correspondence will vary inversely as the quantity of his expression in
all other directions. If, Wilson being the same man, fortune had hemmed
him in, and contracted his sphere of action,--or if, as author, he had
devoted himself to works of solid learning, instead of to the airy pages
of "Blackwood,"--the sprightly humor and broad hilarity that were in
him would have bubbled out in these "Letters," and the "Noctes" and the
"Recreations" would have been a song unsung.

An anecdote of De Quincey, given by Wilson's biographer, is worth
repeating. He and Wilson were warm friends during many long years, and
innumerable were the sessions in which they met together to hold high
converse. One stormy night the philosophic dreamer made his appearance
at the residence of his friend the Professor, in Gloucester Place.
The war of the elements increased to such a pitch, that the guest was
induced to pass the night in his new quarters. Though the storm
soon subsided, not so with the "Opium-Eater." The visit, begun from
necessity, was continued from choice, until the revolving days had
nearly made up the full year. He bothered himself but little with the
family-arrangements, but dined in his own room, often turning night into
day. His repast always consisted of coffee, boiled rice and milk, and
mutton from the loin. Every day be sent for the cook, and solemnly gave
her his instructions. The poor creature was utterly overwhelmed by his
grave courtesy and his "awfu' sicht of words." Well she might be, for he
addressed her in such terms as these:--"Owing to dyspepsia affecting
my system, and the possibility of an additional disarrangement of the
stomach taking place, consequences incalculably distressing would arise,
so much so, indeed, as to increase nervous irritation, and prevent me
from attending to matters of overwhelming importance, if you do not
remember to cut the mutton in a diagonal, rather than a longitudinal
form."