Although Paisley, under the name of Vanduara, was at an early period the site of an extensive Roman encampment—vestiges of which are still visible in some places; yet it seems, like its more extensive and wealthy neighbour, to have had an ecclesiastical origin. In the twelfth century, when Walter Stewart founded a monastery here, it appears there was not even a village in the neighbourhood; but that one gradually arose afterwards, for the accommodation of the retainers of the monks, and the numerous pilgrims attracted to the locality by the fame of its patron saint. Slowly increasing in extent, it was created a burgh of barony in 1488, although so lately even as 1695 the population only amounted to 2,200. Crawfurd, writing a few years subsequent to the latter date, says, that in his time the town consisted of one principal street, about half-a-mile in length, running westward from the river, and having some lanes and wynds branching off in various directions. About the same period, Hamilton of Wishaw, whose curious and interesting work we have more than once had occasion to quote, thus briefly describes the town:—"Paisley is a very pleasant and well-built little town, plentifully provided with all sorts of grain, fruits, coals, peats, fishes, and what else is proper for the comfortable use of man, or can be expected in any other place of the kingdom." It was only after the Union that the manufacturing energies of the town began to be thoroughly developed, and the germs were laid of that prosperity which it has since attained. The manufactures of Paisley at first consisted principally of linen and muslin fabrics, in the production of which it ultimately gained considerable celebrity. This branch of textile manufacture was afterwards in a great measure superseded by the production of flax and cotton thread, in the preparation of which it acquired a high degree of excellence, and for which it still retains a wide-spread reputation. Silk and linen gauze, of great elegance and beauty, also formed for many years staple articles of produce in this enterprising community; but one of the more recent and important additions to the departments of skilled industry in which her population has been engaged, is that of shawl weaving, in which, for variety and beauty of pattern and richness of colour, she is almost unrivalled. The weaving of tartans, and other textures of a similar nature denominated tweeds, has also, of late years, been successfully introduced; and, at the present time, there are many hundreds of artisans engaged in and around Paisley in the printing of shawls and plaids, principally composed of fine woollen fabrics, and remarkable for the elegance of their designs, the brilliancy of their tints, and, above all, for their remarkable cheapness. This latter feature, indeed, has caused the elegant though less substantial printed shawl in a great measure to supersede that of the loom, which, from the complexity of the machinery necessary to its production, and the greater amount of labour which it requires, is necessarily much more expensive. Altogether, in manufacturing skill and taste, as well as in commercial enterprise, Paisley has continued to occupy a prominent position among the industrial centres of our country, and, in certain departments, has even manifested a superiority which is in the highest degree creditable to the productive capabilities of her population.

Nor has the pre-eminence of Paisley been entirely confined to the successful production of textile fabrics. The people of Paisley are generally admitted to possess a highly respectable intellectual status, and it is well known that the town has given birth to several individuals who have attained distinction in various departments of literature and art, whose names their country

"Will not willingly let die."

Among these are Alexander Wilson, author of "Watty and Meg," and other poems of great merit, and also of a valuable work on the ornithology of America, famous alike for the vigorous eloquence of its descriptions, and the striking fidelity of its pictorial illustrations; Robert Tannahill, with the single exception of Burns, the sweetest lyrical poet of Scotland; Professor Wilson, one of the most eloquent of our prose writers, and a poet of no mean powers and Henning, the restorer of ancient Grecian art. Besides these, the undoubted heirs of fame, Paisley has produced a perfect host of minor bards, principally intelligent operatives, who have lightened the intervals of labour with literary study, and many of whose productions are highly creditable to their authors.

In general architectural appearance the town of Paisley presents few features calling for particular attention from the tourist. Its streets are for the most part narrow and tortuous, while even its most handsome edifices suffer in effect from the contiguity of less imposing structures. Of late years a material improvement has been effected in the spacious area which is bounded on one side by the County Buildings. This extensive pile, which is in the form of an ancient feudal castle, and to which large additions have recently been made, is situated on the west bank of the Cart, in the immediate vicinity of the Glasgow and Paisley Joint Railway Station, which has been built in a harmonizing style of architecture. It was erected between 1818 and 1821, at an expense of about £28,000, and contains a courthouse and offices for the transaction of various departments of public business, together with a chapel, jail, and house of correction. Immediately adjacent is the Government School of Design—a building which forms a standing proof of the necessity which existed at the period of its erection for such an institution. It is, indeed, one of the most ineffective specimens of design which, in a public edifice, we have yet witnessed. If architectural taste were a sin, the designer of this might well boast of clean hands. There are, however several fine buildings in the vicinity, among which we may mention those forming the row facing the railway, a banking-house near the ancient "hole in the wa’," and the reading-room establishment at the Cross, the hall of which is adorned by Fillans’s splendid bust of Professor Wilson.

