pursuits, and we hear of holidays spent at Innerleithen, in Ettrick
Forest--where he rented Thirlestane--near Langholm, where his son John
was established in a farm, in the Highlands, and in a cruise with an
'Experimental Squadron' of the Navy, during which he was accommodated
with a swinging cot in the cockpit of H.M.S. _Vernon_. As is the case in
the lives of so many celebrated men, these years, though the most
fruitful, were not the most eventful of his life, and therefore call for
less detailed examination than those which had preceded them. His
character was formed, he was in the full swing of his labours, and the
best key to the history of this period is to be found in the study of
the _Noctes_, the _Recreations_, and the other works which it produced.
His heroic literary activity was continued down to 1840, in which year
he was attacked by a paralytic affection of the right hand, which made
writing irksome to him, so that for the next five years he contributed
but two papers to the magazine. This ailment was the first warning he
received that his wonderful constitution and great physical strength
were subject to the universal law. But already the hand of death had
been busy among his circle. In 1834 he had lost his esteemed friend
Blackwood, in 1835 the Ettrick Shepherd had followed the publisher,
whilst in 1837 he sustained the supreme bereavement by losing his
beloved and devoted wife. His grief on this occasion was profound and
lasting, and a touching picture of its uncontrollable outbursts in the
presence of his class has been preserved. There, if anything occurred to
renew the memory of his sorrow, he would pause for a moment or two in
his lecture, 'fling himself forward on the desk, bury his face in his
hands, and while his whole frame heaved with visible emotion, would weep
and sob like a very child.' So, in his work and his play, his joy and
his sorrow, the whole man was cast in an heroic mould. And, with that
singular but sincere, though oft misunderstood, fantasticness, which in
imaginative natures demands the outward visible sign, as long as he
lived he continued with scrupulous care the habit of wearing white
cambric weepers on the sleeves of his coat or gown, out of respect for
the memory of his faithful partner.
The shadows were already falling thick about the lion-like head of the
old Professor, and we have now to acknowledge that between his last
years and the rest of his life there exists a discrepancy as regrettable
as it is unexpected. The highest of animal spirits had been his through
the brilliant promise of youth and the happy activity and domesticity of
maturity, and when we remember his robust constitution and mellow
philosophy, we naturally look forward to see him enjoy a green and
peaceful old age. But such prognostications are apt to be fallacious,
and the fact stands that his old age was a melancholy one. Nor was its
melancholy of that kind, by no means incompatible with a large measure
of serenity, which is directly traceable to evils common to all men
whose years are prolonged; it was a peculiar despondency, profound and
unexplained. Indeed the last pages of the _Life_ are sad reading, and
we pass hastily over them to the end.
The first symptom of the alteration in his character of which we hear is
his sense of loneliness. There was no occasion for him to be lonely, for
he was rich in affectionate children and grand-children, yet in spite of
these his habits insensibly became solitary, he grew to dislike being
intruded upon, and at last was seldom seen in public. Still for a time
his broad-brimmed hat with its deep crape band, his flowing locks, and
his stately figure buttoned in its black coat, continued to be welcome
sights in the streets of Edinburgh, and still he continued, without
intermission, his labours among his class, until, in the winter of 1850,
an alarming seizure which occurred in his retiring-room at the
University compelled him to absent himself from his duties. In the
following year he finally retired from the Professorship, which he had
held for thirty years, his services being recognized by Government with
a pension of L300 a year.
He now felt that his usefulness in life was over, and from henceforth
his despondency deepened. We read that 'something of a settled
melancholy rested on his spirit, and for days he would scarcely utter a
word or allow a smile to lighten up his face;' and, again, that 'long
and mournful meditation took possession of him; days of silence revealed
the depth of his suffering, and it was only by fits and starts that
anything like composure visited his heart.' He himself speaks of his
'hopeless misery.' 'Nothing,' he said to his daughter, 'can give you an
idea of how utterly wretched I am; my mind is going, I feel it.' And,
indeed, it seems that a gradual mental decline had set in. But he was
spared its progress. On the 1st April 1854, at his house in Gloucester
Place, he was attacked by paralysis, and there two days later, mourned
by an almost patriarchal family of descendants, he breathed his last.
