Book Review: “Christopher North” A Memoir of John Wilson

• Title: “Christopher North” A Memoir of John Wilson, Late Professor of Moral Philosophy in the University of Edinburgh, compiled from family papers and other sources by his daughter, Mrs. Gordon
• Author: Mrs. Gordon, Mary Wilson Gordon
• Published: New York: W. J. Widdleton, 1863. 484-pages.

This book is a biography about a Man of Letters, John Wilson.  The term is not really used much anymore.  My Encyclopedia Britannica only has a few lines dedicated to him.  Wikipedia has just a few paragraphs.  However, after reading this book, and thinking about the man, his career, his family, and friends, perhaps it is not Wilson that has lost something by being lost to obscurity, but rather, our loss, a sign of our own decadence and self-centeredness.  We, being society in general, tend to think and act like we are the end in itself.  I believe we have a lot to learn by studying history and people of importance.  How were they able to find and acknowledge the truths they encountered?  What were the reasons why they became who they were?  Who did they influence?  What does this tell us about the human condition in general? In particular?  How can we learn from past incidences in order to progress and become better and get closer to the good?

John Wilson (1785-1854) held the Chair of Moral Philosophy at the University of Edinburgh for over thirty years.  He was a major contributor to Blackwood’s Edinburgh Magazine under the pseudonym of Christopher North and he was one of the lesser known Lake Poets.  In addition to Wilson and a few others, the Lake Poets usually refer to William Wordsworth (1770-1850), Samuel Taylor Coleridge (1772-1834), Robert Southey (1774-1843), Charles Lloyd (1775-1839), and Thomas De Quincey (1785-1859).  Wilson was born on May 18, 1785 in Paisley, Scotland.  His father, John Wilson, was a gauze manufacturer, and his mother was Margaret Sym.  Paisley was well known for its weaving.  John Wilson was the fourth of ten children.

1. Grace Wilson m. George Cashel d.1835
2. Jane Wilson unmarried d. 1835
3. Margaret Wilson m. John Ferrier d. 1831
4. John Wilson b. 1785 m. 1811 to Jane Penny d. 1854
5. Andrew Wilson m. Miss Aitken d. 1812
6. Henrietta Wilson d. young
7. William Wilson d. infancy
8. Robert Sym Wilson m. Eliza Penny
9. Elizabeth Wilson m. Sir John McNeill
10. James Wilson m. Isabella Keith d. 1856

This biography was written by Wilson’s daughter, Mary Wilson Gordon.  It does have a filial tone of affection in places, but it is more an epistolary compilation with Gordon narrating.  It is assumed that the reader is already well acquainted with Wilson’s works, and instead of spending a great deal of time on these, she attempts to show the man behind the scenes. His literary works are only given as a reference to help us understand the overall picture.  We see the angler and outdoorsman, the family man, the man who corresponds with many other great people in conversations concerning friendships, politics, and the quest for knowledge.  Some of his exploits are legendary.  His first teacher was Mr. James Peddie, an English teacher.  His second teacher was Rev. George M’Latchie of the Parish of Mearns.  I wonder what these teachers did that inspired Wilson so much?  The following quote by Wilson I included as it struck me as something philosophical and something that needs to be pondered.  I question whether everyone remembers the days of their youth.  There may be some traumatic incident or something that leaves that inaccessible.  But I like the idea of trying to capture more than just the recollections of facts.  I would also suggest, try to remember a smell.  Smells are very powerful for triggering a memory.

“You must know that, unless it be accompanied with imagination, memory is cold and lifeless… All minds, even the dullest, remember the days of their youth; but all cannot bring back the indescribable brightness of that blessed season.   They who would know what they once were, must not merely recollect, but they most remember the hills and valleys, if any such there were, in which their childhood played… To imagine what he then heard and saw, he must imagine his own nature.  He must collect from many vanished hours the power of his untamed heart, and he must, perhaps, transfuse also something of his own mature mind into these dreams of his former being, thus linking the past with present by a continuous chain, which, though often invisible, is never broken.”[1]

