affection, accompanied his great literary successes; these are not disproved, and probably furnish the difficulties Mrs. Gordon pleads to have beset her task; but she shows us substantial sterling qualities as the foundation of the character.

There is necessary incompleteness in every life undertaken by sons or daughters; but Wilson, of all others, needed an impartial biographer, or, at least, one who could give us all sides of the man, to enable us really to understand him. Many influences, which would account for his eccentricities and failures, are, we have no doubt, ignored; a veil thrown over them. It cannot well be otherwise. Still it is as honest a narrative as circumstances would admit, written with a desire to be fair, and that strong motive to candour, a faith in her father's loyal and noble qualities, which, to her mind, overbalanced all his errors; and in the trust that a daughter's tender, loving enthusiasm will itself vouch for his excellence in those family and domestic relations which was sometimes brought in question, in seasons of political rancour and the local conflict of parties. Being what he was, in some points so wild and undisciplined, in some of his habits utterly regardless of custom and convention, it is certainly pleasant to read of him as the devoted, faithful, affectionate home-loving husband, and the kind father, who was not only fond of his children, but worked hard for them and studied their interests; though we feel that this favourable impression might have been produced at less expense than the publication of so many entirely dull, uninteresting, and trivial family letters. Those who first become acquainted with the man as a writer, through these letters to wife and daughters, will be puzzled to understand that fire of the soul-that masterly genius and passion-which are the apologies for what is strange or questionable in his character. They are, indeed, curiously free from any trace of those potent influences which it is assumed would not let him submit to any other control than that of the affections, and, on their first development, separated him not only from custom and social life as it came before him, but from his former self, and the habits implanted by education and natural bent. His epistolary style may be a relic of the former man, for he is described as orderly, demure, observant, of polite usage, trim in his attire, neat and intelligible in his handwriting, and precise in his ways till the deep fires of genius and passion awoke within him.

Then it was that, gifted with extraordinary bodily health, strength, and agility, all governed by high animal spirits, he found himself possessed of a mind of equal power in its own range, and with a soul, a memory, an utterance to give every thought expression, and was thus roused to an unbounded

sense of physical and intellectual power. This union or collision, for it was both, produced extraordinary results upon his writings, which depend for their charm, and take their whole colour, from the manner of life to which his bodily powers and high spirits prompted him; and upon his temper and disposition, which they moulded into an exuberant genial egotism. Apart from his passion for and success in bodily exercises, we feel that his genius could never have come to its full growth, or, at least, must have wrought for itself a wholly different vein, less hectoring and presumptuous, perhaps; but also not so wildly pleasant, so daring in its mirth and humour.

John Wilson was born in Paisley, in 1785, while Paisley had still some natural beauties to be praised. His father, a gauze manufacturer, was one of the principal inhabitants of the place, and accumulated a large fortune. John was the oldest son of ten children, all remarkable, it is said, for personal beauty, and all of whom seem to have taken a good place in the world; and he himself inherited from his father, who died when he was twelve years old, a fortune of fifty thousand pounds, which, however, some dozen years later, was wholly lost to him, through the culpable mismanagement of an uncle. And in passing we may remark, that never did a great pecuniary loss seem to make less change in character and habits, and never was more lightly, cheerfully borne. There is a pleasant account of his first school days at the manse of Mearns, under the gentle tuition of the Rev. George M'Latchie, its minister; here his love of sport, and out-door life, were at least as much fostered as his powers of learning. All acquainted with his writings, will recall with pleasure his first fish,' and his experiences when lost in the Scotch mist.