In the details of his daily life, Wilson was accustomed to follow his
own inclinations more than 'tis given to most men to do, his robust
individuality disdaining the minor fashions and conventions of the day,
whilst his native independence, and still more his love of home, made
him completely indifferent to what is known as social success. It is not
in the 'great world,' therefore, that we must seek for the traits which
characterize him. But a man is what he is at home, and within his own
sphere Wilson's sympathies were of the widest and deepest. He was adored
by every member of his large family, whilst his own large-hearted
affection embraced all, down to--or, as perhaps I should say,
remembering his special love for young children, up to the youngest babe
in the household. Such anecdotes, too, as those told by his daughter of
his generous treatment of his defaulting uncle, of his relations with
his superannuated henchman, Billy Balmer, or of his sitting up all night
at the bedside of an old female servant who was dying, 'arranging with
gentle but awkward hand the pillow beneath her head,' or cheering her
with encouraging words,--these speak more for the genuine humanity of
the man than a thousand triumphs gained in an artificial world.
He also shared with Sir Walter Scott the love of birds and animals of
all kinds, from the dog, Rover--one of many dogs--who, crawling upstairs
in its last moments, died with its paw in its master's hand, to the
sparrow which inhabited his study for eleven years, and which, boldly
perching on his shoulder, would sometimes carry off a hair from his
shaggy head to build its nest. In these matters animals have an instinct
which rarely misleads them, and that they had good grounds for
recognizing a friend in the Professor is proved by the following
incident. One afternoon Wilson, then far advanced in life, was observed
remonstrating with a carter who was driving an overladen horse through
the streets of Edinburgh--
'The carter, exasperated at this interference, took up his whip in a
threatening way, as if with intent to strike the Professor. In an
instant that well-nerved hand twisted it from the coarse fist of the
man, as if it had been a straw, and walking quietly up to the cart
he unfastened its _trams_, and hurled the whole weight of coals into
the street. The rapidity with which this was done left the driver of
the cart speechless. Meanwhile, poor Rosinante, freed from his
burden, crept slowly away, and the Professor, still clutching the
whip in one hand, and leading the horse in the other, proceeded
through Moray Place to deposit the wretched animal in better keeping
than that of his driver.'
'This little episode,' adds the writer, 'is delightfully characteristic
of his impulsive nature, and the benevolence of his heart.'
Whilst human nature remains what it is, traits of such broad and genial
humanity as this are never out of date; but when we turn from the writer
to the writings, it is to find the case altered, and ourselves brought
face to face with the devastations of time. In the sense of great and
immediate effect produced by his work, Wilson was unquestionably the
most brilliant, as--excepting the too-fertile Galt--he was the most
prolific, of the group of distinguished authors who are here associated
with the publishing-house of Blackwood; yet in vitality, in enduring
freshness, such a novel as _The Inheritance_, such a sea-piece as _Tom
Cringle's Log_, not to speak of such a character-study as _The Provost_,
to-day leaves his work far behind. Of course this is in large measure
due to the nature, not to the defects, of that work. North's most
distinctive writings were not creative, and in general it is only
creative work that lives. The critic's reputation is transitory; Time's
revenge deals swiftly, hardly by it; it has none of the
phoenix-property of the creator's. Of all our distinguished critical
reputations of the last hundred years or so, how many now survive?
To-day the critic Johnson is remembered chiefly for blindness, the
critic Jeffrey for overweening self-confidence when he was wrong, the
critic Macaulay for idle rhetoric and for consistent failure to strike
the mark. The appreciator Lamb is almost alone in holding his own. And
there is not one reader in a thousand who has time, or cares, for the
purely historical task of looking closer, of studying these eminent
writers in relation to the age in which they lived, and of estimating
accordingly the services which they performed. Christopher North, in so
far as he was a critic, has not escaped the common doom. Scattered over
the pages of the _Noctes_, there are no doubt some shrewd and pregnant
observations upon writers and upon literature. But these sparse grains
of salt are not enough to preserve the general fabric from decay; whilst
the more numerous errors of judgment in which his work abounds require
no pointing out. As a reviewer North was not lacking in discrimination,
as may be seen in the historical though generally misconceived essay on
Tennyson; and, granted a really good opportunity--as in the case of that
completion of _Christabel_ which was to Martin Tupper the pastime of
some idle days--no man knew better how to avail himself of it. The
pages signed by him also afford abundant evidence of the gentleness,
generosity, and enthusiasm of his spirit. But when so much has been
said, what remains to be added? Of stimulus to the reader, of
conspicuous insight into the subject discussed, we find but little.
