Much allowance must be made for the altered spirit of the times.  A generation or two ago, there was everywhere far more of rancor and less of decorum in the treatment of politics and criticism than would now be tolerated.  All the world permitted and expected strong partisanship, bitter personality, and downright abuse.  They would have called our more sober reticence by the name of feebleness:  their truculence we stigmatize as slander and Billingsgate.  Wilson was an extremist in everything; yet he strained but a point or two beyond his fellows.  When the tide of party began gradually to subside, he fell with it.  Mrs. Gordon has given a very correct picture of the state of things in those days:—­

“It is impossible for us, at this time, to realize fully the state of feeling that prevailed in the literature and politics of the years between 1810 and 1830.  We can hardly imagine why men who at heart respected and liked each other should have found it necessary to hold no communion, but, on the contrary, to wage bitter war, because the one was an admirer of the Prince Regent and Lord Castlereagh, the other a supporter of Queen Caroline and Mr. Brougham.  We cannot conceive why a poet should be stigmatized as a base and detestable character, merely because he was a Cockney and a Radical; nor can we comprehend how gentlemen, aggrieved by articles in newspapers and magazines, should have thought it necessary to the vindication of their honor to horsewhip or shoot the printers or editors of the publications.  Yet in 1817 and the following years such was the state of things in the capital of Scotland....  You were either a Tory and a good man, or a Whig and a rascal, and vice versa.  If you were a Tory and wanted a place, it was the duty of all good Tories to stand by you; if you were a Whig, your chance was small; but its feebleness was all the more a reason why you should be proclaimed a martyr, and all your opponents profligate mercenaries.”  But parties changed, and men changed with them.  It was a Whig ministry which gave Wilson, in 1852, a pension of two hundred pounds.

Mrs. Gordon has praised her father as “the beau-ideal of what a critic should be, whose judgments will live as parts of literature, and not merely talk about it.”  That these so-called judgments are worthy to live, and will live, we fully believe; yet we could never think him a model critic, or even a great one.  Though not deficient in analytic power, he wanted the judicial faculty.  He could create, but he could not weigh coolly and impartially what was created.  His whole make forbade it.  He was impatient, passionate, reckless, furious in his likes and dislikes.  His fervid enthusiasm for one author dictated a splendid tribute to a friend; while an irrational prejudice against another called out a terrific diatribe against a foe.  In either case, there might be “thoughts that breathe and words that burn”; still, there was but little