ALEXANDER WILSON. 
XVII 
and a desire to exchange it for any other which promised 
greater freedom from personal restraint, and more inter- 
course with the charms of nature. He thus speaks of his 
feelings and habits about this time : . — 
Here oft beneath the shade I lonely stray, 
When morning opes, or evening shuts the day ; 
Or when more black than night stern fate appears, 
With all her train of pale, despairing fears, 
The winding walk, the solitary wood, 
The uncouth grotto, melancholy, rude ; 
My refuge there, the attending muse to call, 
Or in Pope’s lofty page to lose them all. 
Such feelings and habits must give the mind an increase 
of both refinement and elevation ; but it may be ques- 
tioned, if they are equally adapted to promote happiness, 
because the culture necessary to qualify for enjoyments 
of a high and refined order, must always be attended with 
pain and privation, as it unfits for all the more ordinary 
gratifications, before those of a congenial nature can be 
attained. With the young rustic poet, this is peculiarly 
the case: he is like a butterfly, which some untimely 
smiles of spring have induced to cast aside the protection 
of its chrysalis envelopment, and left exposed to every 
chilling storm ; clad more elegantly, indeed, but much 
less securely defended. 
During this transition-state of the rustic poet, it is not 
surprising that he should frequently sink into fits of deep 
melancholy, perchance of darkest despondency; or that 
the sick heart should sometimes try to escape from the 
pangs of its own morbid sensibility, by plunging into 
mirth, revelry, and dissipation. Into this too common 
error Wilson never fell. Though his letters to his 
friends, written about this period, are filled with the most 
desponding language, there is abundant evidence that 
he was not, even in the slightest degree, given to dissipa^ 
tion. The utmost that could be charged against him 
