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W 'ON THE ORNITHOLOGIST:

ANEW CHAPTER.

IN HIS

LIFE.

( Embodying many Letters hitherto unpublished. )

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LONDON:
LONGMAN, GREEN & COMPANY.

1863.

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ALEXANDER WILSON.

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Through the love and study of Bird3, two names have become
strangely associated in Natural History. They are to be
found in the title of a work which stands at the head of its
class: "American Ornithology, by Alexander Wilson and
Charles Lucien Bonaparte;" the one originally a Paisley
weaver and packman, in whose Journal kept in 1789 are
these words, " I have this day, I believe, measured the height
of a hundred stairs and explored the recesses of twice that
number of miserable habitations, and what have I gained by it?
only two shillings of worldly pelf;" and the other a Prince,
a nephew of the great Napoleon. Here they are in close and
constant fellowship, and the Prince often speaking of the
> Pedlar in terms like these : " All his pencil or pen has touched
F is established incontestibly ; by the plate, description and his-
tory he has always determined his bird so obviously as to defy
criticism and prevent future mistake."

Although about half a century has passed since Alexander

£ Wilson was, with public honours, laid in his grave beyond the

Atlantic, the Sculptor (Mossman of Glasgow) is, while these

«r> remarks are being written, modelling a Statue of him to be

erected in his native town, and the design for which represents

? the Naturalist, his gun slung on his back and his sketch book

and pet parrot at his feet, gazing on a bird which he has just

shot and lifted. It seems, therefore, an appropriate time to

add, as we are enabled to do, a new Chapter to his brief Life.

4

With the biographical memoirs connected with the various
editions of the Ornithology and his Poems — for the subject
of our remarks was also a poet of no mean genius — about
sixteen letters of Wilson have been published. About an
equal number, with one exception, never published, so far as
we are aware, and certainly not incorporated in any of the
Lives of him, now lie before us. They were written by him
while labouring obscurely as a village schoolmaster in the
Backwoods, and were addressed to a fellow countryman,
Charles Orr, also an exile in the New World, and engaged
in teaching in Philadelphia. One of his biographers, and
we think the best of them, has said, " It is unfortunate that
as the life of Wilson becomes interesting, the materials for
writing it become more scant and meagre. We arrive at a
period, 1794, when we are compelled to draw our authorities
from a few letters of his own, written at considerable intervals,
and mostly addressed to such individuals as were more in-
terested in knowing the state of his domestic circumstances,
than the history of his public life and adventures :" and again,
" From 1798 there is an interval of no less than seven years,
in which we lose sight of him entirely, and only learn from
his next epistle, dated 1st June, 1803, that his occupation was
that of a teacher." The letters we refer to were written in
1799, 1800, 1801, and 1802, and, therefore, are valuable new
materials, and must go far to fill up this gap in his history.

A brief statement of Wilson's Life, as already known, will
enable the reader who may be ignorant or forgetful of it, to
appreciate the new Chapter now to be added.

Alexander Wilson was born in Paisley, on the 6th of July,
1766. His father, an unusually intelligent and highly re
spected man, was a handloom weaver : he survived his illus-
trious son three years, dying in 1816, and had the pleasure
of receiving on its publication a copy of the first volume of the
American Ornithology — to which every monarch in Europe
was a subscriber — bearing the words, " To my aged father,
from his affectionate son, the author." It was intended that
Alexander Wilson — one of a family of six — should be edu-

cated for the Church, and he accordingly was sent to the
grammar school, where he first obtained that literary taste
and love of study by which he was characterised. When he
was about ten years old his mother died, and his father, finding
it necessary for the sake of his young family, married again.
His circumstances were thereafter changed, and his former
purpose connected with his son was abandoned. The boy
was, therefore, at the age of thirteen, bound apprentice for
three years to his brother-in-law, a weaver, and, after fulfilling
his indenture, wrought as a journeyman weaver for four years.
It was principally during this time that he wrote his Poems,
some of which were attributed to Burns, with whom Wilson
afterwards became acquainted. To one so fond of liberty and
nature the occupation of handloom weaving must have been,
through its confinement and monotony, peculiarly painful and
fretting. We can imagine how often he, who afterwards roved
freely ten thousand miles in what he calls " the western woody
world/' in an enthusiastic study of the beautiful, would, while
"handling the pin," lift his eyes from the weary warp to steal
a glance at the blue sky. In his twentieth year, however, his
restless and independent spirit rebelled, and, throwing aside
the shuttle, he rose, stored and strapped a green pack on his
shoulders, took a hazel staff" in his hand, and started as a
Pedlar. For three years he now travelled Scotland like a
second Autolycus, with muslins " of all the colours of the
rainbow," and " songs for men and women of all sizes," for,
proposing to publish a volume of Poems, he carried samples
of them, saying in a metrical handbill of his stock, which he
circulated :

" Now, ye Fair, if ye chuse my piece to peruse,

With pleasure I'll instantly show it ;
If the Pedlar should fail to be favour' d with sale,

Then I hope you'll encourage the Poet."

He was by no means successful in his new vocation, either as
regards his goods or his verses, and his volume, published in
1790, made small progress. Disappointed greatly, he re-
luctantly returned to his former trade. Continuing to write
in the interval, Wilson, in 1793, committed a sad mistake bv

6

indulging in a personal satire against a respectable manufac-
turer in Paisley. For this he was prosecuted, and not only
was imprisoned three days, but was obliged to burn the ob-
noxious production on the stair in front of the jail, within
a trifling distance of the site of the proposed statue. It has
been asserted that it was while he was confined in the tolbooth
that he wrote his best poem, " Watty and Meg," of which it is
said a hundred thousand copies were sold in a few weeks. This
was publicly ascribed to Burns, and Mrs Burns, the poet's
widow, told, in the presence of Mr Robert Chambers, (whose
Life and Works of our national bard seems to have been a true
labour of love,) that, as her husband sat one day at his desk by
the window, a hawker of repute called Bishop passed, looking
we suppose " before and after," according to the manner of his
kind, and bawling "Watty and Meg, a new Ballad by Robert
Burns !" whereon Robin looked out, and said, " That's a lee,
Andrew, but I would make your plack a bawbee if it were
mine." In connexion with the libellous stanzas for which
Wilson paid so dearly, it is now understood that, taken in his
sourness, he acted in this matter as the tool of others. Before
leaving Paisley for America, he called on the party against
whom his lines had been directed, and begged to be forgiven ;
and when a brother, who, with the prospect of joining him
abroad, had carefully gathered all his pieces of a satirical cast,
produced them at their meeting, believing that they would form
an acceptable gift, Wilson, the instant he received them, pushed
them into the fire, with the words, " These were the sins of my
youth, and had I taken my good old father's advice, they would
never have seen the light."

