on the stage, gratified their curiosity without much ceremony; and whenever Mathews was perceived to be stationary, and, with his usual animation, amusing his immediate companions, the watchful loungers closed around by degrees, and according to character, feeling, or education, became distant or nearer auditors and admirers of the wondrous mar.

One clown, in particular, followed the object of his very sincere admiration with a pertinacity which deserved a better return than it met. He was to Mathews a perfect Monsieur Tonson, and his appearance seemed to excite the same feelings. The novelist and physician pointed out to me the impertinent curiosity of this admirer of the actor, and we all took some portion of mischievous delight in observing the irritability of Mathews. It increased to a ludicrous degree when Mathews found that no effort or change of place could exclude his tormentor from his sight; and when, after having made an effort to avoid him, he, on turning his head, saw Monsieur Tonson fixed as a statue, again listening in motionless admiration to his honeyed words; the actor would suddenly change from the animated relation of story or anecdote, with which he had been entertaining his companions, to the outpouring of a rhapsody of incoherent nonsense, uttered with incredible volubility: without altering his former manner, he would rattle off something like, Sardanapalus Heliogabalus Faustina and Kitty Fisher with their fourteen children Cecrops Moses Ariadne Robinson Crusoe Nimrod Captain Cooke Bonaparte and Jack the Giant-Killer had a long confab with Nebuchadonozer Sir Walter Raleigh and the pope on the best mode of making caraway comfits." But he found that this only made his admirer listen more intently, and open his eyes and mouth more widely and earnestly. As happens with many other orators, the more unintelligible his nonsense, the greater was the admiration of the auditor.

We had but one regular meal on the passage, a very plentiful supper, at about seven o'clock, with tea and coffee. We had embarked at 5 P. M., and arrived at Albany by sunrising. The meal was not suited to the habits of Mr. Mathews, and he was offended by both the matter and manner of it; but when the preparations for sleeping took place, and he found that the whole company, females excepted, must seek rest in the same cabin, some in berths and others accommodated with mattresses on the floor, his feelings revolted, and he protested against taking rest on such terms.

To this feeling I am indebted for a night of much amusement; I should be unjust if I did not add, and some instruction. I had secured a mattress on the floor of one of the cabins, and should have dully slept away at least part of the night, but that Fennimore Cooper gave me intimation of Mathews's wish to sit up, and of his (Cooper's) success in obtaining the captain's cabin on the deck of the vessel, where Mathews, Francis, and himself had determined to enjoy a supper, whiskey-punch, and such convivial pleasure as could be extracted from such circumstances, and such a meeting. I was invited to make one, and readily accepted the invitation.

Seated in the captain's cabin, and freed from all annoyance, Mathews became, as usual, the fiddle of the company; and story, anecdote, imitation, and song poured from him with the rapidity and brilliancy of the stars which burst from a rocket on a rejoicing night. To make himself still more agreeable to the senior, he introduced the memoirs of George Frederick, with that flattery which is delicious to all men, and peculiarly so to an author. "The story of Cooke and Mrs. Burns," he added, "you have told remarkably well, and when I have

introduced it in my 'Youthful Days,' I have always taken your words; but Tom Cooper from whom, as I understand, you had it, forgot the termination of the story, the real denouement,--which makes it infinitely more dramatic."

All joined in the request that Mathews would tell the story in his own way, and he, nothing loath, began:

"I was a raw recruit in the Thespian corps, and it was my first campaign in Dublin. Chance made

me a fellow-lodger with Cooke, at the house of Mistress Burns. I had looked at the great actor with an awful reverence, but had not yet been honoured by any notice from him.

In getting up Macklin's Love à la Mode, I had been cast for Beau Mordecai, and assuredly a more unfit representative of the little Jew can scarcely be imagined. As tall as I now am, I had then all the rawboned awkwardness of a hobbletehoy, and no knowledge of the world or of the stage. But Mr. Cooke must be shown to the Dublin public as Sir Archy, and there was no other Mordecai to be had. I was, however, perfect in the words; and if I murdered the Jew, I did it impartially; I murdered him every inch.'

