34 MEMOIR OF JOHN WILSON. 



banks of the Clyde and Calder were all the favorite walks of John 

 Wilson, for there were " Ha lside," " Calder Bank," " Millheugh," 

 "Calderwood," and " Torrance," which, in later years, carried from 

 Dychmont its attraction, and became the scene of joy and sorrow, 

 deep as ever moved a young poet's heart. 



The occupants of Dychmont were two ladies, Miss W. and Mar- 

 garet, as I may simply name her ; the one the guardian of the other, 

 an " orphan-maid" of " high talent and mental graces," with fascina- 

 tion of manners sufficient to rivet the regard of a youth keenly alive 

 to such charms. At the time of Wilson's residence in Glasgow 

 these ladies were the most intimate friends he had beyond the cir- 

 cle of his youthful companions. During whiter they lived in the 

 College buildings, and were frequent visitors at Professor Jardine's, 

 so that every opportunity existed for the cultivation of a friendship 

 that gradually ripened into love, " life-deep" and passionate on the 

 one side ; on the other sincere and tender, but tranquil and self- 

 contained, as if presaging, with woman's instinct, the envious bar- 

 riers that were to keep their two lives from flowing into one. 



At the date when their acquaintance began, John Wilson had 

 that composed and perfected manner which is acquired intuitively 

 by the gentler sex, and gives them an advantage in society rarely 

 possessed by boys at the same age. Thus Margaret, though no 

 longer a school-girl, was delighted to find a companion so congenial 

 as to excite at once her interest and friendship ; while young Wil- 

 son saw in the " orphan-maid" a creature to admire and love, with 

 all that fervor which belonged to his poetical temperament. Their 

 occupations encouraged the growth of graceful accomplishments ; 

 nor were their rides and walks merely pastimes of pleasure ; sterner 

 matter arose from those early hours, and we have words of the past 

 that make every line of this love-passage a tale of sorrow, sad enough 

 for tears. A few years of this bright spring-tide of youth pass away, 

 and one heart feels the gentle quiet of its womanly interest gliding 

 insensibly and surely into something more deep and agitating, as 

 does the dewy calm of daybreak into the fervent splendor of noon. 

 The love of a poet is seldom so submissive as that which long ago 

 wrote its touching confession in these words : — 



" Brama assai, poco spera, e nulla cliiede." 

 Trace this story further, and we see two years later that deeper 



