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 
thrill 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 appeared in public in the most miscella- 
neous characterization, — as pedler, 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 sweet blossom 
The Streamlet that warbles 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 