This unpleasant episode further darkening his home pros-
pects, he now resolved to emigrate, and, with this fixed
object, sat down to his loom again. His determination and
self denial are manifested in the fact, that he limited the
expense of his living to one shilling a week, till he had
accumulated the passage money. Then, bidding his rela-
tives and friends farewell, he walked to Port Patrick —
nearly a hundred miles — crossed to Belfast, took ship (the
"Swift," with 350 passengers), and sailed on the 23d of May,

1794. About the 14th of July, "the sun rising, they found
themselves within the Capes of the Delawares, the shores on
land having the appearance of being quite flat, and only a
complete forest of trees." These are his words, and Provi-
dence had arranged, that in that " complete forest of trees" he
should be a solitary and wandering student for years. Many
a night was he to lie down, alone, in that leafy wilderness,
** with his gun in his hand and his pistols in his bosom," and
many a long day was he to spend there, Indian-like, tracking
its strange and precious forms of beauty, and patiently gather-
ing the materials for that noble work, on which his fame now
rests so securely. Landing at Newcastle, with not a line of
introduction to a creature, and with only a few shillings lent
him by a fellow passenger, Wilson, excited with the appearance
of the new land, and filled with fresh hope, set off, gun on
shoulder — how much was that gun to do, and what treasures
of delight and knowledge was it to be the means of gaining ! —
for Philadelphia, thirty-three miles away. Upon the road,
everything delighted him, particularly the plumage of the
birds, and he inaugurated his destined career by shooting a
red-headed woodpecker, " than which," to use after words, "no
bird in North America is more universally known. His tri-
coloured plumage, red, white, and black, glossed with steel blue,
is so striking and characteristic ; and his predatory habits in
the orchards and cornfields, added to his numbers, and fond-
ness for hovering along the fences, so very notorious, that
almost every child is acquainted with the red-headed wood-
pecker." Reaching the city of Franklin, he sought anxiously,
but unsuccessfully, for employment at the old " stand by" of
weaving, and wrought for a short time with a countryman
who was a copper-plate printer. When, ten years after, we
find him, in writing to Mr Bartram, the botanist and naturalist,
and one of his best friends, say, " I have been amusing myself
this some time in attempting to etch ; I will send you the first
impression I receive after I finish the plate," we think we see
the meaning of this odd passage in his story. He soon gave
up the strange work, and, engaged by a person living about ten
miles from the city, again sat down to the hated, but we may

8

now almost say, faithful loom, so constant a drndgewas it unto
him, serving him at his sore need. Restlessness, however, pre-
vailed once more, and again, wallet on back and staff in hand
— this time not the hazel — he traversed a great portion of the
State of New Jersey. This tour was more successful than the
Scottish ones which we have noticed, and the results may have
assisted him in finally abandoning the web, and adopting an
occupation more in keeping with his tastes and ambition,
namely, that of a schoolmaster. It is from him, as a teacher
in Milestown, in August, 1798, that we have the last letter
previous to those contained in these pages. It was a long one
to his father, ending with this sentence, " I must now bid you
farewell, as my paper is almost done. May Providence con-
tinue to bless you with health, peace, and content, and, when
the tragic -comic scene of life is over, may all meet in regions
of bliss and immortality. I am till death, dear father, your
affectionate son, Alex. Wilson ;" and, among the news in it
which he thought would be interesting from the New World, is
this, " Mr Orr, of King's Street, writing master, is well ;" this
being the friend to whom the unpublished letters were addressed.
Here, therefore, seems the proper place to introduce them.

The first of our materials is but a fragment, without date,
and now wanting the signature. It was evidently written
some time after the 28th of April, 1799, and, there having
been on Wilson's part, and as regards him, a dead silence since
August in the previous year, this — abrupt and unfinished —
suggests the sudden and imperfectly caught sound of a voice
from the forest, and the voice of " a man living manlike."

" Dear Sir, — Will you please to call at Mr Biggs, mathe-
matical instrument maker, No. 81 Front Street, and employ
him to make me a stile of brass l-6th of an inch thick, exactly
corresponding with the enclosed pattern. I suppose he may

be able to finish it before Mr leaves town, and who will

pay you. I finished the other dial completely to my mind,
and employed a clumsy blacksmith to make me a stile, who
ruined the whole marble in driving it in, and I broke it to

9

pieces. If Biggs cannot finish it in time, I shall wait until
you find an opportunity of sending it, or shall bring it out
yourself. I had a letter from my nephew, dated Ap. 28, at
which time he was in excellent health, sweeping away and
burning down the woods. I am" . .

The earliest complete letter is distinctly the cry of a social
and intellectual man feeling the want and necessity of com-
panionship ; and it is a fair specimen of that essayish style of
letter- writing which characterised the epistles of Burns and
Wilson, following the manner of Johnson and others of his
time.

" Mr Charles Orr,

At Mr Dobson's Book Store,

Second Street between Market and Chesnut Street.

Milestown, May 25, '99.