Turning to the essays, collected under the title of 'Recreations of
Christopher North,' we sometimes see the author to better advantage, as,
for instance, when he dons his 'Sporting Jacket,' and recounts in
mock-heroic style the Sportsman's Progress. The subject was one which
keenly appealed to him, rousing all the enthusiasm of his perfervid
nature, and some very bright and characteristic pages are the result.
His hero is fishing, and has hooked a fish.
'But the salmon has grown sulky, and must be made to spring to the
plunging stone. There, suddenly, instinct with new passion, she
shoots out of the foam like a bar of silver bullion; and, relapsing
into the flood, is in another moment at the very head of the
waterfall! Give her the butt--give her the butt--or she is gone for
ever with the thunder into ten fathom deep!--Now comes the trial of
your tackle--and when was Phin ever known to fail at the edge of
cliff or cataract? Her snout is southwards--right up the middle of
the main current of the hill-born river, as if she would seek its
very source where she was spawned! She still swims swift, and
strong, and deep--and the line goes steady, boys, steady--stiff and
steady as a Tory in the roar of Opposition. There is yet an hour's
play in her dorsal fin--danger in the flap of her tail--and yet may
her silver shoulder shatter the gut against a rock. Why, the river
was yesterday in spate, and she is fresh run from the sea. All the
lesser waterfalls are now level with the flood, and she meets with
no impediment or obstruction--the coast is clear--no tree-roots
here--no floating branches--for during the night they have all been
swept down to the salt loch. _In medio tutissimus ibis_--ay, now you
feel she begins to fail--the butt tells now every time you deliver
your right. What! another mad leap! yet another sullen plunge! She
seems absolutely to have discovered, or rather to be an
impersonation of, the Perpetual Motion. Stand back out of the way,
you son of a sea-cook!--you in the tattered blue breeches, with the
tail of your shirt hanging out. Who the devil sent you all here, ye
vagabonds?--Ha! Watty Ritchie, my man, is that you? God bless your
honest laughing phiz! What, Watty, would you think of a Fish like
that about Peebles? Tam Grieve never gruppit sae heavy a ane since
first he belanged to the Council.--Curse that collie! Ay! well done,
Watty! Stone him to Stobbo. Confound these stirks--if that white
one, with caving horns, kicking heels, and straight-up tail, come
bellowing by between us and the river, then "Madam! all is lost,
except honour!" If we lose this Fish at six o'clock, then suicide at
seven. Our will is made--ten thousand to the Foundling--ditto to the
Thames Tunnel----ha--ha--my Beauty! Methinks we could fain and fond
kiss thy silver side, languidly lying afloat on the foam as if all
further resistance now were vain, and gracefully thou wert
surrendering thyself to death! No faith in female--she trusts to the
last trial of her tail--sweetly workest thou, O Reel of Reels! and
on thy smooth axle spinning sleep'st, even, as Milton describes her,
like our own worthy planet. Scrope--Bainbridge--Maule--princes among
Anglers--oh! that you were here! Where the devil is Sir Humphrey? At
his retort? By mysterious sympathy--far off at his own Trows, the
Kerss feels that we are killing the noblest Fish whose back ever
rippled the surface of deep or shallow in the Tweed. Tom Purdy
stands like a seer, entranced in glorious vision, beside turreted
Abbotsford. Shade of Sandy Govan! Alas! alas! Poor Sandy--why on thy
pale face that melancholy smile!--Peter! The Gaff! The Gaff! Into
the eddy she sails, sick and slow, and almost with a
swirl--whitening as she nears the sand--there she has it--struck
right into the shoulder, fairer than that of Juno, Diana, Minerva,
or Venus--and lies at last in all her glorious length and breadth of
beaming beauty, fit prey for giant or demigod angling before the
Flood!'
