396 MEMOIR OF JOHN WILSON. 



study — it is a sort of library. 1 am alone with one daughter, my 

 good Jane ; her mother's name, and much of her nature — but not 

 . . . Yours affectionately, John Wilson." 



During this summer he went into Dumfries and Galloway, accom- 

 panied by his two sons. I have an interesting account of a visit he 

 paid to the Rev. George Murray of Balmaclellau, Glenkens, with a 

 day's fishing in Lochinvar, but it is too long for insertion. 



In speaking of his room, which he calls " a sort of library," some- 

 thing may be said of that careless habit which overtook him in his 

 later years, and gave to his whole appearance an air of reckless free- 

 dom. His room was a strange mixture of what may be called order 

 and untidiness, for there was not a scrap of paper, or a book, that 

 his hand could not light upon in a moment, while to the casual eye, 

 in search of discovery, it would appear chaos, without a chance of 

 being cleared away. 



To any one whose delight lay in beauty of furniture, or quaint and 

 delicate ornament, well-appointed arrangements, and all that inde- 

 scribable fascination caught from nick-nacks and articles of vertu, 

 that apartment must have appeared a mere lumber-room. The book- 

 shelves were of unpainted wood, knocked up in the rudest fashion, 

 and their volumes, though not wanting in number or excellence, 

 wore but shabby habiliments, many of them bemg tattered and 

 without backs. The chief pieces of furniture in this room were two 

 cases : one containing specimens of foreign birds, a gift from an 

 admirer of his genius across the Atlantic, which was used incongru- 

 ously enough sometimes as a wardrobe ; the other was a book-case, 

 but not entirely devoted to books ; its glass doors permitted a motley 

 assortment of articles to be seen. The spirit, the tastes and habits 

 of the possessor were all to be found there, side by side like a little 

 community of domesticities. 



For example, 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 Shakspere and Ben Jon- 

 son ; while fishing-rods, in pieces, stretched their elegant length 

 along the shelves, embracing a whole set of poets. Nor was the 

 gravest philosophy without its contrast, and Jeremy Taylor, too, 



