and its inspiration shall be manifest to your cost on the first of the month. As specimens of his manner in " cutting up," we need but allude to his reviews of Atherstone's Fall of Nineveh, Stokes's Lay of the Desert, Leigh Hunt's Byron and his Contemporaries, The Age, Michell's Living Poets, The Man of Ton, &c., &c. But after all, and his victims knew it, his bark was worse than his bite; at least there was no venom in his tooth; his abuse was hearty-his denunciation was vehement-his Billingsgate was pitched altissimo-but he bore no malice or hatred in his heart, and anon would squeeze your hand as crushingly as he had just squeezed your throat. ̓Αλλ' ἦλθε μὲν δὴ τοῦτο τὸυνειδος τάχ ̓ ἂν Being in a rage with you at the moment, he would bate no jot of whatever bad thing he could bring against you. Il avait le don de la parole, et ce qui se jouait et se peignait dans son esprit ne faisait qu'un bond sur le papier. But he is no longer remembered by his lampoons and philippics; and the leader of the Whigs set a gracious and graceful example when he ignored the heated Tory partisan, and gave the poet and critic a pension. In the thirty-sixth of the Noctes, North declared, "In the present state of this country-I don't mean to disguise my sentiments-the man who condescends to pocket either pension or sinecure, unless he has earned them by public service, and moreover can't live without the money, that man, be he high or low, deserves to bear any name but that of Tory; for that, sir, is only a synonym for Patriot-and Patriot, if I have any skill in such affairs, means Honest Man." That was in 1828, when as yet the Whigs were not in. It is pleasant to think that in 1851, when the Whigs were in, the "old man eloquent" was put on the pension list. And it was pleasant in 1852 to see him, though alas! at some physical cost (indeed they say it was virtually his last appearance in public), make his way to the Edinburgh polling-booths, from his invalid's retirement at Dalkeith, to vote for so thorough-paced a Whig, and erst so hotly-vituperated an opponent, as Thomas Babington Macaulay. Give him, on the other hand, a book to review which he really liked, and with what warmth would he greet it, with what felicity interpret its merits! There are criticisms from his pen hardly to be surpassed in our literature so richly stored are they with original thought, lofty imagination, subtle insight, humorous illustration, generous sympathy, and imposing diction. Wordsworth found in him an expositor genial and courageous, in the midst of a faithless generation. Admirably has he commented on Byron-on Moore-on Burns. In passages innumerable, sometimes fragmentary, and sometimes in prolonged detail, he has discussed as only genius can the powers of Shakspeare, Milton, Dryden, Pope, Thomson, Collins, Cowper, Southey, Coleridge, Crabbe, Heber, Montgomery (James and Robert both), Bowles, Elliott, Motherwell. Ilis readings in Spenser-a long series-enticed many to read, who had contented themselves with panegyrising, the Bard of Mulla. His vivacious essays on Homer were followed with keen enjoyment by old Masters of Arts and young misses in their teens. So were the expositions of the Greek Drama, of Hesiod, &c. And what shall be said of the Noctes Ambrosiana-wonderful repertory of an almost exhaustless productive faculty-not unfrequently offending us with volleys of slang, gratuitous coarseness, and intolerable prolixity-but overflowing with humour so unctuous, and animated by a dramatic life so hearty, and made the vehicle of sentiments and opinions often so deep and fresh, that they make up a prominent chapter in the literary history of our own time, and well deserve (as they infallibly would require) to be duly weeded, pruned, and re-produced-in a carefully-selected and greatly-abridged form. A few of them, perhaps, might be retained entire, or nearly so: for instance, No. 39 (including a contribution by Hartley Coleridge on Retzsch's Hamlet), a long twa-haunded crack between North and the Shepherd, who commonly enough get on best tête-à-tête; No. 40 (barring the politics and personality), in which Tickler also figures, and in which occurs the memorable deluge of the Haggis, forcing long Timothy to mount the mantelpiece, and North the shoulders of the Shepherd on a chair; the 34th, again, opening with Hogg and Tickler bathing at Portobello, changing thence to Mrs. Gentle and Mary in the Portobello Fly, and ending with North and his familiars in Picardy-place; nor needs the 35th any large elimination, being one of the finest and most characteristic of the series; nor the 26th, which begins with a grand "incremation" of the contents of the Balaam Box ;-while we should stickle for the parrot, raven, and starling scene (No. 41),-the installation at Ambrose's of the English Opium-eater, his philosophical discourse, and his share in the High Jinks of the club (Nos. 48-50),-the brilliant gathering at the new house-warming of Old Ebony, at which, in addition to the habitués, there "assist" such notables as James Bailantyne, Macnish, Moir, Watson Gordon, De Quincey, and a power of others (No. 51),-some of the encounters between the Shepherd and Tickler (as in No. 59), of the literary conversaziones (as No. 61), of the recreations at Altrive (No. 68), and of-but no: pause we must somewhere, and why not here? Hartley Coleridge-some of whose happiest hours were spent at Elleray, and of whom, dead, Wilson wrote, "Dear Hartley! yes, ever dear to me!"