Wilson’s Glasgow college days were from 1797-1803 when he was twelve to eighteen years of age.  At the beginning of this time, when he was only twelve, his father died.  What impact this had on him as a boy, we do not know.  Mrs. Wilson managed well, and apparently had a strong family and friend network.  At Glasgow college he attended Latin class from 1797-98.  He actually resided with Professor Jardine and his family.  He was taught Greek by Professor Young.  He was a lover of both vocal and instrumental music.  He had a very good voice and was well known for his rendition of “Auld Lang Syne.”  Companions and noteworthy friendships at this time include: Mr. Alexander Blair an Englishman and lifetime friend that also attended Oxford with him; Robert Findley of Easter Hill, a lifelong friend; Mr. William Horton Lloyd an Englishman; Mr. William Dunlop; and Archibald Hamilton.  In 1802 Wilson wrote a letter to William Wordsworth after reading the Lyrical Ballads.  He praised the collection but then went on to offer criticism on the poem “The Idiot Boy” and the presentation of the character Betty Foy.  I am actually quite impressed at what Wilson wrote at the age of seventeen in this epistle to someone he greatly admired.  The letter was quite long, and Gordon quotes the entire letter.  She mentions that Wordsworth did respond to his young admirer and it can be found in a work entitle Memoirs of W. Wordsworth.

The years 1803-08 see Wilson attending Oxford University and suffering from his first love, Margaret.  Gordon describes the young scholar entered as a gentleman-commoner of Magdalen College as, “Full of life and enthusiasm, tall, strong, and graceful, quick-witted, well-read, and eloquent, of open heart and open hand, apt for all things honorable and manly, a more splendid youth of nineteen had seldom entered the “bell-chiming and cloistered haunts of Rhedicyna[2]”[3] He lived at Oxford for three and half years.  He kept what was called a common-place book.  Gordon writes that the following was penned just a few days after he arrived at Magdalen College, Oxford on June 8, 1803.  The idea was not strictly adhered to but provided numerous insights into his character by what was written.  I think the personal pledge is worth repeating, in its entirety, as some other soul may take it up as a very noble endeavor.

   “In the following pages I propose to make such remarks upon the various subjects of polite literature as has been suggested to my mind during the course of my studies, by the perusal of writers upon the different branches of human knowledge; reflections upon law, history, philosophy, theology, and poetry, will be classed under separate heads; and if my information upon the useful and interesting subject of political economy can be reduced to any short discussions upon disputed or fundamental principles, or to a collection of maxims, such as form the groundwork of wider inquiries, observations upon the different theories of economists will form part of my projected plan.  In following out my general view, it will frequently happen that I shall have occasion to enter fully into the discussion of questions that have been merely suggested to me by the allusion of authors; and accordingly, essays of some length will constitute a considerable part of my plan.    “With regard to the department of poetry, original verses of my own composition will be frequently introduced, sometimes with the view to illustrate a principle, and often with no other end than self-gratification.    “If, in the course of my epistolary correspondence, any interesting subjects of literature should be discussed, thoughts thus communicated to me will be inserted in the words of the writer, under the head to which they may belong, and accompanied by own remarks upon them.    “Should any reflections upon men and manners occur to my mind, even with regard to the general characters of mankind, or the particular dispositions of acquaintances and friends, they shall be written down as they occur, without any embellishments.    “In short, this commonplace-book, or whatever else it should be called, will contain, as far as it goes, a faithful representation of state of my mind, both in its moments of study and retirement.  I will endeavor to concentrate the different radii of information upon literary topics, impressions with regard to human life, and feelings of my own heart, in cases when that can be done with good effect.  In referring to these pictures of my mind at different periods, I shall be able to estimate the progress I have made in in intellectual acquirements, and the various changes that have taken place in my modes of thinking and feeling.    “I shall learn to know myself. In future times it will be pleasing to behold what I once was and what I once thought; and if I contemplate the acquirements of my youth with anything like contempt, it will, I trust, proceed from a conviction of real superiority and virtue.”[4]

Imagine if the above was taken as a goal for all young men and women upon entering college.  They could challenge their own ideas and evaluate and weigh other people’s opinions and come to know more of the truth.  And this commonplace-book would be their road map of how they got there.  A reminder and flowchart of who, when, and where they came to believe in what they have tested and assimilated as their own philosophy.

Stereotypes have been around throughout all of recorded history.  This next paragraph tells of Wilson’s physical aptitudes and contrasts them with the perceived version of a poet and philosopher.  One has only to be reminded of Aristophanes’, “The Clouds,”  and his version of Socrates, to be reminded how the image has persisted.

