IOC) The Wilson Bulletin — No. 65. 



almost half a century," and incomparably dearer to him than 

 life itself. It is said that this indefatigable man planned and • 

 built with his own hands, the quaint old homestead in 1731, 

 quarrying the stone on the place. True to his convictions he 

 freed his blacks, paid them wages, taught them to read and 

 write, patriarch-like placed them at the foot of his own table 

 and took them to Quaker meeting on First-day. "There never 

 was a purer, kinder, gentler-hearted man than John Bartram 

 of Pennsylvania," and while his son ''Billy" inherited neither 

 his father's sturdy physique nor the old homestead, every 

 virtue report gives the parent seems to have descended to the 

 son. 



Wilson had free access to the beautiful grounds, to the small 

 but select library, and personal intercourse with the refined 

 household. There he observed the wonders accomplished by 

 the skill and industry of a single individual. When did the 

 inspiration seize upon Wilson? Who can say. Perhaps while 

 sauntering along the sylvan paths winding on the gentle slope 

 above the river, musical with the voices of the many songsters ; 

 breathing the fragrance of the blossom^ from many climes. 

 Or may be while listening to the learned discourse of the ami- 

 able Author of "Travels through North and South Carolina." 

 Or not at all improbable, insensibly, while in the act of detect- 

 ing the errors, and absurdities of European wriiers on our 

 birds ; for the privilege of contradiction is dear to the heart 

 of every true Scotchman. But whatever the time and incident, 

 the place must have been Bartram's Garden. 



Wilson longed tO' accomplish something worth while. He 

 had shown no special fitness for art or science, and its develop- 

 ment depending entirely upon his own exertions would seem 

 well nigh hopeless. He attempted to draw various objects, 

 but on birds only succeeded in making passable representations. 



Our first intimation of his intention is when he writes home 

 tO' his friend Thomas Crichton, on June 1st, 1803, that he was 

 about to make a collection of our finest birds. He reiterates 

 this March 12th, 1804, in a letter to Alexander Lawson : "Six 

 days in one week I have no more time than just to swallow my 