-in his delightful preface to Massinger has said, "A collection of the genuine NOCTES (for there are some spurious, in which the real Christopher had little or no concern) would not only afford to future historians a true feeling of the spirit of the times, and to all readers a shoeing-horn to thought or to laughter, but would form a valuable addition to dramatic literature. Barring an occasional irregularity of plot, they are perfect specimens of comedy. Indeed, I know not of any comedy in which actual conversation is so naturally imitated, without ever stiffening into debate or amœbæan oratory, or slipping into morningcall twaddle. Whatever the strain-whether wit, or fun, or pathos, or philosophy-it arises spontaneously, as the tones of an Æolian harp; you never feel that the party are met to discuss anything. One topic succeeds another, with the same apparent casualty, and the same under-current of suggestion, as in the Odes of Pindar. The characters are sustained with consummate skill and consistency. Christopher North himself is, perhaps, the happiest speaking mask since My Father Shandy and My Uncle Toby were silent (for Elia is Charles himself). To be sure, the compotators have no bowels for Cockneys or Whigs. Yet I like their Toryism, because it is of the old, hearty, fox-hunting, beef and port kidney, such as Ben, and Shakspeare, and Dick Corbet (pride of the lawn) would have chimed in with. Tories, of the Ambrosial sect, understood, that in order to be a gentleman it is necessary to be a man." The dramatic individuality of the compotators is certainly, in the main, most distinctly pronounced, and surprisingly well kept up. Wilson plumed himself upon it: "In those divine dialogues, the Noctes Ambrosianæ,” he says (reviewing Davy's Salmonia, where the interlocutors have no individuality at all)," you could not change the name of one speaker for another, even for one retort courteous, or quip modest, without the misnomer being instantly detected by the dullest ear." The scope of the Dies Boreales may preclude the same felicitous effect; at any rate it is no longer patent in the graver debates in which to Hogg, and Tickler, and Mullion, have succeeded Seward, and Buller, and Talboys. Alas! though, that the Dies should so soon have finished their course. How gratefully welcome they were; and how cordially we looked forward to each new session of Christopher under Canvass, and to a prolonged continuance of the series. They were worthy of the ripe, yet green old age which had haunted Ambrose's in its prime :-sobered, solemnised, saddened-“ but that not much❞—mellow with rich but unusual tints, with the soft western glow of a large soul's sunset. Who would have thought the two last of all were penned by a hand trembling with paralysis, and almost illegible to the compositor, though so readily perused by his friends and students. In reading them we were reminded of the elder Humboldt's saying, "I have always contemplated old age as a more pleasing, more charming period of life than youth; and now that I have reached this term of life, I find my expectations almost surpassed by the reality. . . . Meditation becomes purer, stronger, and more continuous." The meditative character of the Dies is full of winning tenderness and manly strength combined; the buoyant, often boisterous spirits of midnight revelries have been toned down, and chastened, and a little dulled-as became one who felt that, in his own case, η ΝΥΞ προέκοψεν, η δὲ ἩΜΕΡΑ ἤγγικεν. Highly therefore we prize these the last records of his literary careerto which we may apply lines of his, and call them DAYS divine, Closing on NIGHTS diviner still, that leave New treasures to augment th' unbounded store An Evening in Furness Abbey (1829). Professor Wilson had well-nigh fulfilled his threescore years and ten when he died. By man's prevision, he might, with his constitution, have been expected to reach fourscore, without his strength even then being labour and sorrow. But it was not so to be. A quarter of a century ago, he playfully canvassed the term of human life, and declared the limit of threescore and ten to be "quite long enough." “If a man,” said he, "will but be busy, and not idle away his time, he may do wonders within that period. . Let us die at a moderate age, and be thankful. Why this vain longing for longevity? Why seek to rob human life of its melancholy moral-namely, its shortness?" And again, elsewhere, but in the same year: "Oh! who can complain of the shortness of human life that can re-travel all the windings, and wanderings, and mazes that his feet have trodden since the farthest back hour at which memory pauses?"-and after passionately recalling the joys and sorrows of those few years, "which we now call transitory, but which our Boyhood felt as if they would be endless"-and the season of youth, "with its insupportable sunshine, and its magnificent storms," and that meridian Life, which "seems, now that it is gone, to have been of a thousand years"he adds: "Is it gone? Its skirts are yet hovering on the horizon-and is there yet another Life destined for us? That Life which we fear to face-Age, Old Age? Four dreams within a dream, and then we may awake in Heaven!" The four dreams are over now, and we trust the waking is as he would have it. In that trust, and awed by the associations it excites, we shrink from discussing what some of his critics are disputing about-viz., the measure of his fidelity in doing the earthly work appointed him. He his worldly task has done, Home is gone, and ta'en his wages. It is for his Taskmaster to decide, and for none other, whether he did it all as in his Taskmaster's eye. We can but murmur over his grave, from the same sylvan chant, Fear not slander, censure rash; Ghost unlaid forbear thee! And renowned be thy grave! Prolix as our prosing has been, we have omitted many points to which allusion was proposed. But there will be a Biography ere long, we presume, that ought to be passingly rich in interest; and until its appearance the reader will, without much pressing, allow us to defer any further discourse. THE REVEILLIE. BY MRS. ACTON TINDAL. ROUSE thee life is daily dying, Thou mayst count them as they part. Over Time's deep solemn ocean Currents flow that bear our fate, When thine angel, ever waking, God in mercy gave his blessing Take thy place in God's great plan. Free thy gift! it passes glowing From the light of Heaven to thee! Thou, within thy chamber writing, If to higher things and better Thou mayst lift another's eyes. Work while it is day, my brothers! Naked goes the soul and lonely Taking with her, taking only Deeds of mercy-hopes of peace! |