“That such a man should have delighted in angling and boating, in walking, running, and leaping, is not extraordinary; but that he should also have practically encouraged and greatly enjoyed the ruder pasttimes of wrestling, boxing, and cock-fighting, may appear to some people anomalous.  For the notion is not yet wholly extinct, that a poet should be a delicate and dreamy being, all hearts and nerves, and certainly destitute of muscles; while the philosopher is held bound to be solemn and dyspeptic, dwelling in a region of clouds remote from all the business and pleasure of men.”[5]

The Oxford years continue with a mixture of inner turmoil and excellent habit of getting outdoors to cope with his stress.  Below is a letter from Wilson to his friend Findlay and is dated August 16, 1803.  Gordon assumes the melancholia is due in most part from his relationship with Margaret, his first love.  It is a relationship that was frowned upon by his mother and one that elated and tormented him throughout his Oxford years.  In my opinion, it appeared very toxic and Wilson appeared very possessive.  In 1805 he travelled in the North of England and in Ireland.  I think it did him good to be outdoors, walking and angling and meeting rustic folk.  His final examination in 1806 had him very concerned because of his melancholia and he believed that he was unable to concentrate.  But these fears were unfounded as he passed with extraordinary success and the review board praised his examination whole heartedly.

“Since I saw you, my mental anguish has been as great as ever.  I feel that I am doomed to be eternally wretched, and that I am cut 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 dare say few would leave life with fewer lingering looks cast behind.  My abilities, understanding, and affections are all going to destruction.  I can do nothing; I can’t by Heavens! even assume that appearance of indifference and gayety I once did, without a struggle that I cannot support.  I started in the career of early life as fair as that of any of my companions, and had, I confess, many hopes of being something in the world.  But all these are blasted; I cannot understand anything that I read, and nothing in the world gives, or ever will give me pleasure.  I see others enjoying the world, and likely to become respectable and useful members of society; for myself, I expect to be looked at as a being who wants a mind, and to feel inwardly all the torments of hell.  By Heavens! I will, perhaps some day blow my brains out, and there is an end to the matter.”[6]

The years 1807-1811 were monumental in Wilson’s life.  He graduated from Oxford in 1807 and moved to Elleray, an estate on Lake Windermere.  He had no financial concerns as he had come of age into an inheritance of 50,000£.  He entertained himself with wrestling, angling, cockfighting, and boating.  He established and continued many wonderful relationships with such personae’s as William Wordsworth at Rydal, Robert Southey and Samuel T. Coleridge at Kenwick, Mr. William Horton Lloyd at Brathay, Richard Watson the Bishop of Llandaff at Calgarth Park, Rev. Mr. John Fleming at Rayrigg Hall, Thomas De Quincey, Alexander Blair, and the nautical Billy Balmer.  Wilson met his future wife, Jane Penny, who was known as “the belle of the Lake District.”  There was even a trip to Spain planned with Blair and De Quincey.  They started learning Spanish and doing research, however, Bonaparte’s attack on Spain squashed this plan.  He wrote “The Isle of Palms” and “The Anglers Tent” during this time and made plans to get a book of poems published.  He was rich, carefree, and the life of the party.

Marriage, financial catastrophe, and publication mark the years 1811-1815.  He was married to Jane Penny on May 11, 1811.  They were able to spend four wonderful years together at Elleray before he was deprived of his fortune.  The blow was exceptionally difficult as it was due to a beloved uncle who mismanaged and perhaps even dishonestly destroyed Wilsons fortune.  He was able to keep his beloved Elleray estate, but he could not afford to live there.  In 1815 he had to move into his mother’s house with his wife and small children.

Wilson lived with his mother for four years.  Mrs. Wilson, his mother, had two married sons with their wives and servants living with her, along with two unmarried daughters, making a household of fourteen people.  It was said, she was a very organized woman and carried out her matriarchal duties lovingly and judiciously.  One of the most interesting stories of this time is the pedestrian tour of 350 miles through the Highlands that Wilson and his wife Jane made in the summer of 1815.  It was the talk of the town.  They set off walking from Edinburgh and went throughout the Western Highlands.  They visited Loch Katrine, Loch Lomond, Inverary, Dalmally, Loch Etive, Glen Etive, Dalness, Appin, Ballachulish, Fort William, Moy, Dalwhinny, Loch Ericht, Loch Rannoch, Glen Lyon, Taymouth, Blair-Athole, Bruar, and, Perth.  The excerpt below will paint a fine picture of the two.

