turned his face homeward, and embarked on board the Oriental steamer.
Besides the hope of meeting with his friends, who anxiously expected his
return he had collected such treasures of oriental scenery and costume as
would 'suffice him for years of labour, as well as for such artistic productions
as might raise his renown by surpassing all that he had yet accomplished.
When the steamer reached Malta, he was unwell ; but as he had rallied so often
in similar cases, he felt no apprehension, and wrote to his sister a letter full of
hopes of his return, and desiring that his home should be put in order for his
arrival. Only four days after, he was no more ! While at Malta, he had eaten
fruit and drank iced lemonade, which produced such a derangement of stomach,
that his whole system rapidly gave way; and notwithstanding the medical care
of the surgeon on board, he sank into insensibility, and died without a struggle,
on the 8th of June, 1841. The vessel that had started from Malta, only an
hour previous, put back, and applied for permission to land the body; but as
this was refused, a coffin was made at sea, and the remains were committed to
the deep. On the arrival of the vessel in England with its unexpected tidings,
the report spread sorrow over the whole island, but especially over Scotland,
where Wilkie was considered as one of the noblest of our national representatives—as the Burns of Scottish painting, In London, a meeting was soon convened to do honour to his memory; and the result was a collection for a public statue of the artist, which was afterwards executed by Mr. S. Joseph, and
erected in the inner hall of the National Gallery. May the eyes of our young
Scottish artists be inspired with his spirit as they contemplate it; and may
the chief memorial of Sir David Wilkie be a School of National Painting, such as Scotland even to the remotest period will be proud to cherish!
WILSON, John.—Professor of Moral Philosophy, Edinburgh. In writing a memoir of John Wilson adequate to so eventful a career as his, and the wide literary reputation he obtained in his day, two difficulties almost insurmountable occur at the outset. The first arises from the absence of a regular narrative, as his biography has still to be written a task which, it is hoped, some one of his distinguished cotemporaries will gladly and affectionately undertake. The second difficulty arises from the anonymous as well as miscellaneous character of his writings, which, thrown off as they were for the hour, and available for their especial purposes, have not yet stood the test of time, and been tried by their intrinsic merits, irrespective of the causes in which they originated, and the temporary or local effects they produced. Such, indeed, in the present age, must be the fate of genius, however transcendant, that devotes itself to periodical literature. The "Christopher North" or "The Thunderer" of to-day, may be supplanted by the "Ezekiel South" or "Jupiter Olympus" of to-morrow; and the newspaper or magazine of which they were the living soul, passes away, and gives place to the idols of a new generation. All this is but the natural price of such a mode of writing. The veiled author has laboured for the present, and, verily, he has had his reward.
Of such writers whose immediate influence was so wide and prevalent, but whose futurity is so questionable and uncertain, John Wilson holds, perhaps, with the exception of Francis Jeffrey, the most distinguished place in modern literature. He was born in or near Paisley, on the 19th May, 1785 or 1786, for we are unable to ascertain the precise year. He was the eldest, we believe, of three brothers. As his father was a thriving Paisley manufacturer, in which occupation he realized a considerable fortune, while his mother was of a wealthy
