428 MEMOIR OF JOHN WILSON. 



ings, even the " annual Exhibition," was confessed to be benefited 

 by his presence. That hearty sympathy, the genial smile, and the 

 ready joke, are all remembered as something not soon to be seen 

 again. The artist's studio was a resort well known to him, and many 

 an hour did he spend within its pleasant enclosures. 



On one occasion when sitting to Mr. Thomas Duncan for his por- 

 trait,* entering his studio, he said, " I am sorry, my dear sir, that 

 my sitting must to-day be a short one ; I have an engagement at two 

 o'clock, I have not a moment after that hour to spare." Mr. Dun- 

 can, of course, expressed his regret ; and at once arranged his easel, 

 placed his subject in the desired position, and began his work. Never 

 had an hour passed away so rapidly. The Professor was in excel- 

 lent spirits, and the painter, delighted with his sitter, was loath to 

 say that two o'clock had struck. " Has it ?" said the Professor, " I 

 must be off;'' and forthwith began to re-arrange his toilette, looking 

 at himself in the large pier-glass, stepping backwards and forwards, 

 making remarks upon his appearance, tying his neckcloth, brushing 

 back his hair, then turning to Mr. Duncan with some jocular obser- 

 vation on the subject of dress. Sitting down for a moment led on 

 to something about art ; then perhaps a story. Rising up, his waist- 

 coat, still in his hand, was at last put on ; a walk for a moment or 

 two about the room ; another story, ending in laughter ; beginning 

 again some discourse upon graver matters, till he fell into a train of 

 thought that by degrees warmed him into one of those indescribable 

 rushes of eloquence, that poured out the whole force Of his mind ; 

 turning the studio into a lecture-room, and the artist to one of the 

 most delighted of his students. 



" Bless me, my dear sir," he said, rising suddenly ; " give me my 

 coat, I fear it is long past two o'clock, I had almost forgotten my 

 engagement." 



Mr. Duncan, smiling, handed him his coat, saying, "I fear, sir, 

 your engagement must be at an end for to-day ; it is now five o'clock." 



Many a story, I believe, of this sort could be told of him. 



There is nothing in the world so difficult to call up and retain as 

 a passiug gleam of fun or humor. We require the accessories of the 

 moment, the peculiar little touch, the almost invisible light, that, 

 "■leamino- athwart the mind, kindled it into that exuberance out of 



* Christopher in his Sporting Jacket. Mr. Thomas Duncan, an accomplished artist, died in 

 844. His portrait, painted by himself, hangs iu the National Gallery, Edinburgh. 