'Once it was feared that poor wee Kit was lost; for, having set off all by himself, at sunrise, to draw a night-line from the distant Black Loch, and look at a trap set for a glede, a mist overtook him on the moor, on his homeward way, with an eel as long as himself hanging over his shoulder, and held him prisoner for many hours within its shifting walls, frail indeed, and imposing no resistance to the hand, yet impenetrable to the feet of fear, as the stone dungeon's thraldom. If the mist had remained, that would have been nothing; only a still, cold, wet seat on a stone; but as a "trot becomes a gallop soon, in spite of curb and rein," so a Scotch mist becomes a shower-and a shower a flood-and a flood a storm-and a storm a tempest-and a tempest thunder and lightning-and thunder and lightning heaven-quake and earth-quake-till the heart of poor wee Kit quaked, and almost died within him in the desert. In this age of confessions, we need not be ashamed to own, in the face of the whole world, that we sat down and cried! The small brown moorland bird, as dry as a toast, hopped out of his heather-hole, and cheerfully chirped comfort. With crest just a thought lowered by the rain, the green-backed, whitebreasted pease weep walked close by us in the mist; and, sight of wonder, that made, even in that quagmire, our heart beat with joy-lo! never seen

The

before, and seldom since, three wee peaseweeps, not three days old, little bigger than shrew-mice, all covered with blackish down, interspersed with long white hairs, running after their mother! But the large hazel eye of the she peaseweep, restless even in the most utter solitude, soon spied us glowering at her, and her young ones, through our tears; and not for a moment doubting (Heaven forgive her for the shrewd but cruel suspicion) that we were Lord Eglinton's gamekeeper, with a sudden shrill cry that thrilled to the marrow in our cold backbone, flapped and fluttered herself away into the mist, while the little black bits of down disappeared, like devils, into the moss. The croaking of the frogs grew terrible; and, worse and worse, close at hand, seeking his lost cows through the mist, the bellow of the notorious red bull! We began saying our prayers; and just then the sun forced himself out into the open day, and, like the sudden opening of the shutters in a room, the whole world was filled with light. frogs seem to sink among the pow-heads; as for the red bull that had tossed the tinker, he was cantering away, with his tail towards us, to a lot of cows on the hill; and, hark-a long, a loud, and oft-repeated halloo ! Rab Roger, honest fellow, and Leezie Muir, honest lass, from the manse, in search of our dead body! Rab pulls our ears lightly, and Leezie kisses us from the one to the other, wrings the rain out of our long yellow hair (a pretty contrast to the small grey sprig now on the crown of our pericranium, and the thin tail acock behind); and by-and-by, stepping into Hazeldean head for a drap and a “chitterin' piece," by the time we reach the manse we are as dry as a whistle-take our scold and our palmies from the minister-and, by way of punishment and penance, after a little hot whisky toddy, with brown sugar and a bit of bun, are bundled off to bed in the daytime ! '—Vol. i. p. 12.

His recollections of his boyhood are all in this glowing strain, and give the picture of a temperament, keenly susceptible of both pleasure and pain. His partings from favourite haunts, his family bereavements, reveal two things-a power of suffering, and the greatest of all reliefs to this sensitiveness, a power of expression. There is no quality so engaging as vivid feeling, vividly expressed. Wherever it is understood to exist, a sort of awe gathers round it. People, not professing to feel deeply themselves, take all imaginable care to spare the feeling of these exceptional beings; perhaps because they do not understand it. They are considered, as it were, meters, tests and guages of humanity. In the same way it is a general concern, that persons of this temper should enjoy themselves thoroughly whenever the occasion presents itself, they do it so heartily. This sort of sympathy, all Wilson's more characteristic writing wins for him; it was one main element of his power over his readers; and his parting from the manse, and his boyish agony of grief at the death of a little sister, are condoled with as a pain, even to think of, by persons who make no demand on the pity of others for the dull sorrows of their own childhood ; though these might hang about their spirits the longer for being unexpressed. In looking back, we see that it was true of Wilson, 'the boy is father of the man,' and in every life spread out

