Ascending this stair, the voice of joy bursts on my ear, the bridegroom and bride, surrounded by their jocund companions, circle the sparkling glass and humorous joke, or join in the raptures of the noisy dance-the squeaking fiddle breaking through the general uproar in sudden intervals, while the sounding floor groans beneath its unruly load. Leaving these happy mortals, and ushering into this silent mansion, a more solemn—a striking object, presents itself to my view. The windows, the furniture, and every thing that could lend one cheerful thought, are hung in solemn white; and there, stretched pale and lifeless, lies the awful corpse; while a few weeping friends sit, black and solitary, near the breathless clay. In this other place, the fearless sons of Bacchus extend their brazen throats, in shouts like bursting thunder, to the praise of their gorgeous chief. Opening this door, the lonely matron explores, for consolation, her Bible and, in this house, the wife brawls, the children shriek, and the poor husband bids me depart, lest his termagant's fury should vent itself on me. In short, such an inconceivable variety daily occurs to my observation in real life, that would, were they moralized upon, convey more maxims of wisdom, and give a juster knowledge of mankind, than whole volumes of Lives and Adventures, that perhaps never had a being, except in the prolific brains of their fantastic authors." This, it must be acknowledged, is a somewhat prolix and overstrained summing up of his observations; but it proves Wilson to have been, at the early age of twenty-three, a man of great penetration, and strong native sense; and shews that his mental culture had been much greater than might have been expected from his limited opportunities. Ata subsequent period, he retraced his steps, taking with him copies of his poems, to distribute among subscribers, and endeavour to promote a more extensive circulation. Of this excursion also he has given an account in his journal, from which it appears that his success was far from encouraging. Among amusing incidents, sketches of character, occasional sound and intelligent remarks upon the manners and prospects of the various classes of society into which he found his way, there are not a few severe expressions indicative of deep disappointment, and some that merely hint the keener pangs of wounded pridepride founded on conscious merit. "You," says he, on one occasion, " you, whose souls are susceptible of the finest feelings, who are elevated to rapture with the least dawnings of hope, and sunk into despondency by the slightest thwarting of your expectations—think what I felt!" Much, probably, of his disappointment may be attributed to the very questionable, the almost vagrant character, in which he appeared,—that of a travelling pedlar. Of this he seems ultimately to have become convinced; for, in a letter to a friend, dated from Edinburgh, in November of the same year, he says, "My occupation is greatly against my success in collecting subscribers. A packman is a character which none esteem, and almost every one despises. The idea which people of all ranks entertain of them is, that they are meanspirited, loquacious liars, cunning and illiterate, watching every opportunity, and using every mean art within their power, to cheat." The same sentiment repeatedly occurs in his poems. Having in vain used his utmost exertions to dispose of his poems, and being completely disgusted with the life of a pedlar, he returned to Paisley; and, in a short time afterwards, we find him again plying his original trade in Lochwinnoch. But it is evident, that he was far from being satisfied with his employment, or sincere in relinquishing poetry. Indeed, it may be questioned whether any man who has ever experienced the true poetic thrill could, even if he would, seal up his bosom against its rapturous visitations. Be that as it may, Wilson was already tried his skill in the composition of verses; and that, however closely his mechanical occupation employed him, he had a strong inclination to more imaginative feelings and pursuits, not at all likely to reconcile him to his humble avocation. Yet he continued working as a journeyman-weaver for about four years; during which time he resided partly in Paisley, partly with his father, who had gone to the village of Lochwinnoch, and finally with his brother-in-law, Duncan, then removed to Queensferry. During these four years, however, being comparatively left to his own direction, his poetical talents were more freely indulged; his dislike to the loom increased, and his mind became more fully possessed with that spirit of restlessness, which, not finding sufficient scope in Britain, in the end impelled him to explore the boundless forests of the New World. But Nearly two years of that period were spent at Lochwinnoch, and many of his earlier poems were then composed, particularly those of a descriptive character. the rambles which gave rise to these efforts of his muse, while they increased his relish for the beauties of natural scenery, rendered his sedentary employment more and more irksome, and prepared him to abandon it, upon the first prospect of more congenial pursuits. In a poem, written about this time, entitled, "Groans from the Loom," after painting, in a strain of ludicrous complaint, half in jest, half in earnest, the miseries of his condition, the following exclamation occurs, wrung from him probably by an instinctive aversion to confinement, and almost prophetic of his future wanderings: Good gods! shall a mortal with legs, So low uncomplaining be brought! These sentiments, together with the expanded views, culti vated taste, and refined ideas, resulting from the perusal of what books he could procure, all tended to the same conclusion,- —a growing disgust with the trade of a weaver, and a desire to exchange it for any other which promised greater freedom from personal restraint, and more intercourse 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; Such feelings and habits must give the mind an increase of both refinement and elevation; but it may be questioned, 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 dissipation. The utmost that could be charged against him |