The most interesting public building in Paisley, and, of course, one of the first to which we direct our attention, is the venerable and time-honoured Abbey Church, which was originally founded and munificently endowed, in 1160, by Walter, the High Steward of Scotland, the original progenitor of the royal Stuarts. The descendants of this nobleman afterwards, at various periods, bestowed liberal donations, both in money and lands, upon the establishment, until it ultimately became one of the most wealthy and influential in the kingdom. "Gray Paisley’s haughty lord" held undisputed sway over a wide extent of territory; while its ecclesiastics, of high and low degree, were accommodated in a style of splendour unsurpassed even in the celebrated monasteries of Dunfermline and St. Andrews, although these were specially patronized by royalty. Like their confreres of Melrose,

"They wanted neither beef nor ale,"

nor a bountiful supply of all those creature comforts which the produce or limited commerce of the country could afford. In the time of Edward I. of England, according to Fordun, the Abbey was pillaged and burned to the ground by the invading Southrons, because the abbot, with a genuine spirit of patriotism, refused to acknowledge the authority of the usurper. After the independence of the nation, however, had been firmly established on the memorable field of Bannockburn, the Abbey was rebuilt on a superior scale of magnificence, the church being not less than 265 feet in length, while both the nave and the transepts were furnished with lateral aisles. It was in the cathedral form, that of a cross, and was surmounted by a lofty steeple. The greater part of what now exists is supposed to have been erected in the fifteenth century, under the superintendence of Abbot Thomas Tarves, who died in 1459, and Abbot George Shaw, who bore sway over the brotherhood from 1472 to March, 1498. One of the architects seems, from an ancient inscription on the transept door of Melrose, to have been a John Murdo, who further seems to have been concerned in the erection of several other ecclesiastical edifices of importance.

The inscription was originally as follows, although it is now much defaced:—

 "John Murdo sum tym callyt was I,
And born in Parys certainly,
And had in keping all mason work
Of Santandrays, ye hye kirk
Of Glasgu, Melrose, and Paslay.
Of Nyddadall, and of Galway;
I pray to God and Mary bath,
And sweet St. John, kep this haly kirk fra skaith."

At this period the monastery was surrounded by gardens and orchards of great extent, which, with a park for fallow deer, were protected from lay intrusion by a high wall upwards of a mile in circumference, erected by the aforementioned Abbot Shaw, as appears from an inscription on a stone which once formed part of it, and which is now built into the side of a house in the vicinity. The words are as follows, with the exception of the fifth line, which has been totally effaced:—

"Thel callit ye Abbot Georg of Schawe
About yis Abbay gart mak this wawe,
A thousand tour hundreth zheyr
Auchty and fyve, the date but veir;
Pray for his salvatioun
That made this noble foundacioun."

How excellent in old Abbot Shaw to secure his vineyard and his deer-park, from which he would doubtless derive many a dainty venison pasty, and then to solicit the prayers of the faithful for this act of selfish prudence! To our "heretic" understanding, it would certainly appear that the bigging of the "wawe" would receive "its own exceeding great reward" in the protection which it afforded to the creature comforts of the monastic brotherhood. It is to be hoped, therefore, that the jolly old monk had other claims on the devotional sympathies of his neighbours, as otherwise we are afraid there would be but few beads counted on his behalf.

The Abbey of Paisley continued to flourish until the Reformation, when the establishment was overthrown, and a considerable portion of its architectural splendour destroyed. The nest was then to a great extent pulled down, and the rooks who had lived for centuries on the fat of the land were driven ignominiously from their ancient haunts. The last of the abbots was hanged at Stirling, in 1571, for his adherence to the cause of Queen Mary. The revenues and rich endowments of the Abbey were at the same time secularized, and erected into a temporal lordship, which was bestowed, for what equivalent we have not learned, upon Lord Claud Hamilton, who was created Baron of Paisley, a title which, with a considerable portion of the monastic territory, is sill preserved by the Abercorn family.