“On a fine summer evening, the eyes of a primitive northern village were attracted by the appearance of two travelers, apparently man and wife, coming into the village, dressed like cairs or gipsies.  The man was tall, broad-shouldered, and of stalwart proportions; his fair hair floated redundant over neck and shoulders, and his red beard and whiskers were of portentous size.  He bore himself with the assured and careless air of a strong man rejoicing in his strength.  On his back was a capacious knapsack, and his slouched hat, garnished with fishing-hooks and tackle, showed he was as much addicted to fishing as to making spoons… The appearance of his companion contrasted strikingly with that of her mate.  She was of slim and fragile form, and more like a lady in her walk and bearing than any wife of a caird that had ever been seen in those parts.  The natives were somewhat surprised to see this great caird making for the head inn, “Gordon Arms,” where the singular pair actually took up their quarters for several days.  Thence they were in the habit of sallying forth, each armed with a fishing-rod, to the river banks, a circumstance the novelty of which, as regarded the tinker’s wife, excited no small curiosity, and many conjectures were hazarded as to the real character of the mysterious couple.”[7]

By 1819 Wilson had five children: John b. April 1812, Margaret b. July 1813, Mary b. August 1814, Blair b. April 1816, and Jane Emily b. January 1817.  They left his mother’s house on No. 53 Queen St. and moved to No. 20 Ann St. as things were improving financially for Wilson.  With the support of Sir Walter Scott, and other Tories, he was elected the Chair of Moral Philosophy at the University of Edinburgh, over the Whig choice of Sir William Hamilton.  Wilson rose to the occasion and I firmly believed this helped him to attain his true calling in life.  With the help of his many friends, but most especially, Alexander Blair, he researched the materials needed for his lectures.  The following is an excerpt from one of many letters from Wilson to Blair:

   “My Dearest Blair:  I would fain hope that your useful and enabling letters do not interfere too much with your own pursuits, whatever these may be.  The morning that brings me a legible sibylline leaf, is generally followed by a more quiet-minded day.    “I wish you to send me two or three letters, if possible, on that division of the passions regarding religion.  It is imperfectly done, and altogether the sole subject of Natural Theology and our duties to the Deity is heavy.  However, I have remedied that in some measure, and will do so still more this session.  What I direct your attention to is the History of Idolatry.  Some views of its dreadful, beautiful, reverent, voluptuous character and kind; and some fine things in the mythological systems of the Greeks, in as far as feeling, passion, or imagination were concerned.  Every thing historical and applied to nations gives a lecture instant effect.  Whatever be the true history of all idolatry (Bryant’s or others), still the mind operated strongly, and there was not a passive transmission.  The impersonalizing of imagination might be expiated on here, for it was only alluded to in this respect in the Lectures on Imagination.  I wish to see stated an opinion as to the power of religion in the ancient world, i.e., in Egypt, and Greece, among men in general.  Something of the same kind, whatever it was, must have existed and still must exist in Christian countries among the ordinary people, especially in ignorant and bigoted forms of faith.  The image-worship of Catholics is, I presume, susceptible of the holiest emotions of an abstract piety; certainly of the tenderest of a human religion, and in grosser and narrower minds, of almost every thought that formed the faith of an ancient heathen.  Many saints, intercessors, priests, etc., I mean no abuse of the Catholic faith, for I regard the doctrines of penitence and absolution and confession as moral doctrines, and I wish you would so consider them in an instructive letter.  The burden of guilt is fatal, and relief from it may often restore a human soul to virtue.  Confession to a friend, to one’s own soul, to an elder brother, to a father, to a holy, old, white-haired man (in short, the best view of it), is surely a moral thing, and, as such, ought to be described.  Our religious feelings, when justly accordant with the best faith, may be opposite, but true: the simple, austere worship of a Presbyterian, and the richer one of an Episcopalian, and the still more pompous sanctities of Popery.  There are deep foundations, and wide ones too, in the soul, on which manifold religions may be all established in truth.  We are now speaking not on the question of bestness, but as to fact.  Surely the astronomer may worship God in the stars and the manifest temple of heaven, as well as a Scotch elder in a worm-eaten pew, in an ugly kirk of an oblong form, sixty by forty feet; yet the elder is a true man and pure.  Sacraments in glorious cathedrals, or upon a little green hillside, which I myself have seen, but cannot describe, as you could do, who have never seen it; and, above all, funerals; the English service, so affecting and sublime, and the Scotch service, silent, wordless, bare, and desolate – dust to dust in the speechless, formless sorrow of a soul.  In that endless emanation of feelings, how can reason presume to dictate any one paramount rule to be observed? No.  But when by various causes in any nation one tendency runs the one way, then the heart of that nation runs in that channel; all its most holy aspirations join there, and there the sanctity of walls consecrated by the bishops of God, and the sanctity of walls consecrated by no set forms of words, but by the dedication of the place to regular and severe piety, – as in England, the one; in Scotland, the other.  In Scotland, people on week-days walk hatted into churches.  Is that, to your mind, an allowable thing?  I have seen it done by very religious old men, and not harsh or sullen.  To take off their hats would, I think, be reckoned by many a wrong action.  This I conceive, is allowing the inferior motive to prevail over the superior.  For they remember the idolatrous practices of the papists whom John Knox overthrew, and rather than resemble them in any degree, the violate the religio loci, which is, in the case, this over belief in God.  This may seem a trifling to you, but it hurts me.    “In the above you will probably see what I want, and perhaps other points may occur to yourself.  With respects to metaphysics, do not fear on any subject to write, provided a conclusion is arrived at.  No letters of yours, if filled, can be otherwise than most useful to me.  That metaphysical point to which you referred in one of your letters lately, namely, the pure and awful idea of sanctity and reverence to God, which is probably only an extension of a human feeling, is exactly fit for a letter.  There is a book called Divine Analogy, by a Bishop Brown, that I do not understand, on this subject.  I think you have seen it; and Copleston I think, touches on it.  I intend to put such pieces of the lectures on the Duties to God, as are good, into this part, so that any metaphysical or otherwise important thoughts will be useful.  All human emotion towards human beings is fluctuating, and made up of opposite ingredients, even towards our earthly father: towards God, unmingled and one, and this unmingledness and oneness is in truth a new emotion; it exists nowhere else.  Men’s conduct seldom shows this; but it is in the soul of many, most men.  I once saw, in a dream, a most beautiful flower, in a wide bed of flowers, all of which were beautiful.  But this one flower was especially before my soul for a while, as I advanced towards the place where they all were growing.  Its character became more and more transcendent as I approached, and the one large flower of which it consisted was lifted up considerably above the rest.  I then saw that it was Light, a prismatic globe, quite steady, and burning with a purity and sweetness, and almost an affectionate spirit of beauty, as if it were alive.  I never thought of touching it, although still I thought it a flower that was growing; and I heard a kind of sound, faint and dim, as the echo of musical glasses, that seemed to proceed from the flower of light, and pervade the whole bank with low, spiritual music.  On trying to remember its appearance and essential beauty more distinctly, I am unable even to reconceive to myself what it was, whether altogether different from the other flowers, or of some perfectly glorious representation of them all; not the queen of flowers, but the star of flowers, or flower-star.  Now, as I did not, I presume, see this shining, silent, prismatic, vegetable creature, I myself created it, and it was ‘the same, but, ah, how different’ of the imagination, mingling light with leaf, stones with roses, decaying with undecaying, heaven with earth, and eternity with time.  Yet the product, nothing startling, or like a phenomenon that urged to inquiry, What is this? but beheld in perfect acquiescence in its existence as a thing intensely and delightfully beautiful; but in whose perception and emotion, of whose earthly and heavenly beauty, my beholding spirit was satisfied, oh! far more than satisfied, so purer than dew or light of this earth; yet as certainly and permanently existing as myself existed, or the common flowers, themselves most fair, that lay, a usual spring assemblage in a garden where human hands worked, and mortal beings walked, among the umbrage of perishable trees!  Perhaps we see and feel thus in heaven, and even the Alexander Blair whom I loved well on earth, may be thus proportionally loved by me in another life.  Yours forever, J.W.”[8]

Wilson’s wife, Jane, died on March 29, 1837.  A relative who was present at her death, related the following.