"After the farce, I tarried, as you Yankees say, a considerable time at the theatre, rather choosing to linger among the almost expiring dipped candles of the dressing-rooms than to seek, through mist and mud, my lofty but comfortless abode in Mrs. Burns's garret; but the property-man gave me my cue to depart, by putting out the lights; and I was slowly mounting to my bed, when, as I passed the room of the great man, I saw him (the door being open) sitting with a jug before him, indulging after the labours of the evening. I was stealing by, and had already one foot on the flight of stairs which led to my exalted apartment, when I was arrested by a loud, high-pitched voice, crying, Come hither, young man.' I could scarcely believe my senses: I Lesitated. 'Come in,' was repeated. I advanced. 'Shut the door, and sit down.' I obeyed. assumed an air of courtesy, and calling upon Mistress Burns for another tumbler, filled for himself and me. You will be so kind, my good Mistress Burns, as to bring another pitcher of whiskey-punch in honour of our young friend.' 'To be sure and I will, Mr. Cooke.' The punch was brought, and a hot supper, an unusual luxury then to me. After supper, the veteran, quite refreshed and at ease, chatted incessantly of plays and players,-lashing some, commending others,-while I, delighted to be thus honoured, listened and laughed; thus playing naturally and sincerely the part of a most agreeable companion. After the third jug of punch, I was sufficiently inspired to ask a few questions, and even to praise the acting of the veteran.

He

"To use your own words, as I have often before done,' said Mathews, addressing himself to the biographer, one jug of whiskey-punch followed the other,' and Cooke began to advise his young companion how to conduct himself on the real and on the mimic scene of life. You are young, and want a friend to guide you. Talent you have; but talent without prudence is worthless, and may be pernicious. Take my word for it, there is nothing can place a man at the head of his profession but industry and sobriety. Mistress Burns!-shun ebriety as you would shun destruction. Mistress Burns! another jug of whiskey-punch, Mistress Burns.' "Oh, Mister Cooke-'

is the bane of hundreds; "villanous company"-low company leads to drinking; and the precious time is lost which should have been employed in gaining that knowledge which alone can make men respectable. Ah! thank you, Mistress Burns: this has the true Hibernia smack?'"

666

You may say that, Mister Cooke.'"

It is needless to remind the reader, that with the aid of Mathews's powers of imitation, sometimes called ventriloquism in this humbugging world, all this and much more would be extremely pleasant, and the more especially as the company had repeated supplies of the same inspiring beverage from the steward, and almost as good, certainly as strong,

as that of Mistress Burns's.

Mathews went on to describe the progress of Cooke's intoxication, during which his protests against drunkenness became stronger with each glass. He then undertook to instruct the tyro in the histrionic art, and especially in the manner of exhibiting the passions. Here it would be vain to endeavour to follow Mathews: Cooke's grimaces and voice, while his physical powers, under the government of whiskey, rebelled at every effort against the intention of the lecturer,—were depicted by the mimic in a manner beyond the conception of even those who have seen the public exhibition of his talents: here all was unrestrained gig and fun, and the painting truly con amore, and glowing from heart and glass.

"It must be remembered," continued Mr. Mathews, "that I was but a boy, and Cooke in the full vigour of manhood, with strength of limb and voice Herculean. I had the highest reverence for his talents, and literally stood in awe of him; so that when he made his horrible faces, and called upon me to name the passion he had depicted, I was truly frightened,-overwhelmed with the dread of offending him, and utterly at a loss to distinguish one grimace from another, except as one was more and another most savage and disgusting.

'Now, sir-observe-what's that?'

whiskey, but you happened to turn your soft and languishing look towards the door just as Mrs. Burns opened it, and I could not but think of the dangerous effect of such a look upon her sex's softness.'

"He laughed; and embracing the jug as the good woman put it down, he looked at Mrs. Burns, and with some humour endeavoured to sing, How happy could I be with either, were t' other dear charmer away, but with a voice which defies art and nature for a comparison.

"Mrs. Burns now protested against any more punch; but after some time agreed, upon Cooke's solemn promise to be satisfied with one more jug, to bring it.

"But remember your honour, Mister Cooke; and that is the jewel of a jontleman; and sure you have pledged it to me, you have.'

"I have, my good Mistress Burns; and it is "the immediate jewel of the soul," as you say.'

"I said no such thing; but I'll be as good as my word; and one more jug you shall have, and the divil a bit more, jewel or no jewel.'

"I was heartily tired by this time, and placed mo hope on Mrs. Burns's resolution. The last jug came, and was finished; and I wished him good night. "Not yet, my dear boy.'

"It's very late, sir.'

Early, early one jug more.' "Mrs. Burns will not let us have it, sir.'