Sir, — Considering the short distance between this and
Philadelphia, the many pressing invitations you have received
to come and see me, and the friendship and respect I most
sincerely declare I have for you, it is matter of regret to me
that you seem insensible to them all, nor ever do me the
pleasure of one visit. Have I injured you? Am I unworthy
your acquaintance ? Are you afraid of contaminating your-
self with the rusticity of my manners and address ? I have
liv'd, to be sure, five years in the woods, pursuing a business
the most apt of any to render peevish and pedantic the best
disposition in the world, and it were vain indeed in me to hope
that I had escaped without a touch of both the one and the
other; but what of that? Have not we all our failings and
vanities ? and ought we not rather to smile at and forgive,
than to be too sensible and feeling on these occasions ? Come
out, Mr Orr, and see me ; you shall find an open and frank
hospitality such as my brother or best friend would receive.
The sight of the green meadows, the singing of birds, the
fragrance of flowers and blossoms, and the conversation of
myself and the rest of our clod-hoppers, will be an excellent
contrast to the burning streets, the growling oyster men, the

10

stinking sewers and polite company of Philadelphia. You
will receive from the hearer the money you paid for me to the
mathematical instrument maker, with my thanks for your
trouble; and if you are determined never to visit me, your good
disposition, I hope, will not refuse to let me know by letter
what I have done to deserve such neglect and contempt, that
I may correct myself for the future, if I have done amiss.

I believe this is the first letter I ever wrote to you. You
used to visit me, — perhaps I seemed sorry to see you and
happy when you went away. If so, may every soul that I
visit spit in my face and kick me from their company. If
otherwise (which your own heart must testify) may every
friend I love receive me with as sincere pleasure as Wilson has
received and would receive Orr. — I am with respect, Sir, your
obedient servant, Alex. Wilson."

More than a year again elapses before we learn aught fur-
ther of Wilson, but then come three letters written close upon
each other, and from their being addressed to Mr Orr at Miles-
town, we are led to believe that the latter had, about the 10th
of July, 1800, left the city on a fortnight's visit, and that,
even while they were together, Wilson had proposed and car-
ried on this correspondence for the purpose of improvement.
In the volume of Wilson's Poetical Works there is included an
"Epistle to C. Orr," of the date we have just mentioned, in-
viting him to visit him, and this invitation he accepted. The
original of this poem lies now before us ; it is nearly twice
as long as the version published, and is, in our opinion, much
more beautiful.

" Mr Charles Orr, Philomath,

Milestown.
Dear Sir, — You and I have often conversed together on the
use and pleasure of epistolary correspondence, which is, in
fact, nothing more than artificial conversation, with this ad-
vantage, that we are in no danger of being interrupted by the
person we are in conversation with, and are always certain to
be listened to, whereas in verbal conversation it often happens

11

that, through impatience to give vent to the ideas that strike
us while our friend is speaking, or from something advanced
by him that we think absurd, we can hardly hear him out, and
so the dispute becomes a mere battle of words, and instead of
producing pleasure or conviction to either party, begets ill-
will and bigoted obstinacy of opinion. Now, Mr Orr, as you
and I are both lovers of truth — as we are subject to the fail-
ings of human nature as well as others, and as we are both
capable of giving and receiving information and advice to each
other — why may we not avail ourselves of the advantages that
this method of communicating holds out 1 I, for my part,
have many things to enquire of you, of which at different times
I form very different opinions, and at other times can form
no distinct decided opinion at all. Sometimes they appear
dark and impenetrable ; sometimes I think I see a little better
into them ; now I see them as plain as broad day, and again
they are as dark to me as midnight. In short, the moon puts
not on more variety of appearance to the eye than many sub-
jects do to my apprehension, and yet in themselves they still
remain the same.

I have also many things of a more interesting and secret
nature which I will in confidence entrust to your examination,
that may at least afford you matter of diversion to laugh at,
and an opportunity of laughing me out of them likewise.

I have nothing more at heart at present than the propriety
of pursuing a plan of economy, and of observing the strictest
frugality for the future in all my proceedings. Tell me if you
think my resolutions laudable, and what advantages I may ex-
pect to reap from a rigid adherence to them. You see I have
only scrawled this hasty preparatory billet. Do you the same.
It is the matter, not the manner, I care for. — I am with sin-
cerity, yours affectionately, Alex. Wilson.

Monday, noon, July 21, 1800."

" Mr Charles Orr,

Milestown.
Dear Sir, — We don't always feel in a mood for conversa-
tion. Just so it is in writing. Sometimes the sprightly ideas

14

day. Rose half an hour before day. Sauntered abroad, sur-
veying the appearance of the fields, and contemplating the
progressive advances of morning, the appearance of the moon,
&c, without suggesting or having suggested one sentiment of
grateful adoration to the great Architect of the Universe,
without learning one truth that I was before ignorant of.
Wrought one solitary problem before breakfast, composed
eight lines of rhyme at noon, and am now writing these ob-
servations near evening. Thus fourteen hours have passed
almost unimproved away, and thus have thousands of precious
hours so perished ! Not one prayer said, not one thought of
matrimony entered my mind. An old bachelor, verging to the
gloomy regions of celibacy and old age, and clusters of dimple-
cheeked, soft-eyed females in every log hut around, and sighing
for a husband. 0 shame ! By the Immortal Gods, time and
youth and opportunities were not given to be so thrown away.
We must improve time. We must make advances in some
one or all of these important duties, which, Mr Sterne says, de-
void of, a human being is undeserving the name Man. That is,
to write a book, plant a tree, beget a child (I ought to have
said marry a wife first), build a house, and learn something
every day that he did not before know. Without this done,
Sterne won't allow us to lay claim even to the name of
Man. But while I am thus reprobating the waste of time,
I am guilty of a double crime this moment, in losing my own
time to write, what perhaps you will consider also lost time
in reading.

Excuse blunders. — I am, my dear friend, yours sincerely,

Alex. Wilson.

Milestown Monastery, August 6, 1800."

The high spirits and prevailing sentiment of this letter are
scarcely monastic, and were destined to receive an unexpected
and serious check ; for the next one, written about five weeks
after, and in a feeble hand that confirms its intelligence, in-
forms us of Wilson's having had such an illness as induced him
to resign his situation. By the address, we learn that his
friend had returned to the city.

15

" Mr Charles Orr,

Care of Mr Dobson, Bookseller, second Street between
Market and Chesnut Street, Philadelphia.

