

George Sinclair.* This is a provoking book. Sir George Sinclair was undoubtedly a remarkable man, and the book contains much that is very readable and interesting, but it is frightfully marred by ignorance, stupidity, and fulsomeness. More craven adulation of titled people we have nowhere seen. Mr. Grant quotes a duke rather than a baron, and a baron rather than a baronet, and twaddle by a titled person rather than common sense by a commoner. There was a clergyman of high social mark whom many of our readers may recollect, Mr. Hamilton Gray, of Bolsover Castle, with whom Sir George Sinclair corresponded in closest friendship and intimacy for very many years. We know enough of the late Mr. Hamilton Gray to be able to say that this correspondence must have been eminently interesting and instructive; but we are not favoured with a single line, while the merest, most trivial notes of men of title are admitted. It would be easy to

point out some ludicrous errors which he has made; but it is really not worth while to waste powder and shot on such a poor writer as Mr. James Grant, amiable and wellmeaning as he may be, always barring his idolatry of Debrett.

Yet this stupid book contains some extremely interesting and important matter, which may be lost for readers who throw it aside in disgust. Sir George Sinclair himself, though he runs a danger of being made ridiculous by undiscerning, extravagant panegyric, had all the elements of a good man and some of the elements of a great man. There are a few letters and anecdotes in the work which amply repay the trouble of perusal. Lord Byron spoke of Sinclair as being the prodigy of Harrow. There is here an interesting anecdote of Byron, how he once said to Sir Robert Abercrombie,' How is your mother? I very well remember the beating she made my mother give me; but tell her from me it would have been well for me if they had been many more.' In his early travels the famous incident befel him of being captured a few days before the battle of Jena was fought, and being brought into the presence of Napoleon. The Emperor treated him, as soon as he had laid aside his suspicions, with great good-nature, asking him what classical authors he was reading. Sinclair actually pointed out on the map the memorable spot of Jena o Napoleon. This remarkable occurrence naturally formed one of Sir George's stock stories, and he had to tell it so often that at last he refused to tell it any more. Sir George represented his county, and made an effective public speaker, as patriotic as Joseph Hume himself, with whom he lived on terms of fullest intimacy. There is in this volume an interesting account of the strange malady which befel Lord Glenelg. Though a cabinet minister, and a great favourite in society, he suddenly secluded himself from the public for ten years, passing most of his time in his chair gazing upon the opposite wall. At the end of that time he once more resumed his old position, full of life