There are few finer specimens of Gothic architecture in Scotland than the ancient Abbey Church of Paisley. Although shorn of its original fair proportion; and denuded of many of its most delicate ornamental features, it still retains a sufficiency of both to impress the spectator with a vivid idea of its pristine beauty and magnificence. The western front presents an elevation of a singularly dignified and regular character. It is composed of a great central and two side compartments, separated and flanked by buttresses, the carvings of both door and windows being in an excellent state of preservation. The lnterior of the edifice, with its "long-drawn aisles and fretted tapits," its massive pillars and its richly decorated windows, which delights the eye, has a peculiarly solemnizing influence on the mind. While standing in the nave we cannot help repeating to ourselves Milton’s beautiful lines in "II Penseroso,"—

"Oh let my due feet never fall
To walk the studious cloysters pale,
And love the high embowed roof,
With antique pillars massy proof,
And storied windows richly dight,
Casting a dim religious light:
There let the pealing organ blow
To the full-voiced quire below,
In service high and anthems clear,
As may with sweetness, through mine ear
Dissolve me into ecstasies,
And bring all heaven before my eyes."

Of course we are not likely soon to hear the "kist of whistles" at work in the Abbey Church of Paisley, but we have frequently heard an excellent vocal band chanting the notes of praise within its walls, and the thrilling effect we shall not easily forget. On the present occasion all is silent, however, and we feel that there is an eloquence in the very stillness of the place which is more suggestive of sentimental emotion, and which touches a deeper chord in our bosom than the sweetest strains of the singer, or the most stirring appeals of the preacher. Was the reader ever alone in an old church? It is good for man to be occasionally alone; and in such a place as Paisley Abbey, with its gloomy aisles and solemn echoes, the pensive rambler will find as moving "sermons in stone" as ever Shakspeare’s banished Duke found in the green solitudes of Arden.

To the south of the nave is Saint Mirren’s Aisle, a small chapel twenty-four feet square, which, in the palmy days of the Abbey, was specially dedicated to its patron saint. This is commonly called the "Sounding Aisle," from a remarkable echo which it possesses, and which is caused by certain peculiarities in its construction. The noise produced when the person who attends us slams the door forcibly in closing it, is really startling. We must admit, however, that the effect falls far short of that described by Pennant, when he visited the spot in the early part of last century. Either the echo has got lazy in our day, or the good old man, as is not at all improbable, may have exercised more than the usual traveller’s license in his narrative of its reverberative feats. Nearly in the centre of the aisle is an altar-tomb, on which is the recumbent figure of a woman, with the hands folded as in prayer. The design and workmanship of this structure are of an elaborate and delicate description; and, according to tradition, it is said to have been erected to the memory of Marjory Bruce, daughter of the hero of Bannockburn, who rejoiced, while in life, in the somewhat unpoetical name of "Queen Blearie." Antiquarian research, however, can discover nothing to confirm the popular story, so that the monument, like many others, may be said to have survived the memory which a fond affection commissioned it to perpetuate. The "footprints" which we would fain leave behind us "on the sands of time" are ever, alas! being washed away by oblivion’s advancing tide. A lesson of humility may well be gleaned for the children of pride from the costly memento in St. Mirren’s Aisle, which has now "no tale to tell." Go to my lady’s chamber, and tell her, though beauty, wealth, and a name among the great ones of earth, are hers, that "to this favour she must come at last."

A short distance to the south-east of the Abbey is the suburb of Seedhill, where, on the 6th of July, 1776, Alexander Wilson, the poet and ornithologist, was born. To this locality we now wend our way. The house, as we are informed, was demolished a few years since, and another has since been erected in its stead, which is at once pointed out to us, on inquiry, by a gash old weaver. The edifice is a plain two-storeyed one, and has a small tablet of marble prominently inserted on its front, with the following inscription :—

"This Tablet was erected, in 1841, by David Anderson, Perth, to mark the birthplace of Alexander Wilson, Paisley poet and American ornithologist."

In the immediate vicinity of the house the Cart is precipitated over a rugged range of rocks, the projecting portions of which are well known to the juvenility of Paisley as "the Hammills." This was a favourite haunt of the poet in his early years, as indeed it still is with the boys of the neighbourhood, who, in the bathing season, according to our weaver friend, may be seen "ploutering about in the foamy water, or clustering around the craigs like as many eemocks." Our friend, who, to our surprise, remembers Wilson, says, "he was a tall, thin, swanky fallow; and that he never took kindly to the loom.’ Of the latter fact we were well aware from the poet’s own writings. In "Groans from the Loom," a composition which he indited when about to desert the shuttle for the pack, he bitterly sings,—

"Good gods! shall a mortal with legs
So low uncomplaining be brought,
Go, hung, like a scarecrow, in rags,
And live o’er a seat-tree on nought?"

It is well for the world that Wilson was not content to

"Creep through life a plain day-plodding weaver."