“My letter written last night, will have prepared you to hear that our worst fears have been confirmed; our dearest Jane expired last night at half-past twelve o’clock.  Immediately after writing to you, I went, along with my husband, to Glo’ster Place, trusting that she might once more know me.  She had been sleeping heavily for two or three hours, but when I went into her room, she was breathing softer though shorter, and a kind of hope seized upon me.  The physician had ordered a cordial to be given her every hour; for this purpose it was necessary to rouse her from her sleep, and it was at this time a trial was to be made whether she would know me; how anxiously I hoped to exchange one kind look with her, to kiss her again, but it was not God’s will it should be so.  Her husband was just going to raise her head, that he might enable her to taste the draught, when she breathed three sighs, with short intervals, and all was over before we who were around her bed could believe it possible that her spirit had fled.  We were stunned by the unexpected stroke, for none of us had anticipated any change last night.  The Professor was seized with a sort of half delirium, and you can scarcely picture a more distressing scene than him lying on the floor, his son John weeping over him, and the poor girls in equal distress.  His first words were those of prayer; after that he spoke incessantly the whole night, and seemed to recapitulate the events of many years in a few hours.  They were all calmer this morning.  Maggy tells me that she scarcely ever spoke except when addressed; that she did not think herself in danger, and had even yesterday morning spoken of getting better.  But she did not know any of them, at all times, for the last day or two, and I believe none of them yesterday.  The funeral, I believe, will take place on Saturday.  God bless you both; -with kindest love to all.”[9]

From a recollection of Mr. John Hill Burton, one gets the feeling of loss that Wilson felt.

“I attended his class in session 1837-8.  It was the session immediately succeeding the loss of his wife, the thought of which, as it was ever again and again re-awakened in his mind by allusions in his lectures, however remote, to such topics as death, bereavement, widowhood, youthful love, domestic scenes, and, above all, to conjugal happiness, again an again shook his great soul with an agony of uncontrollable grief, the sight of which was sufficient to subdue us all into deep and respectful sympathy with him.  On such occasions 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, he would weep and sob like a very child.” [10]

Gordon reflects that her mother’s death influenced her father not only in suffering, but that it also deepened him spiritually.

 “I may observe here, without any unfilial disrespect, that his deep sorrow was not without its good influence on the sufferer.  Those who had known him were well aware of the sincerity of his religious belief, and of his solemn and silent adoration of the Saviour; but it was observed from this time that his faith exercised a more constant sway over his actions.  The tone of his writings is higher, and they contain almost unceasing aspirations after the spiritual.  The same humility, which in a singular degree now made him so modest and unobtrusive with the public, ordered all his ways in private life.  The humble opinion he had of himself could have arisen from no other source than from reverence to God, whose servant he felt himself to be, and debtor beyond all for the possession of those gifts which, in the diffidence of his soul, he hoped he had used, “if not for the benefit, not for the detriment of his fellow mortals.” [11]

Gordon gives us warm tales of her father that could have easily been used as inspiration for Edgar Guest in his many down to earth poems.

“In the simple ways of his daily life, I see him as he sometimes used to be, in his own room, surrounded by his family – the prestige of greatness laid aside, and the very strength of his hand softened, that he might gently caress the infant on his knee, and play with the little ones at his feet.  And many a game was played with fun and frolic; stories were told, barley-sugar was eaten, and feasts of various kinds were given.  “A party in grandpapa’s room” was ever hailed with delight.  There was to be seen a tempting display of figs, raisins, cakes, and other good things, all laid out on a table set and covered by himself; while he, acting on the occasion as waiter, was ordered about in the most unceremonious fashion.  After a while, when childhood was passing away from the frolics of the nursery, and venturing to explore the mysteries of life, he would speak to his little friends as companions, and passing from gay to grave, led their young spirits on, and bound his heart to his.”[12]

The following I found interesting and heartwarming.  Interesting about the domestication of a sparrow and that it lived for eleven years, and heartwarming as to the true character of the man.

“I remember a hapless sparrow being found lying on the door-steps scarcely fledged, and quite unable to do for itself.  It was brought into the house, and from that moment became a protégé of my father’s.  It found a lodging in his room, and ere long was perfectly domesticated, leading a life of uninterrupted peace and prosperity for nearly eleven years.  It seemed quite of opinion that it was the most important occupant of the apartment, and would peck and chirp where it liked, not unfrequently nestling in the folds of it’s patron’s waistcoat, attracted by the warmth it found there.  Then with bolder stroke of familiarity, it would hop upon his shoulder, and picking off some straggling hair from the long locks hanging about his neck, would jump away to its cage, an depositing the treasure with an air of triumph, return to fresh conquest, quite certain of welcome.  The creature seemed positively influenced by constant association with its master.  It grew in stature, and began to assume a noble and defiant look.  It was alleged, in fact, that he was gradually becoming an eagle.”[13]

Ah, the evil of procrastination.  I myself suffer from it.   This must have taken some immense concentration and I am sure the family missed him as he had to retreat.  I am reminded of the many times Boswell recollects that Samuel Johnson would hurriedly write at the last possible moment for something to go to print.

