The Press. — London, England, 1855-09-01 00:00:00

,06 ittraturt. The Works of Professor Wilson. Edited by his Son-in-Law, Professor Ferrier. "Noctes Ambrosiame." Vol. L London : Black wood and Sons. THERE are few more important chapters in the critical history of English literature than those which record the influence of Scottish intellect on public opinion south of the Border. After the house of Stuart became politically defunct the mind of Scotland gra dually was Imperialised, and the union was transformed into a social reality. Moral phi losophy, which was neglected in England, was actively pursued in the north, and the Univer sity of Edinburgh sent forth a crowd of alumni to vindicate their country's intellectual re nown. Political economy was raised into a science, and Mackintosh was not far wrong when he said that the three most influential works of modern times were, Grotius's " De Jure Belli et Buis," Montesquieu's " Spirit of Laws," and Smith's " Wealth of Nations." In practical politics, and in the literature of party, the Scottish intellect had abundant representatives. We need only name the Edinburgh Review to suggest a galaxy of repu tations, which will occur to every reader's memory. There was a period (circa 1810) when there might have been grounds for asserting that the active and interprising intellects of Scot- land were on the " Liberal" side in politics. It is beyond dispute that numbers of the rising minds of the north were powerfully biassed by the success of the " blue-and-buff " flag. Though tho opposition to the Edinburgh was largely aided by Sir Walter Scott and other eminent Scotsmen, still the Quarterly was from the first emphatically a London periodical. It was reserved for the enterprising founders and brilliant supporters of Blackwood's Maga zine to show what mines of intellectual wealth were owned by Scotch Tories. After the first three years of Blackwood, the notion that the Whigs possessed all the wits of the Scotch metropolis was universally dispelled. Amongst the foremost of those who contri buted to that result was the gifted person whose works in a revised form are about to be submitted to the mature judgment of the reading public. It would be hard, indeed, if "Christopher North" did not take his position iu this age of reprints. Authors with far less pretensions have " collected " their writings, and the friends of Professor Wilson are only doing justice to his memory in piling up a literary cairn to his name. How high that cairn should ascend, and in what proportions it may be praised by English, as contrasted with Scotch admirers, may hereafter be a question for discussion. At present we shall not enter upon it. Our critical estimate of the genius of Professor Wilson must be de ferred until the series of his republications be completed. We shall here confine our attention to the first volume now before us. Ambrosianse " was the most Ition to any of our written in various sd collected their were of " a connected " of Blackwood had Jug precedent, and Lmitation. It con igs, both comic and tssions on themes of 1 with the passing classics of antiquity, month, were coin ' equal cleverness. i.e was scarcely a was not made the a display of Scot omnibus rebus, with a de quibusdam aliis. its say on every well as Jeffrey and • ! and Tory Scot t could meet the statistics, poor laws, sing songs, and ,nia in a style that val. Gallantly did could The " Noctes Ambrosiante remarkable serial contributio periodicals. Essayists have reviews and magazines, and papers, but their writings wer( character." The " Noctes " o a variety without any previou without any successful imi tained many excellent songs, sentimental. It had discussi , sublime interest, mingled a politics of the hour. The cla and the magazines of the rt mented on and "cut up" with From Homer to Hazlitt, ther single literary reputation that' Subject of disputation. It was tish genius talking de omnil trenchant commentary de Tory Scotland would have i thing upon earth, just as w( his blue-and-buff men. Ay ! land would show that while Whigs upon economy, static and all the ologies, it could strike the old lyre of Caledon •he Whigs could never rivai THE ]CRESS. the literary Scotch Tories enter into the con test. Right bravely they upheld their cause, and gloriously did they win names of high renown. In leading them on to the light of intellect Professor Wilson, in the " Noctes," stood foremost. But (alas! in all criticisms there must ever be that monosyllable!) how will the "Noctes" stand the test of reprint in a generation that has already forgotten many of its topics, and has buried the antipathy and fierce hatreds to which those brilliant papers bore witness? It would be rash to pronounce from one volume merely how the four of the revised " Noctes " will be received by the public. In many reprints the public get "too much," as