"She will not! I'll show you that presently!"" Then followed a fine specimen of imitation; Mathews, as Cooke, calling upon Mrs. Burns (who was in the room below, and in bed), and then giving her answers, as coming up through the floor, in the manner called ventriloquism.

666 Mistress Burns! Do you hear, Mistress

Burns?'

morrow.'"

He then regularly took the chairs, one by one, and broke them on the floor immediately over Mrs. Burns's head, after every crash_crying, "Do you hear that, Mistress Burns?" and she as regularly answering,"Indeed and I do, Mr. Cooke." He next opened the window, and threw the looking-glass into the street.

"I stood," continued Mathews, "in a state of stupid amazement during this scene; but now attempted to make my escape, edging towards the door, and making a long stride to gain the garret stairs.

"Come back, sir! Where are you going?' "To bed, sir.'

"To bed, sir! What, sir! desert me! I command you to remain, on your allegiance! Desert me in time of war! Traitor!'

"I now determined to make resistance; and feeling pot-valiant, looked big, and boldly answered, "I will not be commanded! I will go to bed!' "Aha!' cried the madman, in his highest key, 'Aha! do you rebel? Caitiff! wretch! murderer!'

He advanced upon me, and I shrank to nothing before his flashing eye. 'Murderer!' and he seized me by the collar with Herculean grip, You will go! I will send you to the place you are fittest for! Murderer, I'll drag you to your doom! I'll give

you up to Fate! Come along, caitiff!' and he dragged me to the open window, vociferating, Watch! watch! murder! murder!' in his highest and loudest key.

"Immediately the rattles were heard approaching in all directions, and a crowd instantly collected. He continued vociferating, Watch! watch! murder!' until the rattles and exclamations of the watchmen almost drowned his stentorian voice.

"What's the matter? who's kilt? who's murdered? Where's the murderer?'

"Silence!' screamed Cooke, hear me !' All became hushed. Then holding me up to the window, the raving tragedian audibly addressed the crowd:- In the name of Charles Macklin, I charge this culprit, Charles Mathews, with the most foul, cruel, deliberate, and unnatural murder of the unfortunate Jew, Beau Mordecai, in the farce of Love à la Mode.' Then pulling down the window, he cried,Now go to bed, you booby! go to bed! go to bed! go to bed!'"

The steamboat party remained together until near morning, and then retired to rest. Let it not be supposed that they imitated the folly of the hero of the above tale because whiskey-punch has been mentioned. The evening, or night, was one of real interchange of mind, heightened by the peculiar powers and habits of the very extraordinary histrionic artist who gave this instance of Cooke's eccentric and pernicious propensities.

A SCENE WITH COOKE AND COOPER AT CATO'S-FROM THE MEMOIRS OF A WATER-DRINKER.

Who has not heard of Cato Alexander's? Not to know"Cato's," is not to know the world. At least so it was thought twenty-five or thirty years ago. But as all our readers are not supposed to be acquainted with the world, we must point out the situation, and describe the localities of Cato's-that our tale may be duly understood, and its incidents appreciated.

Between four and five miles north-east from the building called in New York the City Hall, in front of which we first met our readers, and introduced them to our hero, and other personages of note, yet to be made more intimately known-between four and five miles from this building, on the west side of the old Boston-road, stands this celebrated tavern, owned and kept by Cato Alexander, and called, from the landlord, " Cato's."

Cato, the keeper of a road tavern! Alexander the bearer of gin toddy to a whiskered shop-boy on a Sunday! Cato-Alexander-what awful names! How full of associations! each singly denoting the conqueror of self, or the conqueror of the world; now united to designate a servant of vicious and pampered appetites!

Do not let us be mistaken.

Cato of Cato's was no worse a man than the tens of thousands with whiter faces, who administer to the pride, passions, and vices of the multitude. He was neither more nor less than the keeper of an eating and drinking-house; one whose lawful trade is to tempt to excess, and who may legally live by administering poison.