Nor are his pictures of Coursing and of Fox-Hunting less good. But anon
his overladen style crops out again, as in this passage, where he has
just discharged his gun into the midst of a flock of wild-duck afloat
upon a loch:--
'Now is the time for the snow-white, here and there ebon-spotted
Fro--who with burning eyes has lain couched like a spaniel, his
quick breath ever and anon trembling on a passionate whine, to
bounce up, as if discharged by a catapulta, and first with immense
and enormous high-and-far leaps, and then, fleet as any greyhound,
with a breast-brushing brattle down the brae, to dash, all-fours,
like a flying squirrel fearlessly from his tree, many yards into the
bay with one splashing and momentarily disappearing spang, and then,
head and shoulders and broad line of back and rudder tail, all
elevated above or level with the wavy water-line, to mouth first
that murdered mawsey of a mallard, lying as still as if she had been
dead for years, with her round, fat, brown bosom towards
heaven--then that old Drake, in a somewhat similar posture, but in
more gorgeous apparel, his belly being of a pale grey, and his back
delicately pencilled and crossed with numberless waved dusky
lines--precious prize to one skilled like us in the angling
art--next--nobly done, glorious Fro--that cream-colour-crowned
widgeon, with bright rufus chestnut breast, separated from the neck
by loveliest waved ash-brown and white lines, while our mind's eye
feasteth on the indescribable and changeable green beauty-spot of
his wings--and now, if we mistake not, a Golden Eye, best described
by his name--finally, that exquisite little duck the Teal; yes,
poetical in its delicately pencilled spots as an Indian shell, and
when kept to an hour, roasted to a minute, gravied in its own wild
richness, with some few other means and appliances to boot, carved
finely--most finely--by razor-like knife, in a hand skilful to
dissect and cunning to divide--tasted by a tongue and palate both
healthily pure as the dewy petal of a morning rose--swallowed by a
gullet felt gradually to be extending itself in its intense
delight--and received into a stomach yawning with greed and
gratitude,--Oh! surely the thrice-blessed of all web-footed birds;
the apex of Apician luxury; and able, were anything on the face of
this feeble earth able, to detain a soul, on the very brink of fate,
a short quarter of an hour from an inferior Elysium!'
In point of style could anything well be much worse? Even the far-famed
_Noctes Ambrosianae_, by much the most celebrated of Wilson's writings,
though they may still be dipped into with pleasure, will scarcely stand
critical examination nowadays. Of course, from their very nature, they
have come to labour under the disadvantage of being largely concerned
with topics and persons of long since exhausted interest. And, again,
their convivial setting, which pleased in its own day, is now probably
by many looked upon askance, and that, it must be confessed, not without
some show of excuse. If this were all, it would be well. As we have
seen, Wilson wrote his dialogues hastily and presumably wrote them for
the moment, so that to judge them as permanent contributions to
literature is to judge them by a standard contemplated not by the
author, but by his injudicious critics. Amongst these, Professor
Ferrier, in his introductory critique to the authoritative edition of
the _Noctes_, published forty years ago, most confidently claims that
they possess solid and lasting qualities, and in the front rank of these
qualities he places humour and dramatic power. Now to us, except in
outward form, the _Noctes_ appear almost anything rather than dramatic;
they are even less dramatic than the conversation-pieces of Thomas Love
Peacock. It is true that of the two principal talkers one speaks Scotch
and the other English; but in every other respect they might exchange
almost any of their longest and most important speeches without the
smallest loss to characterisation. The same authority (I use the word in
a purely empirical sense) enthusiastically lauds the creation of The
Shepherd; and upon him it is true that, by dint of insistence on two or
three superficial mannerisms, a certain shadowy individuality has been
conferred. But surely it is needless to point out that a label is not a
personality, and that this sort of thing is something quite apart from
dramatic creation. The critic then goes on to say that 'in wisdom the
Shepherd equals the Socrates of Plato; in humour he surpasses the
Falstaff of Shakespeare.' The last part of the sentence strikes us as
even more surprising than the first, for had our opinion of the
imaginary revellers at Ambrose's been asked we should have had to
confess that, though they possess high spirits in abundance and a
certain sense of the ludicrous, of humour in the true sense--of the
humour, I won't say of a Sterne, but of a Michael Scott--all are alike
entirely destitute. And one may even add that with persons of equally
high spirits such is almost always the case. Well then, it may be asked,
if they lack both humour and dramatic power, in what qualities, pray, do
these world-famed dialogues excel? The answer is, of course, that in
brilliant intellectual and rhetorical display the _Noctes_ are supreme.
