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

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.