It would puzzle any but a philosopher to find a reason for that preference "Cato's" has enjoyed for many years over all the many receptacles of idleness and intemperance which stand invitingly open on the roads and avenues leading to and from our moral and religious city. We, being a philosopher, have found it, and can communicate. It is preferred to other houses of refuge from temperance, that are known under the appellation of retreats, (such as "Citizen's Retreat," "Fireman's Retreat," "Mechanic's Retreat," "Old Countryman's Retreat," and a

hundred other retreats from public notice, or domestic duties,) not because its situation has more of rural retirement-for it stands full in view of the traveller or way-farer. It is not a retreat from noise, for that resounds within; nor from dust, for that it invites and receives from every wheel and hoof that passes. It is not preferred because it enjoys or gives its visitors better or more extensive prospects than its rivals, for it commands no view but of the dirty highroad, a cabbage-garden, a horse-shed, and a signpost; nor is it chosen for that the breezes of either land or sea bear health or refreshment to its admirers; for the land rises on every side, barring every wind that blows from visiting it too roughly. Neither is it the spacious apartments or elegant furniture that gives it preference, for its inmates are cabined, cribbed, and confined in cells like acorncups, compared with the halls and saloons of the town hotels and gambling-houses. But, Mrs. Cato is a notable cook. The " cabin is convenient." There are none but black faces belonging to the establishment. We feel that we are "right worshipful." All around is subserviency. Desdemona saw Othello's visage in his mind; it is, to some, pleasing to see the badge of subserviency in the visage.

Leave we the company of thought-drowners, and meet them again by-and-by. Some hours had passed. Spiffard had tired of the noise of the table, wearied with flashes of merriment not inspired by wit, but by wine; not the genuine and healthy progeny of the reasoning faculty when indulging in sportive recreation, but the mere empty ebullition of excited animal spirits, without the guidance or control of reason. He had walked up and down the road in search of a pleasant place for retirement, but finding none, seated himself upon a bench under a building erected for the reception of water drinkers, -it was the horse-shed in front of the house. The tavern has a piazza, but the noise of the revellers made it almost as disagreeable as the smoke-incumbered dining-room. The tumult increased so as to reach the place of refuge he had chosen. cordant sounds commingled in confusion, the monotony of which was broken by the high, harsh, screeching and croaking of Cooke's notes of inebriation.

Dis

"I'm your man, sir!-a dead shot, sir! George Frederick is the name to cow a yankee!"

The whole party now issued to the piazza, and after a preliminary discussion of the mode in which wounded honour was to be cured by the duello, (a discussion of which Spiffard only heard pieces or snatches of sentences, as "ten paces-five paces,yankee actor,-dead shot," they descended, and took a station between the tavern and the horse-shed.

It now appeared that Cooke and Cooper were to be pitted, not as actors, but as duellists. The seconds were busy loading the pistols, (an implement of death or amusement always kept in readiness at Cato's.) Cooke became silent and dignified, only showing by increased energy in his step, (not always properly applied,) and increased colour in his face, the increase of his ebriety. His antagonist was all politeness the established etiquette with those who meet to murder. The seconds and witnesses displayed to the eye of the water-drinker, or any other rational animal, that they were all so far blinded themselves, that they could not see how plainly they were exposing their supposedly deep-hidden hoax to any clear-sighted spectator.

The word was given. The two tragedians fired at the same moment, or nearly so. Cooke's second took advantage of the smoke and noise to thrust a stick through his principal's coat, to produce a bullet-hole,

at the same time he threw his left arm around him, as if for support, crying, "He has hit you, sir.'

But Cooke was in one of those half-mad, half-cunning paroxysms, which enabled him to act as the subject of the hoax, while he in reality hoaxed the hoaxers; and enjoyed all the pleasure of acting the part of the dupe, with the assurance of duping those who thought they were playing upon him. He was assuming the madman, and sufficiently mad to enjoy all the pleasure which "only madmen know." Pretending to believe that he was hit by his opponent's ball, he, with a force which only madness could give, threw out his left arm, and hurled his officiously designing second several paces from him, reeling until the cow-yard (the court-yard of the establishment) received him at full length. As the smoke evaporated, Cooper was seen extended in mock agonies; his second and others of the party, leaning over him in pretended mourning.

"Mr. Cooke, your ball has passed through the lungs of poor Cooper, I'm afraid. The surgeon is examining the wound. There is little hope-”

"None, sirr! I never miss. He is the tenth. I am sorry for him." He stalked up to the pretended hurt man with due gravity. This was a precious opportunity for the veteran to mingle sarcasm and mock regrets, and to pay the hoaxers in their own coin, stampt anew in the mint of his brains, and he did not let it escape him.

"I am examining it, sir; I am torturing him." "It is no more than he has done to hundreds of hearers."