Milestown, Sept. 15, 1800.
Dear Sir, — The day on which the Trustees were to meet
arrived, but I said not a word to either of them, partly through
shame and partly through pride. About five in the evening
they assembled, accompanied by a candidate for the school ;
a very genteel young man. They spoke of me looking much
better than I did a few days before. I talked with the can-
didate about the average income of the school, which he had
been told was at least fifty scholars a quarter. I told him
what it had nearly averaged me, which never amounted . to
forty, one quarter with another. His own school contained
at present forty-five, with a good dwelling-house. The Trus-
tees said that I looked so well that, perhaps with a few days'
more relaxation, I might be able to begin again myself. I
told them that I had twice given up the school from the same
reason, want of health, and if they could suit themselves with
a person with a constitution better fitted to encounter the hard
duties of a school, I was satisfied, but I was sorry still to part
with them. I was attached to the children and to the people,
and, if they would allow me one week more to ramble about,
I would once more engage, though I should die in their service.
My request was immediately acceded to, and I am once more
the dominie of Milestown school. — I am most sincerely yours,

Alex. Wilson."

This is a valuable and interesting letter, and shews the
estimation in which he must have been held, both by the Trus-
tees and the inhabitants of the place.

About ten days afterwards, on his landlord's visiting Phila-
delphia, he again writes Mr Orr to the same address : —

11 Dear Sir, — I take the opportunity of Mr 's going to

town to write you a few lines by way of refreshing your me-
mory, as I am afraid that you have forgot the mutual agree-
ment we made, to correspond as often as convenient. I have

16

begun the old way again, have about 30 scholars, which num-
ber may increase to 40 before the quarter is concluded. I
study none, and take my morning and evening ramble regu-
larly. Our debating society commences again on Saturday
first. The proposed question — " Is the cultivation of the
vine an object worthy the attention of the American farmer'?"
— will produce I think an agreeable debate. I am anxious
to hear from you. Do you spend any of your leisure hours
with the puzzling chaps, algebra, trigonometry, &c, or are
you wholly absorbed in the study of mechanics'? You must
write me particularly. I think I shall take a ride 15 or 20
miles on Saturday. I find riding agrees better with me|than
any other exercise. I always feel cheerful after it, and can
eat confoundedly. Have you made any new discoveries in the
Heaven above, or the earth beneath, with your telescope or
microscope ? I expect to hear from Billy in less than a week,
as two persons have gone up more than three weeks ago. Do
not forget to write. — Your sincere and affectionate friend,

Alex. Wilson.
Milestown, Sept. 24, 1800."

For about eight months from this time, we again lose sight
of the future Ornithologist, although it is evident from the
commencement of the next letter of our series, that the cor-
respondence of the friends had been continued. This letter
has a special interest. In all the biographical memoirs of
Wilson now before the world, one circumstance is recorded as
being a strange one in the life of a man of such a temperament.
"He had never" says one of these, "yielded to the soft
bat potent sovereignty of love. In this respect he is almost
alone among the warm-hearted soils of song. Rarely does he
write of love, and when he does, it is like a man who might
have thought about it, as about any other interesting mental
phenomenon, but had never experienced its subduing power."
Another writes, "Like many sons of toil, he was not bound by
very strong ties of sentiment to his native country ; and what
is a little remarkable in a poet's life, he never formed any
attachment of the heart;" while a third tells us, " His morals

17

were correct, his piety sincere, and his affection for his natural
or adopted friends no change of time or place could influence
or alter. With the high born feelings of a poet, he had few
of the defects that cling to the poetic character. Female
attachments he had none, or he luisely alloived them to hold
him so lightly, as neither to interrupt his x>ur suits or disturb
his peace." To those who have read the letters we have just
recorded, with apostrophising of " sweet charmers," " endear-
ing females," and "dimple-cheeked, soft-eyed maidens," this
must sound somewhat strange. But, even supposing the
statement to hold good as regards his previous life, it has fallen
to us to shew that this element of romance was not to be want-
ing in the otherwise romantic life of Wilson, although there
may have been unfortunate circumstances connected with it,
as we are only allowed to gather. Of actual misconduct there
is no evidence whatever ; and in the too frequent instances of
similar attachments in the lives of eminent men, very few
indeed have acted with the same promptness and spirit of
honour as Wilson, who, as we shall see, at once sacrificed his
situation, and effectually and for ever, separated himself from
the object of his regard. That such a mutual feeling should
have insensibly grown, we can hardly wonder, when we con-
sider his peculiar temperament and isolated life, and, what
we believe was the fact, that the person referred to by him in
the following letters, was a woman characterised by many
excellent qualities.

" Mr Charles Orr,

Writing Master, Dock Street, Philadelphia.
My Dear Sir, — I have received all the Orations. lam in-
deed much obliged to your friendship, and request that you
would come out this evening and stay with me till Sunday
evening. I have matters to lay before you that have almost
distracted me. Do come. I shall be so much obliged. Your
friendship and counsel may be of the utmost service to me. I
shall not remain here long. It is impossible I can. I have now
no friend but yourself, and one whose friendship has involved

B

18

both in ruin or threatens to do so. You will find me in the
schoolhouse. — I am, most affectionately yours,

Alex. Wilson.
May 1st, 1801."

In one of the biographies of him it is recorded, that "Wilson
next changed his residence at Milestown for the village of
Bloomfield, New Jersey ;" and by another we are informed
that, "about the beginning of 1802, Wilson removed to the
village of Bloomfield, in the State of New Jersey, where he
again taught a school." This is a mistake, for, as the reader
will presently see, he was settled there in the summer of 1801.

The reason of this change it has been our part to make thus
public. In his own words, "it was impossible he could remain
long" at Milestown, and accordingly, in little more than a
month, the scene has changed.

" Mr Charles Orr,

Care of Mr Dobson, Bookseller, Philadelphia.

Bloomfield, near Newark, N. Jersey,
July 12th, 1801.
My dear Friend, — If this letter reach you it will inform you
that I keep school at 12s per quarter, York currency, with
35 scholars, and pay 12s per week for board, and 4s addi-
tional for washing, and 4s per week for my horse. After I
parted with , the Quakers not coming to any agree-
ment about engaging me, I left Wrightstown and steered for
New York through a country entirely unknown to me. visited
many wretched hovels of schools by the way ; in four days

reached York, and from every person who knew the ,

I received the most disagreeable accounts of them, viz., that

had by too great a fondness for gaming and sometimes

taking his scholars with him, entirely ruined his reputation
and lost his business, and from his own mouth I learned that
he expected jail every day for debts to a considerable amount.

