ALEXANDER WILSON. x i x 



to visit some place of antiquity, or the former residences of his 

 favourite authors and poets. He visited, also, every churchyard 

 which lay in his way, transcribing those epitaphs which struck his 

 fancy, and had thus collected above three hundred, many of them 

 highly curious ; but, with his desultory writings, these have been 

 long since lost. From several of the poems written about this time, 

 during the unoccupied hours of this journey, in which many of the 

 incidents that befel him are described, we learn that he began to feel 

 the life of a pedlar was not all ease and comfort, and that many petty 

 annoyances, besides cold, fatigue, and hunger, awaited him. In an 

 "Epistle from Falkland to Mr A C ,"* he designates him- 

 self a 



" Lonely pedlar, " 



Beneath a load of silk and sorrows bent; " + 



and, in another, compares his former more comfortable bed with his 

 ensconcement in a barn, where 



" The dark damp walls — the roof, scarce cover'd o'er — 

 The wind, wild whistling through the cold barn door,"+ 



were too real to allow room for playful fancies or delicious reveries. 

 Somewhat disgusted, he returned again to Paisley, and commenced 

 the publication of his poems, which had now accumulated to a con- 

 siderable stock, and which he fondly thought would bring him both 

 fame and fortune. Desiring that some one, better qualified than 

 himself, should correct any inaccuracies in the MSS., he fortunately 

 applied to Mr Crichton of the Town's Hospital, a man of great 

 worth, who became a faithful friend in adversity, and still is his 

 enthusiastic admirer. Wilson introduced himself, "and with a great 

 deal of modesty, expressed his wish for a little conversation. He 

 told me his name, and informed me that he had a volume of poems 

 in manuscript, which he intended for the press, and requested that 



* Alexander Clark. 



t " His lonely way a meagre pedlar took, 



Deep were his frequent sighs, careless his pace, 

 And oft the tear stole down his cheerless face, 

 Beneath a load of silk and sorrows bent." 



—1st Edit. p. 96. 



% Morning, 1st Edit. p. 1. 



