Ambrosianæ—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 Ballantyne, 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 amœbœan oratory, or slipping into morning-call 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