And is lost for every good purpose in this world and

abandoned to the most shameful and excessive drinking

19

swearing and wretched company. He called on me last
Thursday morning in company with a hocus pocus man for
whom he plays the clarionet. New York swarms with newly
imported Irishmen of all descriptions, clerks, schoolmasters,

&c. The city is very sickly, and all the rest to whom

I spoke of you believed that your labour here would be even
more unsuccessful than in Philadelphia, and related so many
stories to that purpose that I was quite discouraged. Mr

attempted it there, but was obliged to remove, and is

now in Boston wandering through the streets insane. I staid
only one night in York, and being completely run out except
about 3 11 -penny bits, I took the first school from absolute
necessity that I could find. I live six miles north from Newark
and twelve miles from New York, in a settlement of canting,
preaching, praying and sniveling ignorant Presbyterians.
They pay their minister 250 pounds a year for preaching
twice a week, and their teacher 40 dollars a quarter for the
most spirit-sinking laborious work, 6, I may say 12 times
weekly. I have no company, and live unknowing and unknown.
I have lost all relish for this country, and, if Heaven spares
me, I shall soon see the shores of old Caledonia. How happy
I should be to have you beside me. I am exceedingly uneasy
to hear from you. Dear Orr, make no rash engagements that
may bind you for ever to this unworthy soil. I shall arrange
all my affairs with Billy as expeditiously as I can. In the
meantime I request you, my dear friend, to oblige me in one

thing if you wish me well. Go out on Saturday to — 's

and try to get intelligence how Mr 's family comes on,

without letting any one know that you have heard from me.
Get all the particulars you can, what is said of me, and how

Mrs is, and every other information, and write me fully.

I assure you I am very wretched, and this would give me the

greatest satisfaction. will tell you everything, but

mention nothing of me to any body on any account. Conceal
nothing that you hear, but inform me of everything. My dear
friend, I beg you would oblige me in this. I am very miser-
able on this unfortunate account. I shall write you more
fully on a variety of things I have to inform you of next week

20

or as soon as I hear from you. Direct as above dated. I
shall try to get information from a friend in Albany how
matters would do there. — I am, most sincerely, your affec-
tionate friend while

Alex. Wilson.

P.S. got the letter I wrote, but was so swallowed

up in extravagance I suppose that he never replied to it.

Let us contrive a plan to leave this country and try old
Scotia once more in company.

The bones of a mammoth or some gigantic animal are
digging up here, of which I shall send the particulars in my
next. I shall superintend the whole process."

He hears from his friend, and, ten days after, writes the
following letter, which is unusually interesting on many
accounts : —

" Mr Charles Orr,

Care of Mr Dobson, Bookseller, Philadelphia.

Bloomfield, July 23, 1801.
My dear Friend, — I received yours last evening. 0 how
blessed it is to have one friend on whose affection, in the day
of adversity, we can confide ! As to the reports circulated
in the neighbourhood of Milestown, were I alone the subject of
them they would never disturb me, but she who loved me dearer
than her own soul, whose image is for ever with me, whose
heart is broken for her friendship to me, — she must bear
all with not one friend to whom she dare unbosom her sorrows.
Of all the events of my life nothing ever gave me such inex-
pressible misery as this. 0 my dear friend, if you can hear
anything of her real situation, and whatever it be disguise no-
thing to me. Take a walk up to 's, perhaps she has called

lately there, and go out to 's on Saturday if possible. Let

nobody whatever know that you have heard anything of me.

In my last I told you was on the threshold of the jail.

He has now passed the threshold and is fairly cag'd.

is traversing the country with a hocus-pocus man in a poor
scurvy plight playing the clarionet. The gentleman who dis-

21

covered the bones of which I spoke is a Mr Kenzie, who was
sinking a well for his paper mill in a swamp supposed
formerly to have been the bed of a small creek that runs near.
Six feet from the surface, under a stratum of sand 4 inches
deep, they found several bones apparently belonging to the
tail, 6 inches in breadth, with part of a leg-bone measuring
upwards of 7 inches diameter at the joint, part of a rib 4
feet long, and many fragments in a decayed state. For want
of hands no farther search has yet been made, but it is in-
tended to obtain the head and teeth if possible. The greatest
curiosity in this State is the Falls at Paterson where the river,
which is about 40 yards broad, flows along a bed of solid
rock. A sudden earthquake or some great convulsion has
split this rock asunder across the whole breadth of the river,
6 or 8 feet apart and upwards of 70 deep, down which the
whole river roars with a noise like thunder. This place is
but 8 miles distant, and I went alone on Saturday to see it.
The cotton works are completely deserted. I looked in at
the weaving shops and saw nothing but hens roosting on the
breast beams, and everything desolate. While I was in York
a teacher there offered me his school-room, benches, &c, with
all the scholars, amounting to 40 or 45, for 60 dollars cash,
as he wished to decline the business. It is needless to add
that I declined the honour of the bargain. The school-house
in which I teach is situated at the extremity of a spacious
level plain of sand thinly covered with grass. In the centre
of this plain stands a newly erected stone meeting-house, 80
feet by 60, which forms a striking contrast with my sanctum
sanctorum which has been framed of logs some 100 years ago,
and looks like an old sentry box. The scholars have been
accustomed to great liberties by their former teacher. They
used to put stones in his pocket, &c, &c. I was told that
the people did not like to have their children punished, but I
began with such a system of terror as soon established my
authority most effectually. I succeed in teaching them to
read, and I care for none of their objections. The following
anecdote will give you an idea of the people's character. A
man was taken sick a few weeks ago and got deranged. It

22

was universally said that he was bewitched by an old woman
who lived adjoining. This was the opinion of the Dutch
doctor who attended him, and at whose request a warrant was
procured from the Justice for bringing the witch before the
sick man, who, after tearing the old woman's flesh with his
nails till the blood came, sent her home and afterwards re-
covered. This is a fact. The Justice who granted the
warrant went through among the people with me. I intend
to visit the poor woman myself and publish it to the world in
the Newark newspapers for the amusement of the enlightened
people of New Jersey. My dear Orr, I trust to your friend-
ship for the intelligence I mentioned; write me fully as I will

you on receipt. I left my great-coat with a Mr in

Wrightstown where and I lodged. will tell you

his name. I wish you would write for it without letting

know anything of the matter. I left it in the stable. I owed
him nothing. I shall be much obliged if you drop a line to
him that it may be sent to Philadelphia, and this will be your
warrant. Farewell. I shall write more fully next time. —
Yours most sincerely,

Alex. Wilson."

