It is a significant fact, I think, that the three greatest biographers the world has known should have been Scotch; it has long been the fashion to laugh and to sneer at what is called Scotch dulness; yet what prodigies has not Scotch genius performed in every department of literature, and would not our literature be poor indeed to-day but for the contributions which have been made to it by the very people whom we affect to deride?

John Wilson was one of the most interesting figures of a time when learning was at a premium; he was a big man amongst big men, and even in this irreverential time genius uncovers at the mention of his name.  His versatility was astounding; with equal facility and felicity he could conduct a literary symposium and a cock-fight, a theological discussion and an angling expedition, a historical or a political inquiry and a fisticuffs.

Nature had provided him with a mighty brain in a powerful body; he had a physique equal to the performance of what suggestion soever his splendid intellectuals made.  To him the incredible feat of walking seventy miles within the compass of a day was mere child’s play; then, when the printer became clamorous, he would immure himself in his wonderful den and reel off copy until that printer cried ``Hold; enough!’’ It was no unusual thing for him to write for thirteen hours at a stretch; when he worked he worked, and when he played he played—­that is perhaps the reason why he was never a dull boy.

Wilson seems to have been a procrastinator.  He would put off his task to the very last moment; this is a practice that is common with literary men—­in fact, it was encouraged by those who were regarded as authorities in such matters anciently.  Ringelbergius gave this advice to an author under his tuition: 

``Tell the printers,’’ said he, ``to make preparations for a work you intend writing, and never alarm yourself about it because it is not even begun, for, after having announced it you may without difficulty trace out in your own head the whole plan of your work and its divisions, after which compose the arguments of the chapters, and I can assure you that in this manner you may furnish the printers daily with more copy than they want.  But, remember, when you have once begun there must be no flagging till the work is finished.’’

The loyalty of human admiration was never better illustrated than in Shelton Mackenzie’s devotion to Wilson’s genius.  To Mackenzie we are indebted for a compilation of the ``Noctes Ambrosianae,’’ edited with such discrimination, such ability, such learning, and such enthusiasm that, it seems to me, the work must endure as a monument not only to Wilson’s but also to Mackenzie’s genius.