Had he taken kindly to the loom the feathered tribes of the vast American forests had yet in all probability remained comparative strangers to us. The galling spur of poverty was required to send him forth on his noble mission. The lap of ease is not often the cradle of genius. Had the loom been more remunerative, or had the pack never been lost, the name of Wilson had not now been a familiar word on both sides of the Atlantic.

The poetry of Wilson is characterized by merit of no ordinary description, and evinces considerable fertility of fancy, keenness of satire, with a tendency to coarseness, and a masculine vigour of intellect. With the exception of the inimitable "Watty and Meg," and the "Loss of the Pack" however, his poetical productions have never attained anything like an extensive popularity.

After lingering in conversation with our new acquaintance for a considerable time, we retrace our steps to the Cross, and proceed along the High Street, in a westerly direction, to visit the birthplace of Tannahill. By the way we pass the house in which the author of the Lights and Shadows of Scottish Life, the sweet singer of the Isle of Palms, and the "old man eloquent" of Blackwood’s inimitable Magazine, first saw the light. His father, as is generally known, was a respectable Paisley merchant; and the house in which his gifted son was born is situated on the south side of the thoroughfare along which we are passing. It is situated a short distance from a more pretending edifice which stands a little off the line of High Street, between the points where the latter is joined by the New Street and by Stone Street. The more noticeable structure to which we allude, and which is railed in and screened by shrubbery, was afterwards occupied by Wilson’s father, and it was in it that the young poet’s earliest years were spent. An old and esteemed friend of ours still remembers seeing the yellow-haired boy spinning his "peerie" on the pavement in front of the house, among the neebor callants. Like other boys, too, he was a rambler in the country around, a seeker of bird’s nests, and a gatherer of blaeberries and blackboyds. This we learned from his own lips several years ago, during an interview which we had with him, when we were somewhat surprised to perceive how vividly he remembered the various scenes in the neighbourhood of his native town, more especially as he had been removed from the locality at a comparatively early age, and except during occasional visits, "few and far between," was absent from it almost ever after.

About a quarter of a mile to the westward of John Wilson’s birthplace is Castle Street, in which Robert Tannahill made his entrée into existence. The edifice is a lowly one-storeyed biggin’, and having undergone considerable alteration, is now occupied by a cowfeeder. The poet’s father was a decent and intelligent handloom weaver; and at the period of Robert’s birth one end of the building formed the residence of the family, while the other was occupied as a loom-shop. While the poet was still an infant, his father, who seems to have been an industrious and thrifty individual, erected a cottage, with part of his savings, in an adjoining street. To this, when he was little more than twelve months old, the future bard, with the rest of the family, was removed; and here, with the exception of a brief stay in England, he continued to reside until the period of his death. The life of Tannahill presents but few salient features. Having learned reading, writing, and the elements of arithmetic—the poor man’s scanty curriculum in those days—he was apprenticed to the handloom weaving at an early age. In his calling, which was at that period a more remunerative one than it is in our day,. he was assiduous and attentive, and consequently he soon became an expert workman. His spare hours were principally devoted to reading and study, or to the converse of a few congenial friends; while on Saturday afternoons he was in the habit, either alone or with a chosen companion, of strolling amid the romantic scenery in the neighbourhood of his native town. His favourite haunts on these occasions, during which he enriched his memory with those images of natural beauty with which his verse is so richly adorned, were the braes of Gleniffer, Stanley green shaw, with its castle "old and gray," and the woods of Craigielee, or Ferguslie, all of which he has celebrated in never-dying song. It is this entwining of local scenery, indeed, into the structure of his compositions, that has rendered Tannahill par excellence the poet of Paisley. Of numerous poets the town can boast, but no other has stamped his name so generally and so ineffaceable as he has done on the prominent features of the surrounding country. The nook is still pointed out where the poet’s loom was situated, and where for so many years he wrought. This also was the place where the greater portion of his poetry was composed, as it is well known that the visitations of his muse most frequently occurred while his hands were busily plying the shuttle. Genius was never with bias made an excuse for idleness. His was an honest and industrious poverty, for which he needed not to hang his head. His earnings were at all times amply sufficient for his simple wants, and he could truly and proudly say—

"Tho’ humble my lot, not ignoble‘s my state,
Let me still be contented though poor,
What Destiny brings be resigned to my fate,
Though Misfortune should knock at my door."

Unfortunately, the contentment which he has here expressed was not at all times experienced. Like most other children of genius, he was throughout life liable to fits of gloomy despondency. His poetry and his letters afford abundant proof of his constitutional proneness to mental depression. Considered as a "shadow of the coming event," how affecting is the following passage, which occurs in an epistle to his friend Scadlock, so early as 1804:-