" Cbrtstopber Hortb" i 97 



The end was not long in coming. John Wilson died 

 at midnight on April 1st, 1854. 



In the literature of sport Christopher North is by far 

 the biggest figure we have had yet. No one has ever 

 embodied in such glowing eloquence the poetry of sport, 

 no one has ever thrown such a halo of romance round 

 the worship of rod and gun. Charles Kingsley, perhaps, 

 might have equalled him had he chosen to devote him- 

 self to the task, though if you compare Kingsley's 

 rhapsody on fox-hunting in " My Winter Garden " with 

 Wilson's in the " Recreations," I think you will note 

 that the parson does not let himself go with the same 

 freedom and dash as the Professor. Kingsley's was a 

 sedater mind there was not in him the reckless, boyish 

 irresponsibility and impetuosity of Christopher. The 

 Englishman, too, was more orderly and methodical than 

 the perfervid Scot. In Wilson's mind there was, I think, 

 to be found as curious a jumble of incongruities as in 

 his library, where, his daughter tells us, " resting upon the 

 ' Wealth of Nations,' lay shining coils of gut, set off by 

 pretty pink twinings. Peeping out from ' Boxiana,' in 

 juxtaposition with the ' Faery Queen/ were no end of 

 delicately dressed flies ; and pocket-books well-filled with 

 gear for the ' gentle craft ' found company with Shak- 

 speare and Ben Jonson, while fishing-rods in pieces 

 stretched their elegant length along the shelves, 

 embracing a whole set of poets." 



But look at him from what point of view you will, 

 John Wilson was a big man big in heart, in intellect, in 

 body. And how lovable he was ! See him there among 

 his grandchildren, turning the nursery into an imaginary 



