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his own. Are there ten living writers of whom the same, or anything approaching to the same statement, can be made?

We know not a little of the workings, open or secret, both of the clerical and of the literary worlds; and are certain that there never was a period in which more mean, malignant, and deplorable envy and detraction were working, whether openly or covertly, both among authors and divines-an envy that spares not even the dead, that spits out its venom against names which have long been written as if in stars on the firmament of reputation, but which wars especially with those living celebrities who are too honest to belong to any party, too progressive to be chained to any formula, too great to be put down, but not too great to be reviled and slandered, and whose very independence and strongly pronounced individuality become the principal charges against them. Who shall write the dark history of that serpentine stream of slander which is winding through all our literature at present like one of the arms of Acheron, and which is damaging the public and the private characters, too, of many a man who is entirely unaware of the presence and the progress of the foul and insidious poison? He that would lay bare the shameful secret history of many of our influential journals, and of our church cliques, would be a benefactor to literature, to morality, to religion,

and to man.

Since beginning this paper, our attention has been called to the onslaught of the Times" on Disraeli. It has forcibly recalled to our mind the words of Burns

"Oh, wad some power the giftie gi'e us,

To see ourselves as ithers see us!"

In describing Disraeli as the incarnation of genius without conscience, how faithfully has the "Times" described the general notion in reference to itself, provided the word "intellect" be substituted for "genius." For, with all the talent of the "Times," we doubt if it has ever displayed true genius, or if one paragraph of real inspiration can be quoted from amid its sounding commonplaces and brilliant insincerities. But talent, without even the pretence of principle, is so notoriously its characteristic, that we marvel at the coolness with which it takes off its own sobriquet, and sticks it on the brow of an

other-marvel till we remember that the impudence of the leading journal is, like all its other properties, its mendacity, its mystery, its inconsistency, its tergiversation, its circulation, and its advertising, on a colossal scale.

We are not prepared as yet to predict the future history or the ultimate place of Benjamin Disraeli. One thing in him is most hopeful. He does not know, any more than Wellington or Byron, what it is to be beaten. His motto is, "Never say die. When newly down he is always most dangerous. Prodigious as is the amount of abuse and detraction he is now enduring, it may be doubted if he were ever so popular, or if there be a single man alive who is exciting such interest, or awakening such expectation. This proves, first, that he is no temporary rage or pet of the public; secondly, that he has something else than a selfish object in view; and, thirdly, that there is a certain inexhaustible stuff in him which men call genius, and which is sure to excite hope in reference to its possessor till the last moment of his earthly existence. Gladstone is a man of high talent; but few expect anything extraordinary from his future exertions. Disraeli is a man of genius, and many look for some grand conclusive display or displays of its power. Let him gird himself for the task. Let him forget the past. Let him pay no heed whatever to his barking, snarling opponents. Let him commit himself to some great new idea, or, at least, to some new and wider phase of his old one. He has been hitherto considerably like Byron in his undulating and uneven course, in the alternate sinking and swelling of the wave of his Destiny. Let him ponder that poet's last noble enterprise, by which he was redeeming at once himself and a whole nation when he died. Let Disraeli address himself to some kindred undertaking in reference to the children of his people; and then, as Byron died amid the blessings of the Greeks, may he inherit, in life, in death, and in all after-time, the gratitude and praises of God's ancient and still much-loved children-the Jews. We are hopeful that there is some such brilliant achievement before one of the few men of genius the House of Commons now contains.

NO. VIII.-PROFESSOR WILSON.

IN our paper on Alexander Smith, we said that there was something exceedingly sweet and solemn in the emotions with which we watch the uprise of a new and true poet. And we now add, that exceedingly sad and solemn are the feelings with which we regard the downgoing and departure of a great old bard. We have analogies with which to compare the first of these events, such as the one we selected that of the appearance of a new star in the heavens. But we have no analogy for the last, for we have never yet seen a star or sun setting for ever. We have seen the orb trembling at the gates of the west, and dipping reluctantly in the ocean; but we knew that he was to appear again, and take his appointed place in the firmament, and this forbade all sadness except such as is always interwoven with the feeling of the sublime. But were the nations authentically apprised that on a certain evening the sun was to go down to rise no more, what straining of eyes, and heaving of hearts, and shedding of tears would there be what climbing of loftiest mountains to get the last look of his beams!—what a shriek, loud and deep, would arise when the latest ray had disappeared!-how many would, in despair and misery, share in the death of their luminary!—what a "horror of great darkness" would sink over the earth when he had departed!-and how would that horror be increased by the appearance of the fixed stars,

