LIFE OF WILSON. 
xcm 
volution of the United States, Bunker’s Hill, but I could see no- 
thing that I could think deserving of the name, till a gentleman, 
who stood by, pointed out a white monument upon a height beyond 
Charlestown, which he said was the place. I explored my way 
thither without paying much attention to other passing objects ; 
and, in tracing the streets of Charlestown, was astonished and hurt 
at the indifference with which the inhabitants directed me to the 
place.* I inquired if there were any person still living here who 
had been in the battle, and I was directed to a Mr. Miller, who 
was a lieutenant in this memorable affair. He is a man of about 
sixty— -stout, remarkably fresh coloured, with a benign and manly 
countenance. I introduced myself without ceremony— -shook his 
hand with sincere cordiality, and said, with some warmth, that 1 
was proud of the honour of meeting with one of the heroes of Bun- 
ker’s Hill— -the first unconquerable champions of their country. 
He looked at me, pressed my hand in his, and the tears instantly 
glistened in his eyes, which as instantly called up corresponding 
ones in my own. In our way to the place he called on a Mr. Car- 
ter, who he said was also in the action, and might recollect some 
circumstances which he had forgotten. With these two veterans I 
We have here a trait of character worthy of note. Wilson’s enthusiasm did not permit 
him to reflect that an object which presents uncommon attractions to one who beholds it for the 
first time, can have no such effect upon the minds of the multitude, accustomed to view it froni 
their infancy, and in whose breasts those chaste and exquisite feelings which result from taste, 
refined by culture, can have no place. 
But what Wilson felt upon this occasion was that which almost all men of genius and sen- 
sibility experience when similarly situated — that divine enthusiasm, which exalts one, as it were, 
above mortality, and which commands our respect in proportion as the subject of it is estimable or 
great. 
Who has not read, and, having read, who can forget, that admirable passage in Johnson’s 
Journey to the Hebrides, wherein the illustrious traveller relates his reflections on his landing up- 
on the island of Icolmkill ! “ Far from me, and from my friends,” says he, “ be such frigid 
philosophy as may conduct us indifferent and unmoved over any ground which has been digni- 
fied by wisdom, bravery, or virtue.” That this frigid philosophy was a stranger to the soul of 
Wilson we have his own declaration in evidence ; and so little skilled was he in the art of con- 
cealing his emotions, that on any occasion which awakened his sensibility, he would exhibit the 
impulse of simple nature by weeping like a child. 
2 A 
VOL. IX. 