A fortnight" after, we have the following wanting the
address, but what it was, he states in the immediately suc-
ceeding letter.

"Bloomfield, August 7, 1801.
My dear Friend, — I received yours yesterday. I entreat you
keep me on the rack no longer. Can you not spare one day
to oblige me so much \ Collect every information you can,
but drop not a hint that you know anything of me. If it were
possible you could see her or any one who had, it would be an
unspeakable satisfaction to me. My dear Orr, the world is
lost for ever to me and I to the world. No time nor distance
can ever banish her image from my mind. It is for ever
present with me, and my heart is broken with the most melan-
choly reflexions. Whatever you may think of me, my dear
friend, do not refuse me this favour to know how she is. Were

23

your situation mine, I declare from the bottom of my soul I
would hazard everything to oblige you. I leave the manage-
ment of it to yourself. But do not forget me. 's debts

amount, as I have been informed, to two or three hundred

pounds. is weaving in an old cellar at Elizabeth

Town. My school increases : it is now 40. I have done
nothing yet toward visiting the supposed witch. Some day
soon I shall make it my business. There is a copper mine
about 300 yards from my school-house which was lately
wrought and many tuns of ore obtained from it. It is now
neglected. Among the other effects of superstition here there
lives just beside me a man who, being the seventh son, has
power to cure the most inveterate * king's evil1 by simply lay-
ing his hands on it. He has had three patients since my
coming, and tells me he has cured hundreds. He says he can
feel the disorder ascending his arms and commonly is indis-
posed while performing a cure on his patients. They have
come 100 miles to him. He is now a man of forty-five, and
has practised this ' laying on of hands' since he was a boy.
The people with whom I live are the veriest zealots in religion,
in praying, singing psalms and hymns. I was urged to ask
blessing at table the first-day and refused, but was insisted on
till through mere shame I was obliged to perform, and am
obliged to officiate every evening. God forgive me, for my
heart is as distant from my lips then as from you to me. I
consider it a monstrous hardship. I read the few lines of
poetry you sent me to the old fellow, who wanted me to find
out a tune for them that he might have the godly comfort of
singing them by way of hymn, which shall certainly be done.
As for myself I have recourse to a thousand expedients to
unburden my mind. I am really sometimes almost distracted
on seeing how and where I am situated. Sometimes I try to
turn it over to diversion, as in the following verses which I
wrote this morning, and enclose without preface or apology
as you know my situation : —

Here ox-headed ignorance gapes and is courted,

And curst superstition with visage distorted ;

Sweet science and truth while these monsters they cherish,

Like the Babes in the Wood are abandoned to perish.

24

Here ten times a day they are hymning and praying,
And ' glory to God' most religions paying.
Should misery implore — that's a quite different story.
They lock up the cash — but to God give the glory.

Young Venus ne'er lent to our females her graces ;
Like a duck's is their gait, like old Punkins their faces,
No heart-winning looks to decoy or to charm us,
Their teeth like corruption, — their breath, O enormous !

Here old wither'd witches crawl round ev'ry cabin,
And btitter from churns are eternally grabbing ;
Ghosts, wizards, seventh sons, too, to cure the king's evil,
One touch of their hand — and 'tis goue to the Devil.

Here the grim man of God, with a voice like a trumpet,
His pulpit each Sunday bestampt and bethumpet,
On all but his own pours damnation and ruin,
And heaves them to Satan for roasting and stewing.

There lonely and sad in his centry box standing,

The windows unglazed, . . .

A wretched exile murmurs A. B. C. grieving,

In sounds slow and solemn from morning to even.

Before you write take a walk up to 's as if to enquire

for me, and try if you can get any information there. I know
that she used sometimes to go and see her. Forgive me, my
dear friend, if in anything I have offended you. The more of
mankind I see the more sincerely I value your friendship, and
trust it shall only dissolve when time to me shall be no longer.

Alex. Wilson."

About a month having passed, he again writes :

" Mr Charles Orr,

Care of Mr Dobson, Bookseller, Philadelphia.

Bloomfield, Sept. 14, 1801.
My dear Friend, — The last letter I wrote you I fondly
thought would be answered, but I have waited now three
weeks in vain. It was directed to you at M'Phail's China
Store, Dock Street. I conjure you, my dear friend, by all
that friendship which I always flattered myself you had for

me that you will write me on receipt of this. 's father

arrived here last week from Scotland and found his two sons,
one in drunkenness and poverty, the other in a jail. Think
with yourself what were the feelings of the poor old man on

25

this occasion. is since liberated. I remain here per-
fectly secluded from the world. Your letters were all my
company and amusement, but you have deprived me of even
that. As I have now no hopes of ever being in Philadelphia,
I ask it as a last favour that you would go out to the house
where T lodged and request them to bring my trunk into
Philadelphia that you may send it to me to New York. If
my nephew has written me it will be in Mr M'Innes', where I
wish you would enquire. I again implore you to let me know
how the family I mentioned are doing. You promised you
would, and I shall take it as the utmost kindness. Orr,'I
wish it were possible for you and I to unite our talents and
exertions as we have often thought of doing. Would it not
do by making a bold push? I can engage the reading,
grammatical, and what other parts we should agree on — you
the rest. I will with pleasure join you if you are willing, for
if I must teach I will strain every effort to make something of
it. This would be the best moment to attempt it. Think on
the business, and I shall dispose of my horse, and unite with
you to rise or fall together. There are hardly two on earth
better acquainted with each other, and I think in conscience,
without boasting of myself or flattering you, that we would do
well. It is want of confidence alone that has kept us from
both fame and fortune in our respective pursuits. At all
events write me per return of post. A French gentleman from
St Domingo has been with me to-day from Newark to teach
him English. He is almost unintelligible. I have amused
myself since I came here with writing detached pieces of poetry
for the Newark Centinel, and have grown into some repute
with the editor and his readers. A song entitled c My Land-
lady's Nose' has been reprinted in a New York paper, and in
a periodical publication called the Museum. Please to let

the circumstances of the 's be confined to your own breast.

