hat (as the
_Quarterly_ put it in a phrase which evidently made Wilson very angry)
he was represented as a mere "boozing buffoon." On the other hand it is
equally certain that the Shepherd never did anything that exhibited half
the power over thought and language which is shown in the best passages
of his _Noctes_ eidolon. Some of the adventures described as having
happened to him are historically known as having happened to Wilson
himself, and his sentiments are much more the writer's than the
speaker's. At the same time the admirably imitated patois and the subtle
rendering of Hogg's very well known foibles--his inordinate and
stupendous vanity, his proneness to take liberties with his betters, his
irritable temper, and the rest--give a false air of identity which is
very noteworthy. The third portrait is said to have been the farthest
from life, except in some physical peculiarities, of the three.
"Tickler," whose original was Wilson's maternal uncle Robert Sym, an
Edinburgh "writer," and something of a humorist in the flesh, is very
skilfully made to hold the position of common-sense intermediary between
the two originals, North and the Shepherd. He has his own peculiarities,
but he has also a habit of bringing his friends down from their
altitudes in a Voltairian fashion which is of great benefit to the
dialogues, and may be compared to Peacock's similar use of some of his
characters. The few occasional interlocutors are of little moment, with
one exception; and the only female characters, Mrs. and Miss Gentle,
would have been very much better away. They are not in the least
lifelike, and usually exhibit the namby-pambiness into which Wilson too
often fell when he wished to be refined and pathetic. The "English" or
half-English characters, who come in sometimes as foils, are also rather
of the stick, sticky. On the other hand, the interruptions of Ambrose,
the host, and his household, though a little farcical, are well judged.
And of the one exception above mentioned, the live Thomas De Quincey,
who is brought in without disguise or excuse in some of the very best of
the series, it can only be said that the imitation of his written style
is extraordinary, and that men who knew his conversation say that the
rendering of that is more extraordinary still.

The same designed exaggeration which some uncritical persons have called
Rabelaisian (not noticing that the very fault of the _Noctes_ is that,
unlike Rabelais, the