John Wilson, one of the most heart-stirring of Scottish prose writers, and a narrative and dramatic poet, is also entitled to rank among the minstrels of his country. The son of a prosperous manufacturer, he was born in Paisley, on the 18th of May 1785. The house of his birth, an old building, bore the name of Prior's Croft; it was taken down in 1787, when the family removed to a residence at the Town-head of Paisley, which, like the former, stood on ground belonging to the poet's father. His elementary education was conducted at the schools of his native town, and afterwards at the manse of Mearns, a rural parish in Renfrewshire, under the superintendence of Dr Maclatchie, the parochial clergyman. To his juvenile sports and exercises in the moor of Mearns, and his trouting excursions by the stream of the Humbie, and the four parish lochs, he has frequently referred in the pages of Blackwood's Magazine. In his fifteenth year he became a student in the University of Glasgow. Under the instructions of Professor Young, of the Greek Chair, he made distinguished progress in classical learning; but it was to the clear and masculine intellect of Jardine, the distinguished Professor of Logic, that he was, in common with Jeffrey, chiefly indebted for a decided impulse in the path of mental cultivation. In 1804 he proceeded to Oxford, where he entered in Magdalen College as a gentleman-commoner. A leader in every species of recreation, foremost in every sport and merry-making, and famous for his feats of agility and strength, he assiduously continued the prosecution of his classical studies. Of poetical genius he afforded the first public indication by producing the best English poem of fifty lines, which was rewarded by the Newdigate prize of forty guineas. On attaining his majority he became master of a fortune of about £30,000, which accrued to him from his father's estate; and, having concluded a course of four years at Oxford, he purchased, in 1808, the small but beautiful property of Elleray, on the banks of the lake Windermere, in Westmoreland. During the intervals of college terms, he had become noted for his eccentric adventures and humorous escapades; and his native enthusiasm remained unsubdued on his early settlement at Elleray. He was the hero of singular and stirring adventures: at one time he joined a party of strolling-players, and on another occasion followed a band of gipsies; he practised cock-fighting and bull-hunting, and loved to startle his companions by his reckless daring. His juvenile excesses received a wholesome check by his espousing, in 1811, Miss Jane Penny, the daughter of a wealthy Liverpool merchant, and a lady of great personal beauty and amiable dispositions, to whom he continued most devotedly attached. He had already enjoyed the intimate society of Wordsworth, and now sought more assiduously the intercourse of the other lake-poets. In the autumn of 1811, on the death of his friend James Grahame, author of "The Sabbath," he composed an elegy to his memory, which attracted the notice of Sir Walter Scott; in the year following he produced "The Isle of Palms," a poem in four cantos.
Hitherto Wilson had followed the career of a man of fortune; and his original patrimony had been handsomely augmented by his wife's dowry. But his guardian (a maternal uncle) had proved culpably remiss in the management of his property, he himself had been careless in pecuniary matters, and these circumstances, along with others, convinced him of the propriety of adopting a profession. His inclinations were originally towards the Scottish Bar; and he now engaged in legal studies in the capital. In 1815 he passed advocate, and, during the terms of the law courts, established his residence in Edinburgh. He was early employed as a counsel at the circuit courts; but his devotion to literature prevented him from giving his heart to his profession, and he did not succeed as a lawyer. In 1816 appeared his "City of the Plague," a dramatic poem, which was followed by his prose tales and sketches, entitled "Lights and Shadows of Scottish Life," "The Foresters," and "The Trials of Margaret Lindsay."
On the establishment of Blackwood's Magazine, in 1817, Wilson was one of the staff of contributors, along with Hogg, Lockhart, and others; and on a difference occurring between the publisher and Messrs Pringle and Cleghorn, the original editors, a few months after the undertaking was commenced, he exercised such a marked influence on the fortunes of that periodical, that he was usually regarded as its editor, although the editorial labour and responsibility really rested on Mr Blackwood himself. In 1820 he was elected by the Town-Council of Edinburgh to the Chair of Moral Philosophy in the University, which had become vacant by the death of Dr Thomas Brown. In the twofold capacity of Professor of Ethics and principal contributor to a popular periodical, he occupied a position to which his genius and tastes admirably adapted him. He possessed in a singular degree the power of stimulating the minds and drawing forth the energies of youth; and wielding in periodical literature the vigour of a master intellect, he riveted public attention by the force of his declamation, the catholicity of his criticism, and the splendour of his descriptions. Blackwood's Magazine attained a celebrity never before reached by any monthly periodical; the essays and sketches of "Christopher North," his literary nom-de-guerre, became a monthly treasure of interest and entertainment. His celebrated "Noctes AmbrosianÆ," a series of dialogues on the literature and manners of the times, appeared in Blackwood from 1822 till 1835. In 1825 his entire poetical works were published in two octavo volumes; and, on his ceasing his regular connexion with Blackwood's Magazine, his prose contributions were, in 1842, collected in three volumes, under the title of "Recreations of Christopher North."