“His habit of composition, or rather I should say the execution of it, was not always ordered best for his comfort.  The amazing rapidity with which he wrote, caused him too often to delay his work to the very last moment, so that he almost always wrote under compulsion, and every second of time was of consequence.  Under such a mode of labor there was no hour left for relaxation.  When regularly in for an article for Blackwood, his whole strength was put forth, and it may be said he struck into life what he had to do at a blow.  He at these times began to write immediately after breakfast, that meal being dispatched with the necessity of the case before him.  He then shut himself into his study, with an express command that no one was to disturb him, and he never stirred form his writing-table until perhaps the greater part of a “Noctes” was written, or some of equal brilliancy and interest completed.  The idea of breaking his labor by taking a constitutional walk never entered his thoughts for a moment.  Whatever he had to write, even though a day or two would keep him close at work, he never interrupted his pen, saving to take his night’s rest, and a late dinner served to him in his study.  The hour for that meal was on these occasions nine o’clock; his dinner then consisted invariably of a boiled fowl, potatoes, and a glass of water – he allowed himself no wine.  After dinner he resumed his pen till midnight, when he retired to bed, not unfrequently to be disturbed by an early printer’s boy.” [14]

In 1840 his right hand became paralyzed and affected him for almost a year.[15]  I wonder if this was some presage to the stroke that would later take his life.  Gordon does not state what caused the paralysis, but just that he slowly recovered the use of his hand.  An interesting tidbit was that in 1841 he presided over a dinner for Charles Dickens.  What is most interesting though, is that is the only mention of Dickens in Gordon’s book.  The next quote is from Gordon again explaining her father and his love of children and grandchildren.  As a father and grandfather myself, I can relate, and it brings a smile to my face and warms my heart when I read this passage.

“He was in his latter years passionately fond of children: his grandchildren were his playmates.  A favorite pastime with them was fishing in imaginary rivers and lochs, in boats and out of them; the scenery rising around the anglers with magical rapidity, for one glorious reality was there to create the whole, fishing-rods, reels and basket, line and flies – the entire gear.  What shouts and screams of delight as “the fun grew fast and furious,” and fish were caught by the dozens, Goliath getting his phantom trout unhooked by his grandfather, who would caution him not to let his line be entangled in the trees; and so they would go on.  The confidence which children place in their elders is one of the most convincing proofs of the love bestowed on them.  At that period of life no idea of age crosses the mind.  The child of six imagines himself surrounded by companions of his own age in all he sees.  The grandfather is an abstract of love, good humor, and kindness; his venerable aspect and dignified bearing are lost sight of in the overflowing benevolence of his heart.  Noah’s ark, trumpets, drums, pencils, puzzles, dolls, and all the delightful games of infant life are supposed to possess equal interest in his eyes.  I have often seen this unwearied playmate sitting in the very heart of all these paraphernalia, taking his part according to orders given, and actually going at the request of some of these urchins up-stairs to the nursery to fetch down a forgotten toy, or on all-fours on the ground helping them to look for some lost fragment.” [16]

When Wilson was writing his Life of Burns, he was very interested in whether or not Robert Burns read his Bible or not when he lay dying.  I do not know the answer to that query, however, Gordon tells us that Wilson kept his Bible on a little table near his bedside.  Wilson read it regularly every morning and evening and even had his servant read to him when he was not able.  Wilson wrote the following that expresses his thoughts on Bible reading.

