come to know him better than before in his character of citizen, son, husband, and father; and it has come to the sage conclusion that even as a family-man he was not quite so bad, after all.  It is a great relief to know at last that Christopher was throughout consistent,—­that the child was father to the man.  One of his first exploits was fishing with a bent pin.  Another was to preach a little sermon on a naughty fish.  The “application,” though brief, was earnest.  To the infant expounder, the subject of his discourse doubtless appeared in the guise of a piscatorial Cockney.  After many other the like foreshadowings, and after draining dry his native village, he went, when twelve years of age, to Glasgow University.  Professor Jardine, who then held the chair of Logic, was fully alive to the rare promise of his pupil, and said of him subsequently,—­“He lived in my family during the whole course of his studies at Glasgow, and the general superintendence of his education was committed to me; and it is but justice to him to declare, that during my long experience I never had a pupil who discovered more genius, more ardor, or more active and persevering diligence.”  But his ardor was not limited to philosophy and the humanities; his powers required a larger field than the curriculum.  He walked, ran, wrestled, boxed, boated, fished, wrote poetry, played the flute, danced, kept a careful diary, and read largely.  Even at this early age, he felt the merit of the then unappreciated Wordsworth, and, on the appearance of the “Lyrical Ballads,” wrote the author a letter expressive of his admiration.

In 1803, Wilson, now eighteen, was transferred to Oxford as a Gentleman Commoner of Magdalen.  And surely never lighted on the Oxford orb so glorious a vision, or such a bewildering phenomenon.  He was, indeed,

  “Rara avis in terris, nigroque simillima cygno.”

There, as elsewhere, his life was an extraordinary one.  His immense vitality forced him to seek expression in every possible direction.  The outlets which sufficed for ordinary souls were insignificant conduits for the great floods pent up within his breast; and he surged forth mightily at every point, carrying all before him.  His tastes and sympathies were all-embracing.  His creed and his practice were alike catholic.  All was fish that came to his net.  He sat at the feet of muscular Gamaliels, and campaigned with veterans of the classics.  He hobnobbed with prize-fighters, and was the choice spirit in the ethereal feasts of poets.  He was king of the ring, and facile princeps in the Greek chorus.  He could “talk horse” with any jockey in the land; yet who like him could utter tender poetry and deep philosophy?  He had no rival in following the hounds, or scouring the country in breakneck races; and none so careered over every field of learning.  He angled in brooks and books, and landed many a stout prize.  He would pick up here and there a “fly in amber,”