is the case of Miss Edgeworth's novels, and some other instances. Nevertheless, after examining the first volume before us, we feel warranted in expressing our opinion that the " Noctes " will amply sustain its first repu tation. In criticising the " Noctes," it must not be forgotten that the papers were written for a magazine, and were addressed to a public of a most miscellaneous character. To propound high criticism, and discuss lofty themes iu a hearty colloquial Scotch fashion, was the main point aimed at by Professor Wilson, and none will dispute that he achieved his object His idealisation of the character of Hogg into the " Shepherd " is the most original part of the work, but as we read the papers over we are occasionally forced to feel the brilliant un reality of the character. It is rather injudi cious of Professor Ferrier to exhaust the terms of literary panegyric in admiration of the Shepherd. Thus we are told in the preface : In wisdom the Shepherd equals the Socrates of Plato, in humour he surpasses the Falstaff of Shakespeare. Clear and prompt, he might have stood up against Dr. Johnson in close and peremptory argument ; fertile and copious, he might have rivalled Burke in amplitude of declamation ; while his opulent imagination and powers of comical de. scription invest all that he utters either with a picturesque vividness, or a graphic quaintness peculiarly his own. That is extravagant eulogy, and a mistake of the advocate's sort, in overpainting a case. " The Socrates of Plato " had a breadth of gene ralisation and artistic subtlety which makes its study at once an ethical exercise and an resthetical pleasure, and even in translation its thoughts can be enjoyed in any tongue ; but Shepherd is as local and national as Dandie Dinmont and Baillio Nicol Jarvie. "In close " and peremptory argument" there can be no parallel between a character on paper, drawn at pleasure by the writer, and a real person like Johnson, redoubtable in crushing powers. The comparison with Burke is absurd, and the use of the word " declamation " in connection with that great thinker and writer betrays want of familiarity with his works. But the Shepherd's claims to permanent in terest rest on pretensionl too strong to be shaken by injudicious panegyric. Scotland is justly celebrated for the number of " its peasant " minds," whose genius soared without the artificial aid of education ; and the phases of that class of character are pointed out in the Shepherd with pictorial effect and metaphysi cal precision. The strong points of the cha racter can be easily seen. Thus we are made to see the subjectivity of the Shepherd in the following passage:— - - North : Whence are all your poetic visions, James, of Hilmeny, and Hynde, and the Chaldee manuscript? Shepherd: Genius—genius, my dear sir. May not a man dream when he is awake better dreams than when sleep dulls and deadens both cerebrum and cerebellum ? 0, happy days that I have lain on the green hillside, with my plaid around me. best mantle of inspiration, my faithful Hector sitting like a very Christian by my side, glowing far aff into the glens after the sheep, or aiblins lifting up his ee to the gled hovering close aneath the marbled roof of clouds—bonny St. Mary's Loch lying likes smile below, and a softened sun, scarcely warmer than the moon hersel, adorning without dazzling the day, over the heavens and the earth—a beuk o' auld ballants, as yellow as the cow slips, in my hand or my bosom, and maybe, sir, my ink horn dangling at a button-hole, a bit stump o' pen, nae bigger than an anld wife's pipe, in my mouth, and a piece o' paper, torn out o' the hinder end of a volume, crunkling on my knee—on such a couch, Mr. North, hath your Shep herd seen visions and dreamed dreams ; but his een were never steeked; and I continued aye to see and to hear a' outward things, although scarcely conscious at the time o' their real nature, so bright, wavering, and unsurelike was the hail! livin world, frae my lair on the knowe beside the clear spring, to the distant weather gleam. (The Shepherd drinks.)) This is the best jug I have made yet, sir. That is very true, and scores of passages equally good abound in the volume. But, in SATURDAY, order to see the beauties and defects of the character, we shall select some passages which mark where the Shepherd was strong and weak. Thus let us hear him describe a thunderstorm : Tickler : What was the matter, James, the last Thursday in Yarrow ? _ _ _ Shepherd : I'se tell you, and judge for yoursel. At four in the momiu, it was that hard frost that the dubs were bearin, and the midden was as hard as a rickle o' stanes. We couldna plant the potawtoes. But the lift was clear' Between eight and nine, a snaw•storm came down free the mountains about Loch Skene, noo a whirl, and noo a blash, till the grail' was whitey-blue, wi a sliddery sort