196 COUES: "Behind the Veil." 



times nearly as high as long, in greatly compressed up-and-down 

 characters, set in a maze of flourishes. Wilson taught writing 

 among other things, and some specimens of his " copy-book " hand- 

 writing resemble copper-plate in their perfection of penmanship. 

 The accompanying fac-simile is taken from the letter, dated Pitts- 

 burg, Feb. 22, 1810, which I published in the " Penn Monthly" 

 for June, 1879. 



Besides these letters of Wilson's are other papers of equal interest. 

 There are roughly scribbled estimates of expenses for getting up 

 some of the plates of his work ; a receipt for a plate of copper to 

 work on ; and several poems, believed never to have been published. 

 There is a very moral and edifying homily on the " Dangers of 

 Kiches," which, as Wilson never experienced them, must have been 

 a pure work of the imagination. Most of this poem consists of 

 stereotype platitudes, reminding one of the fable of the fox who 

 had lost his tail, and open to the suspicion that envy of the rich 

 gave a tinge to his Muse, if it did not actually inspire her. The 

 moral of the poem is pointed by a picture of the beggar dying at the 

 door of the rich man and being snatched up to glory, the rich man 

 himself being soon afterward heard shrieking in the bottomless pit. 

 There is another poem, a patriotic one, not lacking in a certain 

 tin-ill and verve, but not specially notable ; and, indeed, the only re- 

 markable thing about Wilson's poetry is its " despicable mediocrity." 

 A third is a love-poem, or perhaps as near a composition of that sort 

 as necessary. Wilson has'appeai-ed in public in the most miscella- 

 neous characterization, — as pedlei', politician, pedagogue, and poet, 

 as well as ornithologist ; and we have him here as the loving swain, 

 inviting his mistress to 



The Beechen Bower. 



O dear to my heart is this deep shaded Bower 



This snug little seat and this smooth Beechen Tree 

 These old hoary Cliffs through the bushes that tower 



And bend o'er the pool their resemblance to see 

 The fountains the Grotto the Laurel's swe.et blossom 



The Streamlet that wai'bles so soothing and free 

 Green solitudes ! dear to the Maid of my bosom 



And so for her sake ever charming to me 



Here seated with Anna what bliss so transporting 

 I wish every moment an age were to be 