You may let know of the old gentleman's arrival.

Once more I ask you to oblige me with an answer to this, and
to excuse the hurried way in which it has been scribbled. In
return for your next, I will send you something more enter-
taining. I am so uneasy to know how you come on, that I am

26

every night conversing with you in my sleep. — I am, my dear
friend, yours most sincerely,

Alexander Wilson."

Five months now pass before we hear further of the subject
of our notice, and then, after his recent statement of having no
expectations of ever being again in Philadelphia, we are sur-
prised to find him writing his next communication in that city.
We are told in the Lives of him, that, soon after going to
Bloomfield, he had heard of a more desirable situation at a
short distance from Grey's Ferry, and within a few miles of
Philadelphia, and upon application to the Trustees of it had
been appointed, Here it was that the tide of his fortune was
to turn, and that he was to conceive the design and make a
commencement of his great undertaking. We now, through
this correspondence, learn definitely that he entered on his
professional duties at Grey's Ferry on the 25th of February,
1802, and it is probable that it was during the time that he
was in the city on the matter of this situation that the two
following letters were written. We find also that a cloud had
fallen on the friendship between Wilson and Orr, and are led
to believe that, influenced by unfavourable reports connected
with the attachment formed at Milestown, the latter must have
received his friend coldly.

"Philadelphia, Feb. 7, 1802.
Mr Orr, — I have no faults to reproach you with. If I had,
a consciousness of the number of my own would justly impose
silence on me. My disposition is to love those who love me
with all the warmth of enthusiasm, but to feel with the keenest
sensibility the smallest appearance of neglect or contempt
from those I regard. Of your friendship I have a thousand
times been truly proud, have boasted of your intimacy with
me and your professional abilities almost wherever I went. I
have poured out my soul into your bosom. If I have met or
only supposed that I have in the moments of anxiety and deep
mental perturbation met with cold indifference from the only
quarter where I expected the sweets of friendship, they little

27

know my heart who would expect it to make no impression on
me. But Mr Orr, you can never make me your enemy, and
alas I have friendship for no one. Distress preys continually
on my mind. I have no friend, I ask for none. No friend
on earth can ever remove my source of misery, and my
acquaintance with you would but distress you. I wish you
every happiness possible, and I doubt not but much is reserved
for you. Above all I wish you to banish from your mind all
suspicions of disesteem. I entertain none. I know there are
people who are happy in insinuating their ideas to you, but I
regard their love or hatred with equal indifference. I think
so much necessary as explanation, but no more. You shall
always share the good wishes and regard of

Alexander Wilson.
Mr Charles Orr."

Whatever its cause, this difference between the friends was
not to be of much longer duration. In a week the shadow had
entirely passed.

u Mr Charles Orr, Philadelphia.

Philadelphia, Feb. 14, 1802.
Dear Sir, — It is too much. I cannot part from you after
what you have said. I renounce with pleasure every harsh
thought I hastily entertained of you. From this moment let
all past grievances be eternally forgotten. For myself I give
them to the winds. I know the value of a friend, and of such
a friend, too well to hope ever again for another on losing you.
What is the world to that solitary being whose happiness only
glads his own bosom and who weeps neglected? Its joys to
such an insulated wretch are tasteless, its sad reverses almost
insupportable. Friendship sweetens the most common occur*
rences of life, multiplies all our pleasures, lightens all our
losses. When the sun of our prosperity sinks even in the
deepest midnight of misfortune friendship sheds its cheering
radiance around the unhappy wanderer, fills his heart with
serenity, and points to happier prospects. I hope, my dear
sir, you will excuse the melancholy turn my letter has taken.

28

I cannot help it. It is always so, this sometime. I never
spent ten weeks more unhappy than these have been, and it
will be some time before my mind recovers itself. Past hopes,
present difficulties, and a gloomy futurity have almost disar-
ranged my ideas and too deeply affected me. The conduct and
conversation of those who perhaps think me a dependant for re-
sidence is such that my spirit can never assimilate with. Amidst
all these your friendship returns to me once more like the
blessed beams of heaven after a night of clouds and darkness.
Let us now, dear sir, mutually forgive and henceforth enjoy
the sweet interchange of conversation and unreserved socia-
bility. Rocks and islands may separate for a while the stream
that has long been united, but these past, the congenial waters
will again meet, mingle, and be blended together. A small
accident may break a bone, but once judiciously reunited it is
stronger than ever, so be our friendship. I shall leave this
at your lodgings to-night, and to-morrow evening after nine
shall call on you and take a walk together. On the 25th of
this month 1 remove to the schoolhouse beyond Gray's Ferry
to succeed the present teacher there. I shall recommence
that painful profession once more with the same gloomy sullen
resignation that a prisoner re-enters his dungeon or a male-
factor mounts the scaffold; fate urges him, necessity me.
The agreement between us is, they engage to make the school
equal to 100 dollars per quarter, but not more than 50 are
to be admitted. The present pedagogue is a noisy, outrageous
fat old captain of a ship, who has taught these ten years in
different places. You may hear him bawling 300 yards off.
The boys seem to pay as little regard to it as ducks to the
rumbling of a stream under them. I shall have many diffi-
culties to overcome in establishing my own rules and authority.
But perseverance overcometh all things. — I am, with sincere
esteem, your still affectionate friend,

Alex. Wilson.
P.S. — Your coming up this afternoon has altered my reso-
lution of not calling on you till to-morrow evening, Let it
be this afternoon or evening. I am a little engaged till then.
—A. W."

