to others the treasures of his soul. The wisdom of Genius, what is it but a key to the dark things in nature and providence? Explain as you will how man gets knowledge, wisdom, in its highest forms, is ever felt by its possessors to be really an enlightment from on high. And is it not a privilege to communicate this to the world-to bring mankind more face to face with their Creator, and to show to the weak, the faithless, and the grovelling, what a noble thing is the human soul?

nature.

That Wilson was a far greater man than author, we need hardly say. A mere fraction of his noble nature remains to us embodied in his works. He did not live to write. He made no deliberate attempt to set his mind in its entireness before the world-probably from the very feeling that life was too short for such an undertaking. He seems rather to have used literature simply as a means of cultivating and rejoicing his own Now as a poet, now as a critic, now as a fervid politician, now as a tale-writer, now as an eloquent lecturer, now, and most frequently of all, as the broad sunny man, with a heart for all things, he appears in his writings to be merely disporting himself to be simply giving that airing and exercise to his mental faculties, which they crave not less strongly than those of the body. Now, to build up one's Inner-self is a nobler thing than to become a giant in print; and as the latter of these tasks may often conflict with the former, we ought not to be over-ready to judge of men merely by their literary monuments, or to charge as a fault an abstention from systematic work which may have been the result of a wise instinct or of a self-denying reflection. We do not say that such was the case with Wilson; but we do say, that the more he is examined and understood, the greater does he appear before us in that highest of all aspects, as a man. A very Alcibiades among modern intellects, the man was always greater than his works. He was not the artist, interesting for his work's sake, though the private life be not worth a thought: but his works were seen to be but an

episode of his many-sided life—a fragment splintered off from the noble whole of his being.

Is not the death of such a man suggestive of high and solemn thought? Is it not a text, from which one might discourse most eloquently to those most forlorn of human beings, who, lost in the mazes of a miscalled science, delight to prove to themselves that man is but dust, and that the soul perishes with its ephemeral tenement? For if there indeed be no future life for man, must it not be deepest anguish to a noble nature like Wilson's to feel the icy hand of death upon him, when his faculties are still but half developed, and when he feels within him powers that only await fitting opportunities to burst forth in unrivalled splendour? But the Christian sage, be he young or old-be he cut off early and without his fame, or live honoured to a good old age-has ever this consolatory reflection, that life and progress do not end at the grave. looks within, and beholds his spirit-himself-still fresh, even amid the decay of the body; ever waxing wiser, holier, nobler. It grows—ay, and he knows that it will continue to grow in other worlds even as here. And whatever may have been the dowry of high thoughts which his Maker has given him, and however much too short life may have been to set these forth to the world, he at least knows, that though he has not had time here, he will have it in Eternity.

In 1852, advancing years induced Professor Wilson to retire from the chair in the University which he had so long and ably filled; and this he did, as beseemed the man, without asking for the retiring allowance, which, in such circumstances, is usual. At this time no symptoms of ill-health had appeared. The man was still unbroken. Immediately afterwards, however, he experienced a stroke of paralysis; and, as is not seldom observed in those who have been blessed with long unbroken health, his iron frame suddenly gave way,-attended by a slight impairment of his intellectual faculties, which showed itself chiefly in a loss of memory: a state of matters which, broken with favour

able gleams, continued up to the day of his death. It is a curious and sad remark, that in the case of almost all the great poets of the past generation-certainly of all of them who reached old age-it was the over-tasked brain that gave way. The very delicacy and exquisite sensibility of a poet's nature renders the cerebral system in his case peculiarly susceptible to the mental shocks and physical wear and tear of life. In his case, even more than in other men's, experience vouches to the truth of Bulwer's adage, that "though we live longer than our forefathers, we suffer more." We live faster, too,-a more ceaseless tide of thought rolls through the brain,-we prize minutes as our ancestors prized hours, and, whether for mind or body, there are nowadays but few holidays. No wonder, then, that ever and anon the over-worked nervous system should rise in sudden revolt, and mysterious disease invade the precincts of life. For long the soul, throned in the brain, rules like an autocrat every part of the system, and lashes on our flagging powers like Phaëton driving the chariot of the sun. But suddenly there comes a tremor, a concussion, a shudder of the brain, and lo! the charioteer is tossed from his seat-order is subverted in the capital, and a paralysis pervades the extremities. Strange and fell disease! which seems to grow with our civilisation, and loves to mark the foremost men of all the age as its victims. How it has played havoc among the galaxy of poets that adorned the last age-taking from us in turn a Scott, a Southey, a Moore, a Wordsworth, and a WILSON!

And now that stately figure is gone from the streets of the Scottish metropolis. We shall no more encounter his lion-like port when we revisit the Athens of the North. We shall no more recognise in the distance the well-known broad-rimmed hat, shadowing those bold bright eyes-the ever-fresh complexion, the sandy-coloured hair streaming dishevelled over his shoulders; the shaggy whiskers, handsome throat, and broad turned-over collar; the buttoned coat or surtout, and the firm limbs that seemed to grasp the very earth as he trode along.

We shall no more see the venerable man-" the Professor' seated at the round table in the saloon at Blackwood's, sitting silently over a book-with the portraits of his old friends, Lockhart, and Hogg, and Delta, and Alison, and Hamilton, and his own, around him; and in the social circles which so long delighted in the genial company of "the old man eloquent," his place shall know him no more. Some able penit may be that of one of his own gifted sons-in-law-will doubtless ere long do justice to his memory, and show to the country the man as he lived. For ourselves, we hardly venture to contribute even a stone to his cairn; but we feel of a truth that he has left a void which can never be filled up, and that in him Scotland has lost "a glorious figure,—a stately and heroic Life, -and a beloved Presence from the midst of her."

THE END.

PRINTED BY WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS, EDINBURGH.

In Octavo, price 4s. cloth,

THE NEW REVOLUTION;

OR, THE

NAPOLEONIC POLICY IN EUROPE.

BY

R. H. PATTERSON.

OPINIONS OF THE PRESS.

The Dial.

THIS book is a study in the history of the present time. The Emperor Napoleon, his character, his career, his policy, his imperial system, his place among European potentates, and the scope of his designs as affecting the state and prospects of European nations-such is the theme of Mr Patterson's book. It consists of a series of articles contributed to Blackwood's Magazine and the Press newspaper, thrown into a continuous form by "a few connecting pages." So consistent, and so admirably worked out is Mr Patterson's train of thought, that the reader is never sensible of perusing separate articles. The book is, in all respects, able. In the view it presents of the Second Empire as contrasted with the First, and of the "managing diagrammatic" Philip who now reigns in the Tuileries as contrasted with the fiery and brilliant Alexander of Lodi and Arcola, we entirely concur. On some points we might dissent from its conclusions. Our inference from its general argument would be favourable to the continuance of peace; Mr Patterson finds the omens pointing to war. We have confidence, however, in pronouncing these articles among the ablest contributions ever made to journalism, and in saying that Mr Patterson would be a distinguished Historian if he were not the distinguished editor of a Tory newspaper. His style is clear, nervous, and dignified, admirably adapted to the treatment of a grave historical subject, and rising at times into noble though chastened eloquence.