o' sleet, and the Yarrow began to roar wi the melted broo, alga its frost-bound borders, and aneath its banks, a' banging wi icicles, nano o' them thinner than my twa arms. Wee' then, about eleven it began to rain, for the wund had shifted, and afore dinner-time it was an even-doun pour. It fell lown about sax, and the air grew close and sultry to a degree that was fearsome. Wha wad hae expeckit a thunderstorm on the eve o' sic a day? But the heaven s in the thundery airt, were like a dungeon, and I saw the lightning playing like meteors athwart the blackness lang before ony growl was in the gloom. Then, a' at ance, like a wankened lion, the thunder rose up in his den, and she kin his mane o' brindled clouds, broke out into sic a roar that the very sun shuddered in eclipse—and the grows and collies that happened to be sittin beside me on a bit knowe geed whinin into the house wi' their tails atween their legs, just ventutin a hatilin glance to the bowlin heavens noo ain low, for the fire was strong and fierce in electrical matter, and at intervals the illuminated mountains seemed to vomit out conflagration like verra volcanoes. That is truly graphic, and the sketch of the dogs " just vent urin a hafflin glance to the " howlin heavens "is close to nature. On such themes we are never tired of the Shepherd. "His foot's upon his native heath," and he writes like one inspired by his theme. He describes Scotch and North British scenery with the gusto of George Barrow sketching the gipsies of Spain . But when the Shepherd discourses of a cos mopolite subject, about which many other gifted intellects have written, we at once see that the overwhelming power claimed for him by Professor Ferrier cannot he attributed to him. " Mrs. Siddons as Lady Macbeth" is as fine a theme as could be given for a master description. The Shepherd evidently strains himself to rise to a level with that great subject assigned to him by himself, and here we have his attempt : Shepherd : As Leddy Macbeth ! Her gran' high straicht nosed face, whiter than ashes t Fixed een, no like the een of the dead, yet hardly mair like them o' the leevin ; and yet licht wi an obscure lustre, through which the tor mented sowl looked in the chains o' sleep and dreams wi a' the distraction o' remorse and despair—and oh ! sic an expanse o' forehead for a wand o dreadfu' thochts aneath the braided blackness o' her hair, that had nevertheless been put up wi a steady and nae uncarefu' haun before the troubled leddy had lain done, for it behoved ane so high-born as she, in the middle o' her ruefu' trouble, no to neglect what she owed to her stately beauty, and to the head that lay on the couch of ane o' Scotland's thanes—noo likewise about to be, during the short space o' the passing o' a thundercloud, her bluidy and usurping king. North : Whisht—Tickler—whisht—no coughing. Shepherd : Onwards she used to come—no Sarah Sid dons—but just Leddy Macbeth hersel—though through that melancholy masquerade o' passion, the spectator aye had a confused glimmerin apprehension o' the great actress —glidin wi the ghostlike motion o' nicht-wantlerin unrest, unconscious o' surroundin objects—for oh ! how could the glazed yet gleamin een see aught in this material world ? yet, by some mysterious power o' instinct, never touchin ane o' the impediments that the furniture o' the auld castle micht Lae opposed to her haunted footsteps. On she came, wring, wringin her hauns, as if washin them in the cleansin dews free the blouts o' blood—but wae's me for the mur deress out they wad no be, ony inair than the stains on the spat o' the floor where some midnicht-slain Christian has groaned out his soul aneath the dagger's stroke, when the sleepin Noose heard not the shriek o' departing life. Tickler : North, look at James's face. Confound me under the inspiration of the moment, if it is not like John Kemble's ! Shepherd : Whether a' this, sirs, was natural or not, ye see I dinna ken, because I never beheld ony woman, either gentle or semple, welkin in her sleep after having com mitted murder. But, Lord safe us! that hollow, broken hearted voice, " Out, damned spot," was o' itsel aneuch to tell to a' that heard it that crimes done in the flesh during time will needs be punished in the spirit during eternity. It was a dreadfte homily yon, sirs; and wha that saw't would ever ask whether tragedy or the stage was moral, purging the soul as she did wi pity and wi' terror? That description is decidedly a failure. It is an inventory of the points of the part, but not an artistic picture. Take the broad Scotch out of it, and when read in plain Eng lish it is nothing more than the rhetoric of windy rapture. It could not stand compari son with Talma's exquisite delineation of " Le Kain ;" and the readers of " Vilette "• must recollect how sublimely the astonishing qualities of Mlle. Rachel have been pr.