before us, we see clearly enough that it is so; but we see it only on looking back. Wherever there is character and originality, nobody can prophesy what it will turn into. No life's experience is long enough, or wide enough, to form theories on the examples falling under our own observation. We ought to have a personal chronicle of many generations, to calculate with any approach to knowledge, which qualities will gain the ascendant, and predominate in the long run. Thus, though Wilson showed great powers as a boy, the same which afterwards made him famous, though we recognize one and the same mind at work; we doubt if any one saw in the future distance, anything at all like John Wilson, either as Christopher North, or Professor of Moral Philosophy. His boyhood was a vigorous and happy one; he worked as energetically as he played, and a strong mutual regard established itself between him and his teachers, from his first dominie, Mr. Peddie, and the professors at Glasgow, down to Dr. Routh of Magdalen. It seems as if even hard reading was compatible with a much easier life then than now, for there is no evidence of overwork, and yet he was always at the top of the tree. On his father's death, while only twelve, he was sent to the University of Glasgow, where he stayed till the end of his eighteenth year. While there he addressed a long letter to Wordsworth, to whom he was personally unknown, of mingled enthusiasm and criticism, both somewhat stiffly expressed, but full of independent thought, and remarkable in every way as from a boy. We believe that the early efforts at composition of every writer remarkable for his style, will be found formal in their arrangement. Ease is seldom a sign of promise in the very young. Take these measured sentences of approval:

'Accept my thanks for the raptures you have occasioned me, and however much you may be inclined to despise me, know at least that these thanks are sincere and fervent. To you, sir, mankind is indebted for a species of poetry which will continue to afford pleasure, while respect is paid to virtuous feelings, and while sensibility continues to pour forth tears of rapture. The flimsy ornaments of language, used to conceal meanness of thought and want of feeling, may captivate for a short time the ignorant and the unwary, but true taste will discover the imposture and expose the authors of it to merited contempt. The real feelings of human nature, expressed in simple and forcible language, will, on the contrary, please those only who are capable of entertaining them, and in proportion to the attention we pay to the faithful delineation of such feelings, will be the enjoyment derived from them. That poetry, therefore, which is the language of nature, is certain of immortality, provided circumstances do not occur to pervert the feelings of humanity, and occasion a complete revolution in the government of the mind.'-Vol. i. p. 40.

In 1803, he entered Magdalen College, Oxford, as a gentleman commoner. And here the eccentricities of his character

began to show themselves. His daughter, as we have said, describes him, up to this time, as orderly and methodical, keeping exact accounts, entering in his journal the proceedings of each day, and a ladies' man. So much so, indeed, that his attentions to a certain Margaret,' whose acquaintance he formed at Glasgow, had developed into a declaration of attachment. This love affair is approached with so much caution, so thick a veil of mystery hangs about it, there are things so unaccountable in his own conduct, we are expected to feel such respectful sympathy and compassion for what we cannot understand, that a spirit of contradiction is excited, and we own to having a view on the subject, not quite in accordance with the demand made on our pity. We suspect this love affair to be just the least real thing we are told about him; not that there was in him any conscious exaggeration, but that he was mistaken in the real cause of his uneasiness, or, as he would call it, 'misery,' and a great many other terrible words. There was consequent on his entering on the new world of Oxford, an awakening of certain powers and feelings, till now in abeyance; a sort of struggle of new impulses within him. His youth woke to a consciousness of strength, mental and bodily, and he found himself, at the same time, in scenes fitted for their development, and with a liberty of action unknown before. He was equal to the studies of the place, and took a position at once among its scholars; he found himself among companions, who encouraged and enjoyed his wild humour, what he calls hilarious enjoyment; he had unlimited means, and he admits to a period of unbridled dissipation.' What wonder that from this state there should be a reaction to melancholy and depression, which we feel certain would have invaded his spirits, had there been no Margaret in existence. Lowness must take some particular form; it is a mere accident in many cases what form. His daughter's filial piety throws a halo of poetry and a broken heart about an affair which certainly has another side to it. His despair was an illusion; his language to the lady herself, who had accepted him, and who saw no obstacles, was in this strain::

'Since I saw you my mental anguish has been great as ever. I feel that I am doomed to be eternally wretched, and that I am cast out from all the most amiable and celestial feelings of human nature. At particular times I am perfectly distracted, and hope that at last the torment my mind suffers may waste a frame that is by nature too strong easily to be destroyed. I daresay few would leave life with fewer lingering looks behind. My abilities, understanding, affection, are all going to destruction. I can do nothing; I can't by heavens!... By heavens! I will, perhaps, some day blow my brains out, and there is an end of the matter. If you will