Yet here, also, there is often about them something too much of
deliberate and self-conscious fine-writing. And yet, even to-day, when
tastes have changed and fashions altered, the exuberance of their
eloquence is hard to withstand, and in reading them we sometimes almost
believe that we are touched when in reality we are merely dazzled. This
dazzling quality is not one of the highest in literature: with the
single possible exception of Victor Hugo, the greatest writers have
always been without it. But it pervades, floods, overwhelms the
_Noctes_. It is a somewhat barren, and unendearing quality at best; yet,
after all, it is an undoubted manifestation of intellectual power; and
whatever it may be worth, let us give Wilson full credit for having
excelled in it.
One last word. The literary workman has no more unpleasing task to
perform than that of so-called destructive criticism; but if Wilson
himself, as apart from his writings, be indeed, as we believe him to be,
an immortal figure, by releasing him from the burden of ill-judged
praise which like a mill-stone hangs about his neck, and by setting him
in his true light, we shall have done him no disservice. On the poetic
imagination, then, he looms as one heroically proportioned; whilst more
practical thinkers will cherish his memory as that of a most brilliant
contributor to the periodical literature of his day, a great inspirer of
youth, and a standard and pattern to his countrymen of physical and
intellectual manhood.
FOOTNOTES:
[1] It is distinctly stated in the _Life_, vol. 1, p. 180, that the loss
of fortune was complete; but a subsequent statement is somewhat at
variance with this.
[2] Letter quoted by Mrs Gordon.
JOHN GALT
Through life the subject of this sketch was unfortunate; nor has
posthumous justice redressed the balance in his favour. His
fellow-countrymen and fellow-craftsmen, Scott and Smollett--with whom,
if below them, he is not unworthy to be mentioned--have long since been
accorded high rank among the great novelists of English literature: Galt
remains in obscurity. And yet it is easy to understand how his qualities
have failed of recognition. For though his character was in the ordinary
sense of the word exemplary, his genius extraordinary, yet in either
there was something lacking. Indeed the study of his life and works
reveals almost as much to be blamed as to be praised.
* * * * *
John Galt was born at Irvine, in Ayrshire, on the 2nd May, 1779, in that
humbler station of society, which--in so far as it dispenses with
screens and concealments, and so brings a child the sooner face to face
with life as it is--may be considered favourable to genius. In childhood
he was of infirm constitution and somewhat effeminate disposition--defects
which were, however, in due course amply rectified. At this time his
passion for flowers and for music gave evidence of a sensibility which,
if one is loth to condemn it as unwholesome, is at least of doubtful
augury for happiness in a workaday world. To these affections he joined
the love of ballads and story-books--in the midst of which he would
often pass the day in lounging upon his bed. Nor did oral tradition fail
him; for, frequenting the society of the indigent old women of the
locality, from their lips he would drink in to his heart's content that
lore of a departing age which he afterwards turned to such good account
in his works. To his own mother, whom nature had gifted with remarkable
mental powers, and in particular with a strong sense of humour and a
faculty of original expression, his debt was admitted to be great. Not
unnaturally Mrs Galt at first strenuously opposed her son's bookish
propensities, though it is recorded that she lived to regret having done
so. The father, who by profession was master of a West Indiaman, though,
in his son's words, 'one of the best as he was one of the handsomest of
men,' does not appear in mind and force of character to have risen above
mediocrity.