"I am afraid, sir, he will never play again." "Then by murdering him honourably, I have prevented many dishonourable murders. Shade of Shakespeare, applaud me! He will never again murder Macbeth instead of Duncan, or throttle Othello instead of Desdemona. I am a second Mahomet overthrowing idolatry! The wooden god of the Yankee-doodles lies prostrate! Fie, George Frederick, to triumph over a block. Farewell, poor Tom! poor enough." This was said over his shoulder. "I could have better spared a better actorbut let that pass, while we pass to our pious meditations. Who takes order for the funeral? Bear the body in!" When sober none did more justice to his rival's merit, although now so scurrilously unjust. "He revives, sir. There is hope yet," said the

surgeon.

"Then may the poets mourn."

While the pretended dead duellist was removed into the house, Cooke's second approached him, exclaiming, "The horses are ready, sir; we must fly."

"We, sir! when I fly or creep, I choose my company. George Frederick Cooke never flies from danger. Fly, sir! if the idol of Yankee-land lives, there is nothing to apprehend from his worshippers, nothing to fly from, except when he acts; and if he dies, and by my hand, I have honoured him, and benefited the world." So saying, the hero strutted most sturdily to the steps of the piazza, where, feeling the difficulty of ascent, he recollected his wound called for assistance, and was supported to the table, at which sat, like another Banquo, the man whose fall he triumphed over.

ALEXANDER WILSON. ALEXANDER WILSON, the first to claim the title of the American Ornithologist, was born at Paisley, Scotland, July 6, 1766. His parents were persons in humble but respectable circumstances, and their anticipations for their son seem to have looked forward to a time, as expressed in his own words,

When, clad in sable gown, with solemn air, The walls of God's own house should echo back his prayer.

The death of his mother, when he was ten years old, and the re-marriage of his father not long after, probably prevented the execution of this plan. July 31, 1779, he was apprenticed to a weaver, and an entry on the indenture, dated Agst., 1782," records in verse the expiration of his time:

Be't kent to a' the warld in rhime,

That wi' right mickle wark an' toil,
For three lang years I've ser't my time,
Whiles feasted wi' the hazel oil.

He continued working at the loom for four years longer, varying his labors, as during his novitiate, with various attempts at poetry. One of the couplets shows the restiveness of his active mind and body, under his sedentary and monotonous employment :

Good gods! shall a mortal with legs, So low uncomplaining be brought. About the close of this period he was at work for William Duncan, his brother-in-law, under whom he had served his apprenticeship. Duncan determined to make a venture as a pedlar, and Wilson, considering that occupation a much more appropriate one for a "mortal with legs," accompanied him. Three years of his life were employed in this manner, during which he visited various portions of Scotland, digressing from his route to all places of literary or romantic interest which lay within reasonable distance. His opportunities of observation increased his taste for writing, by furnishing him with ample material to work upon; and we find him, in 1789, making a contract with Mr. John Neilson, a Paisley printer, for an edition of his poems. He added of his pack, and set off afresh with purposes a number of prospectuses to the varied contents pleasantly recorded in a journal which he kept of his tour.

As youth is the most favourable time to establish a man's good fortune in the world, and as his success in life depends, in a great measure, on his prudent endeavours, and unwearied perseverance, I have resolved to make one bold push for the united interests of pack and poems. Nor can any one justly blame me for it, since experience has now convinced me, that the merit I am possessed of (which is certainly considerable) might lie for ever buried in obscurity, without such an attempt. I have, therefore, fitted up a proper budget, consisting of silks, muslins, prints, &c. for the accommodation of those good people who may prove my customers,—a sufficient quantity of proposals for my poetical friends; and, to prevent those tedious harangues, which otherwise I would be obliged to deliver at every threshold, I have, according to the custom of the most polite pedlars, committed the contents of my

pack to a handbill, though in a style somewhat remote from any I have yet seen.

ADVERTISEMENT EXTRAORDINARY.

Fair ladies, I pray, for one moment to stay,
Until with submission I tell you,

What muslins so curious, for uses so various,
A poet has here brought to sell you.

Here's handkerchiefs charming; book-muslins like ermine,

Brocaded, striped, corded, and check'd; Sweet Venus, they say, on Cupid's birth-day,

In British-made muslins was deck'd.

If these can't content ye, here's muslins in plenty,
From one shilling up to a dozen,

That Juno might wear, and more beauteous appear,
When she means the old Thunderer to cozen.

Here are fine jaconets, of numberless sets,
With spotted and sprigged festoons;
And lovely tambours, with elegant flowers,
For bonnets, cloaks, aprons, or gowns.
Now, ye Fair, if ye choose any piece to peruse,
With pleasure I'll instantly shew it:

If the Pedlar should fail to be favor'd with sale,
Then I hope you'll encourage the Poet.

