in witty devices and boisterous glee—what a broad, big, sunny nature he would display, nobly in keeping with that glorious personal presence of his, so well-braced, so stoutly organised, so exuberant with animal spirits, so alive to dear life! For, by his vigorous physique, and his impressionable temperament, he was qualified, and disposed, to enter "with a will" into whatever of pleasurable excitement the world had to show. Every fibre of his stalwart frame seemed awake to joyous sensation—every pulse to beat in quick sympathy with May-tide nature. Many a story is told, whether vero, or only (more or less) ben trovato, of his adventurous doings, and wayward pranks along the highways and byways of society:—how he threw himself, soul and body, into the company of gipsies and tinkers, and cast in his lot with potters and strolling players; how he acted the part of waiter at a village inn, and acted it so well that mine host wouldn't hear of his leaving, for any consideration; how he boxed, and what leaps he could take, and what a runner he was,—so that he has been likened to Malcolm in the "Lady of the Lake," for his capacity to run up a steep hill-side without drawing breath,
Right up Ben Lomond would he press,
And not a sob his toil confess.
It is not to be assumed, indeed, as some have done, that whatever feats of personal prowess, or eccentricities of personal habit, Christopher North may affect, John Wilson might also claim: nevertheless, the autobiographic memorabilia of the old man of Buchanan Lodge are intimations of the life and manners of the professor of moral philosophy. Sir Kit is but an enlarged portrait of Wilson, painted with breadth and heightened colour and quaint accessories for the sake of effect. The mask only exaggerates the features of the man in the mask. And thus when we are reading North's riotous effusions of wanton health and exuberant animal spirits, we are en rapport with "the Professor" in his heyday of buoyant strength. Physical health is a "great fact" in constituting, and perhaps an essential condition to the understanding, the "Recreations of Christopher North." How he glories in his hale and springy framework! How joyously the strong man glories in his strength! What a fine contempt he shows for your puny people, your "feeble folk," your "poor creatures!" How heartily he cuts up, for his part, your Dr. Kitchiners and their invalid dietetics! Hear him, for example, give his notions on the subject of dyspeptic symptoms—à propos of the Doctor's caution that if we wish to "prevent illness" we must ward off, by refreshment and repose, the too possible consequences of "low spirits and dejection," "yawning and drowsiness," "bitter taste in the mouth," &c., &c. "Why," exclaims most eupeptic Christopher, in sheer amazement—"why, illness in such a deplorable case as this, is just about to end, and death is beginning to take place. Thank God, it is a condition to which we do not remember ever being very nearly approximated. Who ever saw us yawn? or drowsy? or with our appetite impaired, except on the withdrawal of the tablecloth? or low-spirited, but when the Glenlivat was at ebb? Who dare declare that he ever saw our mouth dry? or sensible of a bitter taste, since we gave over munching rowans? Put your finger on our wrists at any moment you choose, from June to January, from January to June, and by its pulsation you may rectify Harrison's or