29

We now come to our last letter, written at Gray's Ferry
within a year of the date of the next letter of Wilson that we
know of, June 1803, and in which we have the very earliest
intimation of his purpose with regard to the Ornithology of
his adopted land. " Close application to the duties of my
profession, which I have followed since November 1795, has
deeply injured my constitution ; the more so that my rambling
disposition was the worst calculated of any one in the world
for the austere regularity of a teacher's life. I have had
many pursuits since I left Scotland, — mathematics, the Ger-
man language, music, drawing, &c, and I am about to make
a collection of all oar forest birds" At the period of the
letter now to be inserted, his ambition evidently pointed in
another direction.*

" Mr Charles Orr,

At Mr Dixon's, Dock Street, Philadelphia.

July 15, 1802, Gray's Ferry.
My worthy Friend,— I expected you all last Sunday, and
walked out towards the ferry several times to meet you. I
hope you were entertained more to your satisfaction than you
could have been in the company of an insignificant country
dominie rendered peevish and melancholy by the daily cares
and confinement of a most consuming employment. However,
as I once told you before, I have a variety of resources in
times of irritation and perplexity, but in none have I found
consolation such as to banish every pedantic pesteration as
in renewing my old pursuit of the Muses. My harp is new
strung, and my soul glows with more ardour than ever to
emulate those immortal bards who have gone before me. I
have transcribed a variety of old pieces that have never been
published, at least not in my book, which gave me the most
exquisite sensations, not from their excellence, but by recall-
ing ideas, and interesting ones too, that have been, I may say,
forgotten ever since my arrival in America. I have also
collected all my productions since '94 ; these I intend to polish

* This letter was published several years ago in one of the volumes of the Glas-
gow University Album.

30

and improve occasionally, and to add to them all those con-
tained in my last edition which I think meritorious, and to
copy the whole when corrected to my mind in one volume. I
have an irresistible desire, which seems to come from inspira-
tion alone, to attempt some Scots pastorals descriptive of the
customs and rural manners of our native country, interspersed
with scenes of humour, love and tenderness. In Burns,
Ferguson, Ramsay, and all our Scottish songs these are the
charms that captivate every heart. I believe a Scotsman
better fitted for descriptions of rural scenes than those of
any other nation on earth. His country affords the most
picturesque and striking scenery ; his heart and imagination
warm and animated, strong and rapid in its conceptions, its
attachments, and even prejudices, his taste is highly improved
by the numberless pathetic ballads and songs handed down
from generation to generation. There is not an ignorant
ploughman in Scotland but who has a better taste and relish
for a pastoral, particularly if interwoven with a love intrigue,
than most of the pretended literati of America. Where is
the country that has ever equalled Scotland in the genuine
effusion of the pastoral muse, or where so many tears of joy,
sympathy, and admiration have been shed by the humblest
peasants over her bewitching strains \ Had Thomson not
possessed this ardent spirit of enthusiasm his Seasons would
never have seen that immortality to which they are so justly
entitled; but he was a Scotsman and glow'd with all their
energy of enthusiasm while ranging o'er the beauties of
nature. But both Thomson and Burns, Ramsay and Fergu-
son, with all who have yet followed them, have left a thousand
themes unsung equally interesting with the best of their de-
scriptions, a thousand pictures of rustic felicity that will yet be
pourtrayed by the striking pencil of some future genius. My
heart swells, my soul rises to an elevation I cannot express,
to think I may yet produce some of these glowing wilds of
rural scenery — some new Paties, Rogers, Glauds, and Simons,
that will rank with these favourites of my country when their
author has mixed with his kindred clay; that my name will
be familiar in farms and cottages, in circles of taste and at

31

scenes of merriment five hundred years hence, when the statues
of bloody ambition are mouldered and forgotten. By heavens !
the idea is transporting, and such a recompense is worth all
the misfortunes, penury, and deprivations here that the most
wretched sons of science have ever suffered. But I beg pardon
for occupying so much of your time. Come out on Saturday
or Sunday morning. Leave that cursed town at least one
day. It is the most striking emblem of purgatory, at least
to me, that exists. No poor soul is happier to escape from
bridewell than I to smell the fresh air and gaze over the green
fields after a day or two's residence in Philadelphia, were it
not attended by the regret of parting from my friend, whose
obliged and unalterable brother I am while

Alex. Wilson."

The next published letters after this, — to Mr Lawson, the
engineer, and Mr Bartram, the naturalist and botanist, whose
gardens and residence were in the neighbourhood of Wilson's
school, — show him, to use his own language, " earnestly bent
on pursuing his plan of making a collection of all the birds in
that part of America." Henceforward he had a great fixed
aim, and in it the sympathy and assistance of eminent men.
His American biographer recording the fact of his being liable
to seasons of great despondency and depression, and attributing
it to his being "addicted to the writing of verses and to music,"
says that his friends, seeing his dangerous state through this
dejection, suggested drawing as a substitute for these pur-
suits, and that Mr Bartram recommended him to attempt the
sketching of birds, which succeeded beyond all expectation.
This new chapter of Wilson's life has given a better reason for
his mental trouble.

After traversing about ten thousand miles, and enduring
alone the most trying perils, privations, and fatigue for many
years, Wilson had concluded the materials of his nine noble
volumes, and seen all of them but the last published, when his
death suddenly occurred on the 23d of August, 1813, and
when he was 47 years old. As his first act on landing in
America, in the shooting of a red-headed woodpecker, was an

• • •

• • • •

• • • •

• • • •

• • a

• » •

• • • •

• •• ••••• • , » • •

:*. • •

• • - • • •.» •

• •••• • ••

32

appropriate/commencement to his career, so the reported cir-
cumstances causing his death close it fittingly. He was
sitting in a friend's house at the window one day, we are told,
when his keen eye caught a glimpse of a rare bird that he had
long yearned to see. Seizing his gun, he rushed out, and
was soon engaged in an exciting pursuit of it, during which
he swam across a river. He succeeded in securing it, but at
the cost of his life. A severe cold had been caught, which
was succeeded by dysentery, and in ten days the sensitive and
intellectual countenance, and tall graceful form, of our enthu-
siastic fellow countryman, lay silent under the hand of death.
It had been his wish to be " buried in some rural spot where
the birds might sing over his grave ;" but this was not known
in time to be acted on, and his dust lies in the Cemetery of
the Swedish Church in Southwark, Philadelphia, whither his
remains were conveyed with public honours.

A. Mackenzie & Co., Printers, Greenock.

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