406 MEMOIR OF JOHN WILSON. 



farm-offices are about 100 or 150 yards from the house. The garden 

 is an oblong, containing, I should think, about 1| acres. One end 

 joins the house ; one side is walled, and the farther end ; the other 

 side, hedged prettily, and with many lilacs, runs along the hanks 

 of the river, and 'tis a very pretty garden indeed. Fruit-trees 

 rather too old, and gooseberry-bushes too ; but the latter show a 

 pretty good crop, and I counted 120 bushes. There are also cur- 

 rants and rasps, and a promising strawberry bed. Every thing in 

 it will be late this season, as it was dressed since John came here, 

 only three weeks ago, but every thing is growing. The furniture 

 has not yet made its appearance, but I believe is at Langholm, and 

 I shall hear about it by return of my messenger. 



" I will write again first opportunity, and expect to be at home 

 by the middle of the week. Observe the directions in my last 

 letter. Love to Blair and Umbs, Gordon and Goliah, Lexy and 

 Adele, Taglioui, Mary Anne, and the rest. 



" Your affectionate father, John Wilson." 



Almost the whole of this summer was spent at Billholm. The 

 winter, coming again with its usual routine of work, calls him to 

 town somewhere about October. In December his fine " Roman 

 hand" strikes fire once more through the languid ribs of " Maga," 

 and he greets with good heart and will the Lays of Ancient Rome. 

 No arriere pensee of political differences obtrudes its ill-concealed 

 remembrance through his words. What is it to hini whether it be 

 Whig or Tory who writes, when genius, with star-like light, 

 " flames in the forehead of the morning sky ?" " What ! poetry 

 from Macaulay ? Ay, and why not ? The House hushes itself to 

 hear him, even when ' Stanley is the cry.' If he be not the first of 

 critics (spare our blushes), who is? Name the young poet who 

 could have written The Armada, and kindled, as if by electricity, 

 beacons on all the brows of England till night grew day ! The 

 young poets, we said, all want fire. Macaulay is not one of the set, 

 for he is full of fire." 



And so does he proceed, with honest words of praise, to the end, 

 giving what is due to all. More of his treatment of this noble 

 enemy in another place. 



As I have already remarked, there was nothing written for 

 Blackwood during the years 1842-44. What was he about? 