Though the subscription part of the enterprise was a failure, the book was printed in July, 1790, and the author again made his rounds to deliver copies to the few subscriber; he had obtained, and sell to some of the many who were not. Poetry is said to be a drug on a publisher's shelves, and can only be an active commodity of a pedlar's pack when its proprietor is on foot. The second tour produced a disgust to the business, and he abandoned it for the loom at Paisley. That had not been long in motion before he heard of a proposed discussion at an Edinburgh debating society, composed of a portion of the city literati, as to "whether have the exertions of Allan Ramsay or Robert Fergusson done more honor to Scottish poetry?" He borrowed the poems of the latter poet, worked hard by day to earn the means to travel to Edinburgh, and by night at a poem, The Laurel Disputed, which he read at the time and place of the discussion, before the assembled "Forum." The audience did not agree with him in his preference of Fergusson, but the merits of the performance gained him friends-among others, Dr. Anderson, for whose periodical of the Bee he became a contributor.

Before leaving town he recited two other poems, Rab and Ringan, and The Loss o' the Pack, and published with his friend Ebenezer Picken, who had taken the part of Ramsay in blank verse, a pamphlet, entitled The Laurel Disputed; or, the Merits of Allan Ramsay and Robert Fergusson Contrasted, in Two Poetical Essays, by E. Picken and A. Wilson. On returning to Paisley, when his funds were exhausted, his Edinburgh success induced him to bring out a second edition of his poems. The volume, with the title, Poems, Humorous, Satirical, and Serious, was issued immediately, and the author again attempted to be his own bookseller, and again failed.

In 1792, his poem of Watty and Meg was published anonymously. It met with very great success one hundred thousand copies being sold

VOL. 1.-35

within a few weeks-and received the high honor of being attributed to Burns. This was a great gratification to the author, who entertained a high regard for the great poet, and had previously made his acquaintance by a letter which he wrote to Burns on the first publication of his poems, in which he objected to some on the score of immorality. Burns replied he was so used to such communications that he usually paid no attention to them; but that as Wilson showed himself to be a good poet, he would, in this instance, vindicate himself. Wilson afterwards visited Burns at Ayrshire.

A dispute arising between the manufacturers and weavers of Paisley, Wilson, in the interest of the latter, wrote several satirical poems against the former, which were handed around in MS. One of these, The Shark, or Long Mills Detected, he sent in manuscript to the person it attacked, with an offer to suppress it for fire guineas. For this he was prosecuted, and on conviction sent to jail for a few days, and to burn his poem in public. The latter portion of his sentence was put in execution on the sixth of February, 1793. In consideration to his feelings, no public notice was given, and the act was witnessed only by the chance passers-by. The poem had already been secretly printed after the commencement of the prosecution, in the preceding May.* This occurrence was, no doubt, one of the causes of his emigration to America. The others were his sympathy with the democratic spirit of the early days of the French Revolution, which caused him to be suspected by the authorities, the hopelessness of bettering his condition in the old world, and the alluring prospect of political and pecuniary independence held out by the new. After living for four months at the rate of a shilling a week, he saved money enough to pay for his passage, walked to Port Patrick, sailed to Belfast, and thence embarked as a deck passenger for America.

He landed at Newcastle, Delaware, July 14, 1794, and proceeded forthwith to Philadelphia, distant thirty-three miles, on foot, shooting on theway a bird of the red-headed woodpecker species, the commencement of his ornithological pursuits.. On his arrival at the city, he worked for a time at copperplate printing with one of his countrymen, and afterwards tried his old avocations of weaving and peddling. These were abandoned in 1794 for school-keeping. He commenced this portion of his career near Frankford, which he soon abandoned for a better position at Milestown, Pa., where he remained until the com-mencement of the next century, diligently em-ployed in repairing the deficiencies of his own education, as well as laying the foundations of that of the children in his charge. He also indoctrinated himself in American politics, delivered an oration On the Power and Value of National Liberty, and wrote the song, Jefferson and Liberty, about this period.

A few years before his death Wilson sent for his brother David to join him in America. David brought with him copies of these satires, which he had collected with some trouble, and presented them to his brother. The author, however, at once threw them in the fire, saying: "These were the follies of youth; and had I taken my good old father's advice, they never would have seen the light."