“He who is so familiar with his Bible, that each chapter, open it where he will, teems with household words, may draw thence the theme of many a pleasant and pathetic song.  For is not all human nature and all human life shadowed forth in those pages?  But the heart, to sing well from the Bible, must be imbued with religious feelings, as a flower is alternately with dew and sunshine.  The study of The Book must have begun in the simplicity of childhood, when it was felt to be indeed divine, and carried on through all those silent intervals in which the soul of manhood is restored, during the din of life, to the purity and peace of its early being.  The Bible to such must be a port, even as the sky – with its sun, moon, and stars – its boundless blue – with all its cloud mysteries – its peace deeper than the grave, because of realms beyond the grave – its tumult louder than that of life, because heard altogether in all the elements.  He who begins the study of the Bible late in life must, indeed, devote himself to it night and day, and with a humble and contrite heart, as well as an awakened and soaring spirit, ere he can hope to feel what he understands, or to understand what he feels; thoughts and feelings breathing in upon him, as if from a region hanging, in its mystery, between heaven and earth.”[17]

Wilson died on April 3, 1854.  Gordon recalls the death of her father.

   “On the 1^st of April I received a message that my father had become worse.  I hurried immediately to Gloucester Place.  On entering the room a sad sight caught my eye.  He had risen to breakfast much in his usual state of health, but, while taking it, a stroke of paralysis seized him.  When I arrived, his bed was being prepared for him, and he still lay in his large chair.  A mortal change was visible over his whole frame.  The shock affected one entire side, from his face downwards, and at that moment he appeared quite unconscious.  We laid him gently in bed, composing that still powerful-looking body as comfortably as possible, and in a few moments the medical attendants arrived.  There was no hope given us; his hour had come.  All that were near and dear to him were in the house.  Not a sound was heard but the heavy and oppressed breathing of the dying man.  No change took place the whole of that day.  His brother Robert never left his bedside, but sat there holding the big hand, now able only to return the pressure given it; the last grateful sign of still conscious love.    “We all watched through the night while some hours of natural sleep fell upon him.  Next day the same sad scene; no change; morning’s dawn brought no comfort.  It was now Sunday; time hurried on, and we still hoped he knew us as we laid our hands upon his, but he was unable to speak. The only sign we had that consciousness had not left him was, that he continued to summon his servant, according to his old habit, by knocking upon the small table at his bedside.  Several times during the day he made that signal, and on its being answered, I could not say that it meant more than that he desired his servant should now and then be in the room.  She had served him long, faithfully, and with a true women’s kindness.  It was the only way in which he could thank her.  At five o’clock his breathing became more difficult.  Evening sent its deepening across his couch – darker ones were soon to follow.  Still that sad and heavy breathing, as if life were unwilling to quit the strong heart. Towards midnight he passed his hand frequently across his eyes and head, as if to remove something obstructing his vision.  A bitter expression for one instant crossed his face – the veil was being drawn down.  A moment more, and as the clock chimed the hour of twelve, that heaving heart was still.” [18]

Gordon closes with some lines that Wilson wrote in his youth.  She feels his prayers were granted.  I think it is a beautiful farewell.

“When nature feels the solemn hour is come
That parts the spirit from her mortal clay,
May that hour find me in my weeping home,
‘Mid the blest stillness of a Sabbath-day!
May none I deeply love be then away;
For through my heart the husht though sobbing breath
Of natural grief a holy calm will send;
With sighs from earth will heavenly voices blend,
Till, as on seraph fair, I smile on death,
Who comes in peace, like an expected friend.
Dipt in celestial hues the wings of love
Will o’er my soul a gracious shade extend;
While, as if air were sun, gleans from above
The day with God, the Sabbath without end!” [19]

[1] Mary Wilson Gordon, “Christopher North” A Memoir of John Wilson.  New York: W. J. Widdleton, 1863. Page 11

[2]  Cowper, William. The Poetical Works of William Cowper with Notes and a Memoir by John Bruce. Volume III. London: Bell and Daldy, 1865.  Accessed from Google books on March 15, 2018. Page 389, “Footnote from epigram “On the Refusal of the University of Oxford to Subscribe to His Translation of Homer.”  Rhedycina, a Latinized form of the British name, or of a Welsh translation, of Oxford.”

[3] Gordon, “Christopher North” A Memoir of John Wilson.  Page 37.

[4] Ibid., 40-41 footnote

[5] Ibid., 45

[6] Ibid., 60-1

[7] Ibid., 126-7

[8] Ibid., 218-21

[9] Ibid., 382-3

[10] Ibid., 244

[11] Ibid., 385

[12] Ibid., 388-9

[13] Ibid., 389

[14] Ibid., 398

[15] Ibid., 400

[16] Ibid., 437

[17] Ibid., 459

[18] Ibid., 460-1

[19] Ibid., 462