He was the intimate friend of Alexander Wilson, whose unfriended and misdirected genius promised, during the early part of his career, nothing of that lustre which encircles the name of the great American ornithologist. In the biographical accounts that have been published of that remarkable man, Mr. Crichton furnished not a few epistolary contributions, together with various sketches of character, and reminiscences of local events. In private life, and in the discharge of his various official duties, Mr. Crichton uniformly maintained a character of Christian excellence. He was humble, pious, and devout. His unobtrusive modesty made him shrink from the public gaze. In the political vortex he was never once caught; and in religion, he had far more of the retired practical believer than of the polemical controversialist. But his doctrinal views were clear, steady, and consistent, and his position latterly, as an adherent of the Free Church, was the result of the soundest and most decided conviction. For some years past he had retired almost wholly from public occupation, and calm and serene, he waited for the summons of removal. His affectionate partner in life, his children, and his children's children, mourn the loss of a revered sire; but they mourn amid the blessedness of hope. He has finished his career without one stain upon his character; and of him, as a man of real worth in the retired vale of useful life, there can be but one opinion, and that a highly favourable one, throughout an extended and discerning community. TO MR. THOMAS CRICHTON. Haddington, Nov. 2, 1790. DEAR FRIEND,-I have no doubt, but by this time, you are anxious to hear what has become of me; and as I am at present disengaged, and have experienced much of your sympathy, I shall not think my time altogether lost, to inform you of my situation-not that I can cheerfully assure you, that all my miseries are sunk in oblivion, and all my sorrows vanished like a vision. No, alas! that happy period, that long-looked-for time has not yet arrived, but my miseries seem lengthening with life. I look upon myself as a traveller, who, fond of variety, has left the beaten road, to explore the recesses of some wood, whose tempting borders had drawn him from his way. Eager to contemplate the surrounding scenes, and captivated by the gaudy flowers that every where bend beneath his feet, he wanders on forgetful of his journey, hunts through every new thicket, rushes through the thickening shade, till at length he finds himself involved amid a labyrinth of perplexing branches and harassing brambles. Forward, ten thousand distresses present themselves, and backward, he is unable to trace his path. Night approaches, the tempest roars among the trees, and the relentless savages of the forest howl around the distressed wretch, who now, too late, sees his folly, and reflects with a tear on those happy times when he cheerfully pursued his journey. Oh In this poetical wood am I at this moment lost. There, the brambles and briers of poverty harass, and there is heard the growl of creditors! that I could roll back the tide of time, and place myself in the same circumstances I was a few years ago. Then all the charms of fame, the insinuations of ambition, the applause, renown, and admiration of the world, would in vain display their united glories to tempt me to one line of verse. But you will perhaps say, Why do you not adopt this laudable design, and put it in immediate practice? Alas! Sir, I fear I cannot, and this alone makes me tremble. From repeated experience, I can solemnly declare, that I have found poetry, however pleasing and delightful for the present moment, to be productive of nameless miseries, and in reality the source of all my sorrows. It has consumed much of my fleeting time, that might have been employed to unspeakably better purposes in actions and necessary designs, that would have secured me the esteem of my friends, and conveyed pleasure in the reflection. By diverting my mind from the essential interests of life, it has plunged me into the depths of poverty, there solitary to languish, pined by the bitter reflection of being my own destroyer. In a word, it has sunk me in sickness, in debt, in disappointment, and in all the gloom of despondence; has embittered the comforts of life, and veiled from my view all the hopes of religion. And shall I still attend its dictates? Shall I nourish this deluding phantom, this murdering enchantress in my bosom. No, Heaven forbid. The smiles, the promises of hope, shall never again deceive me, since all these once-expected laurels of fame and honour, and the treasures of wealth are as distant from my view as ever. Let me therefore learn to despise them all; for what are all their glories but shadows, bubbles, and poisonous potions that corrupt the heart, disorder the judgment, and continually blast, and for ever banish that inestimable and best of blessing, peace of mind. But where am I going, I sat down to give you an account of my present situation, but have distressed you with a melancholy detail of my past misfortunes. Pardon the digression, my dear friend, and consider that it is to the friend alone, that the burthened heart ventures to pour forth its sorrows. You know, the little success I received in Paisley, made me tremble to think in what manner I should reveal my unfortunate circumstances to Mr. Neilson. To leave the place without making any apology for the past, or explanation of the method I intended to follow for the future, would, I considered, justly expose me to his displeasure and suspicion, and also be highly ungrateful in return for all that kindness he had all along shown me. I therefore went and explained matters as they stood, with the deepest regret for being unable to give him any money arising from the few copies I had sold. His goodness I shall never forget. He freely excused me on account of the circumstances in which I had been placed; but recommended it to me, to be industrious in get ting the rest disposed of, and that from whatever place I sent for copies, he would remit them. This was kind, exceeding kind; but, alas! where was I to dispose of them? However, necessity urging, I gave my landlord one guinea, and an account, which I hope, by this time, has produced him another; and taking leave of all my friends, departed from the confines of that town, where in the short space of seven months, I had experienced all the combined horrors of sickness, poverty, and despondence. In two days I arrived at Edinburgh, and immediately paid Mr. a visit. Unwilling to be looked upon as a burthensome guest, I hired a small room in the other end of the town, and five or six times a-day, (by desire) attended this elevated gentleman's levee. To give you a particular account of the distant and strange reception I met with from this quarter would be unnecessary. After staying two weeks, Mr. all on a sudden told me, that he meant to take a jaunt through part of Scotland with goods, and invited me to assist him. To this I immediately consented, in expectation of selling my books. We have already been in Dalkieth, Musselburgh, and Prestonpans, and are come to this place, and although I have used every scheme I could invent, none seem to regard the author or encourage his performance. How long I will continue in this state is uncertain. When at leisure write me, and you shall not fail in return, to hear from the most unfortunate of poets, pedlars, and men, who, notwithstanding, is with the most sincere esteem, Your affectionate friend, while ALEX. WILSON. TO MR. ALEXANDER WILSON, PAISLEY. [This letter, alluded to in the life, narrates his passage to the New World.] PHILADELPHIA, UNITED STATES, DEAR FATHER AND MOTHER,-You will see by this letter that I am at length in America, as is also my nephew, William Duncan--both in good health. We sailed in the ship "Swift," from Belfast Loch, on Friday the 23rd of May, about six in the morning, at which time I would have wrote you; but, hoping we would have a speedy passage, and feeling for the anxiety I feared you might be under in knowing we were at sea, I purposely omitted writing till our arrival in America. I fear that by this conduct I have given you more unhappiness than I am aware of; if I have, I hope you will forgive me, for I intended otherwise. We had 350 passengersa mixed multitude of men, women, and children. Each berth between decks was made to hold them all, with scarce a foot for each. At first sight I own, it appeared to me almost impossible that one half of them could survive; but, on looking around, and seeing some whom I thought not much stouter than myself, I thought I might have a chance as well as the rest of some of them. I asked Willy if he was willing, and he saying he was, we went up to Belfast immediately for our clothes; and on two days after we got on board, she sailed. We were very sick four days, but soon recovered; and having a good, steady, fair breeze for near a fortnight, had hopes of making an excellent voyage. On the third day, and just as we lost sight of land, we spoke the Caledonia of Greenock, a letter of marque, bound for the Bay of Fundy; on Monday following, Dr. Reynolds, who was tried and condemned by the |