Distinct, but distant-clear, but ah, how cold!”

which in vain came forth to gild the gloom and supply the blank left by the departed king of glory! With some such emotions as are suggested by this supposition, do men witness the departure of a great genius. His immortality they may firmly believe in; but what is it to them? He has gone, they know, to other spheres, but has ceased to be a source of light, and warmth, and cheerful genial influence to theirs for ever and ever. Just as his life alone deserved the name of life— native, exuberant, overflowing life so his death alone is worthy of the name-the blank, total, terrible name of death.

The place of the majority of men can easily be supplied, nay, is never left empty; but his cannot be filled up in sæcula saculorum. Hence men are sometimes disposed, with the ancient poets, to excuse the heavens of envy in removing the great spirit from among them. But the grief becomes profounder still when the departed great one was the last representative of a giant race-the last monarch in a dynasty of mind. Then there seem to die over again in him all his intellectual kindred; then, too, the thought arises, who is to succeed?-and in the shadow of his death-bed youthful genius appears for a time dwindled into insignificance, and we would willingly pour out all the poetry of the young age as a libation on his grave.

Such emotions, at least, are crossing our minds as we contemplate the death of Christopher North, and remember that he was one of the last of those mighty men-the Coleridges, Wordsworths, Byrons, Campbells, Shelleys-who cast such a lustre on the literature and poetry of the beginning of the century. They have dropped away star by star, and not above two or three of the number continue now to glimmer: they can hardly be said to shine.

Wilson's death had been long expected, and yet it took the public by surprise. It seemed somehow strange that such a man could die. The words, "death of Professor Wilson," seemed paradoxical, so full was he of the riotous and overflowing riches of bodily and of mental being; and the exclamation "Impossible," we doubt not, escaped from the lips of many who could not think of him except as moving along in the pride of his magnificent personality-a walking world of life.

We propose while his grave is yet green, throwing a frail chaplet upon it, in addition to our former tribute, which, we are proud to say, was not rejected or despised by the great man to whom it was paid. We mean, first, to sketch rapidly the events of his history, and then to speak of his personal appearance, his character, his genius in its native powers and aptitudes, his achievements as a critic, humorist, writer of fiction, professor, poet, and periodical writer; his relation to his age; his influence on his country; and the principal defects in his character and genius.

We may premise that in the following outline of his life we

pretend to do nothing except state a few facts concerning him which are generally known. His full story must be told by others; if, indeed, it shall ever be fully told at all. John Wilson was born in Paisley in the year 1785. We once, indeed, heard a sapient bailie, in a speech at a Philosophical soiree in Edinburgh, call him a "native of the modern Athens," but, although the statement was received with cheers, and although the worthy dignitary might have had sources of information peculiar to himself on the subject, we are rather inclined to hold by the general notion that he was a Paisley body, with a universal soul. In Paisley they still show the house where he was born, and are justly proud of the chief among their many native poets. No town in Scotland in proportion to its size, has produced more distinguished men than Paisley-Tannahill, Alexander Wilson, Motherwell (who spent his boyhood and youth, at least, in Paisley), and Christopher North, are only a few of its poetic sons. son's father was a wealthy manufacturer in the town; his mother was a woman of great good sense and piety, and he imbibed from her a deep sense of religion. Paisley is a dull town in itself, but is surrounded by many points of interest. Near it is the hole in the canal where poor Tannahill drowned himself; farther off are the Braes of Gleniffer, commemorated in one of the same poet's songs. The river Cart-a river sung by Campbell-runs through the town, after passing through some romantic moorlands. Mearns Muir is not far away-a muir sprinkled with lochs, which Wilson has often described in his articles in " Blackwood," and on the remoter outskirts of which stands the farm-house where Pollok was born, and whence he saw daily the view so picturesquely reproduced by him in the "Course of Time," of

"Scotland's northern battlement of hills."

Wil

All these were early and favorite haunts of Wilson, who appears to have been what is called in Scotland a "royd' boy (roystering), fond of nutting, cat-shooting, fishing, and orchardrobbing expeditions; the head of his class in the school, and the leader of every trick and mischief out of it. At an early age he was sent to the Highlands, to the care of Dr. Joseph MacIntyre of Glenorchy, an eminent clergyman of the Church

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