Illustrious as a man of letters, and esteemed as a poet, the private life of Professor Wilson was for many years as destitute of particular incident, as his youth had been remarkable for singular and stirring adventure. Till within a few years of his death, he resided during the summer months at Elleray, where he was in the habit of sumptuously entertaining his literary friends. His splendid regattas on the lake Windermere, from which he derived his title of "Admiral of the Lake," have been celebrated in various periodical papers. He made frequent pedestrian tours to the Highlands, in which Mrs Wilson, who was of kindred tastes, sometimes accompanied him. On the death of this excellent woman, which took place in March 1837, he suffered a severe shock, from which he never recovered. In 1850 he was elected first president of the Edinburgh Philosophical Institution; and in the following year a civil-list pension of £300 was, on the recommendation of the premier, Lord John Russell, conferred on him by the Queen. In 1852 he felt necessitated, from a continuance of impaired health, to resign his professorship in the University. He died in his house in Gloucester Place, Edinburgh, on the 3d of April 1854. His remains, at a public funeral, were consigned to the Dean Cemetery, and upwards of a thousand pounds have been raised to erect a suitable monument to his memory.
Besides the works already enumerated, Professor Wilson contributed an admirable essay on the genius of Burns for Blackie's edition of his works, and an elegant dissertation on Highland scenery, preliminary to the "Caledonia Illustrata." Of his whole works, a complete edition is in the course of publication, under the editorial care of his distinguished son-in-law, Professor Ferrier, of St Andrews. Than Professor Wilson no Scotsman, Scott and Jeffrey not excepted, has exercised a wider and deeper influence upon the general intellect of his countrymen. With a vast and comprehensive genius, he has gathered from every department of nature the deep and genial suggestions of wisdom; he has found philosophy in the wilds, and imbibed knowledge by the mountain stream. Under canvas, in his sporting-jacket, or with the angler's rod, he is still the eloquent "old Christopher;" his contemplations are always lofty, and his descriptions gorgeous. As a poet, he is chiefly to be remarked for meek serenity and gentle pathos. His tales somewhat lack incident, and are deficient in plot; but his other writings, whether critical or philosophical, are marked by correctness of taste, boldness of imagery, and dignity of sentiment. Lion-hearted in the exposure of absolute error, or vain pretext, he is gentle in judging human frailty; and irresistible in humour, is overpowering in tenderness. As a contributor to periodical literature, he will find admirers while the English language is understood.
MARY GRAY'S SONG.
I walk'd by mysel' owre the sweet braes o' Yarrow,
When the earth wi' the gowans o' July was dress'd;
But the sang o' the bonnie burn sounded like sorrow,
Round ilka house cauld as a last-simmer's nest.
I look'd through the lift o' the blue smiling morning,
But never a wee cloud o' mist could I see,
On its way up to heaven, the cottage adorning,
Hanging white owre the green o' its sheltering tree.
By the outside I kenn'd that the inn was forsaken,
That nae tread o' footsteps was heard on the floor;
Oh, loud craw'd the cock whare was nane to awaken,
And the wild raven croak'd on the seat by the door!
Sic silence—sic lonesomeness, oh, were bewildering!
I heard nae lass singing when herding her sheep;
I met nae bright garlands o' wee rosy children,
Dancing onto the school-house, just waken'd frae sleep.
I pass'd by the school-house, when strangers were coming,
Whose windows with glad faces seem'd all alive;
Ae moment I hearken'd, but heard nae sweet humming,
For a night o' dark vapour can silence the hive.
I pass'd by the pool where the lasses at daw'ing,
Used to bleach their white garments wi' daffin and din;
But the foam in the silence o' nature was fa'ing,
And nae laughing rose loud through the roar of the linn.
I gaed into a small town, when sick o' my roaming,
Whare ance play'd the viol, the tabor, and flute;
'Twas the hour loved by labour, the saft smiling gloaming,
Yet the green round the cross-stane was empty and mute.
To the yellow-flower'd meadow, and scant rigs o' tillage,
The sheep a' neglected had come frae the glen;
The cushat-dow coo'd in the midst o' the village,
And the swallow had flown to the dwellings o' men!
Sweet Denholm! not thus when I lived in thy bosom
Thy heart lay so still the last night o' the week;
Then nane was sae weary that love would nae rouse him,
And grief gaed to dance with a laugh on his cheek.
Sic thoughts wet my een, as the moonshine was beaming
On the kirk-tower that rose up sae silent and white;
The wan ghastly light on the dial was streaming,
But the still finger tauld not the hour of the night.
The mirk-time pass'd slowly in siching and weeping,
I waken'd, and nature lay silent in mirth;
Owre a' holy Scotland the Sabbath was sleeping,
And heaven in beauty came down on the earth.
The morning smiled on—but nae kirk-bell was ringing,
Nae plaid or blue bonnet came down frae the hill;
The kirk-door was shut, but nae psalm tune was singing,
And I miss'd the wee voices sae sweet and sae shrill.
I look'd owre the quiet o' death's empty dwelling,
The laverock walk'd mute 'mid the sorrowful scene,
And fifty brown hillocks wi' fresh mould were swelling
Owre the kirkyard o' Denholm, last simmer sae green.
The infant had died at the breast o' its mither;
The cradle stood still at the mitherless bed;
At play the bairn sunk in the hand o' its brither;
At the fauld on the mountain the shepherd lay dead.
Oh! in spring-time 'tis eerie, when winter is over,
And birds should be glinting owre forest and lea,
When the lint-white and mavis the yellow leaves cover,
And nae blackbird sings loud frae the tap o' his tree.
But eerier far, when the spring-land rejoices,
And laughs back to heaven with gratitude bright,
To hearken, and naewhere hear sweet human voices
When man's soul is dark in the season o' light!
THE THREE SEASONS OF LOVE.
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