held the chair of Logic, was fully alive to the rare promise of his
pupil, and said of him subsequently,--"He lived in my family during the
whole course of his studies at Glasgow, and the general superintendence
of his education was committed to me; and it is but justice to him
to declare, that during my long experience I never had a pupil who
discovered more genius, more ardor, or more active and persevering
diligence." But his ardor was not limited to philosophy and the
humanities; his powers required a larger field than the curriculum. He
walked, ran, wrestled, boxed, boated, fished, wrote poetry, played the
flute, danced, kept a careful diary, and read largely. Even at this
early age, he felt the merit of the then unappreciated Wordsworth, and,
on the appearance of the "Lyrical Ballads," wrote the author a letter
expressive of his admiration.

In 1803, Wilson, now eighteen, was transferred to Oxford as a Gentleman
Commoner of Magdalen. And surely never lighted on the Oxford orb so
glorious a vision, or such a bewildering phenomenon. He was, indeed,

"Rara avis in terris, nigroque simillima cygno."

There, as elsewhere, his life was an extraordinary one. His immense
vitality forced him to seek expression in every possible direction. The
outlets which sufficed for ordinary souls were insignificant conduits
for the great floods pent up within his breast; and he surged forth
mightily at every point, carrying all before him. His tastes and
sympathies were all-embracing. His creed and his practice were alike
catholic. All was fish that came to his net. He sat at the feet of
muscular Gamaliels, and campaigned with veterans of the classics. He
hobnobbed with prize-fighters, and was the choice spirit in the ethereal
feasts of poets. He was king of the ring, and _facile princeps_ in the
Greek chorus. He could "talk horse" with any jockey in the land; yet who
like him could utter tender poetry and deep philosophy? He had no rival
in following the hounds, or scouring the country in breakneck races; and
none so careered over every field of learning. He angled in brooks and
books, and landed many a stout prize. He would pick up here and there
a "fly in amber," and add it to his stores. He was the easy victor in
every foot-race, and took the Newdigate prize for poetry, in 1806. He
burned the midnight oil, and looked through ruddy wine at the small
hours chasing each other over the dial. For hours, almost whole days,
he would