ALEXANDER WILSON. xxv 



self ; and in this wild retreat, he appears to a stranger as one of 

 the early inhabitants of earth, ere polished by frequent intercourse, 

 or united in society. 



" In this vale, or glen, innumerable rare and valuable herbs are 

 discovered, and, in the harvest months, it is his continual resort. 

 He explores it with the most unwearied attention, — climbs every 

 cliff, even the most threatening, and from the perplexing profusion 

 of plants, collects those herbs, of whose qualities and value he is 

 well acquainted. For this purpose, he has a large basket with a 

 variety of divisions in which he deposits every particular species by 

 itself. With this he is often seen labouring home to his hut, where 

 they are suspended in large and numerous parcels from the roof, 

 while the sage himself sits smiling amidst his simple stores. 



" About six months ago, I went to pay him a visit along with 

 an intimate friend, no less remarkable for a natural curiosity. On 

 arriving at his little hut, we found, to our no small disappoint- 

 ment, that he was from home. As my friend, however, had never 

 been in that part of the country before, I conducted him to the glen, 

 to take a view of some of the beautifully romantic scenes, and wild 

 prospects, that this place affords. We had not proceeded far along 

 the bottom of the vale, when, hearing a rustling among the branches 

 above our head, I discovered our hoary botanist with his basket, 

 passing along the brow of a rock that hung almost over the centre 

 of the stream. Having pointed him out to my companion, we were 

 at a loss for some time how to bring about a conversation with him. 

 Having, however, a flute in my pocket, of which music he is ex- 

 ceedingly fond, I began a few airs, which, by the sweetness of the 

 echoes, was heightened into the most enchanting melody. In 

 a few minutes this had its desired effect, and our little old man 

 stood beside us with his basket in his hand. On stopping at 

 his approach, he desired us to proceed, complimented us on the 

 sweetness of our music, expressed the surprise he was in on hear- 

 ing it, and, leaning his basket on an old trunk, listened with all 

 the enthusiasm of rapture. He then, at our request, presented us 

 with a sight of the herbs he had been collecting, entertained us 

 with a narrative of the discoveries he had made in his frequent 

 searches through the vale, ' which,' said he, ' contains treasures that 

 few know the value of.' " 



At this time Wilson wrote the well-known ballad of Watty and 



VOL. I. C 



