rending story of a gallant officer without deep emotion. It made a deep and sad impression on Wilson, who gazed now upon his grave close by the common path. He gave Grinder money to put a post-fence round it, to shelter it from the hogs and from the wolves, and left the place in a very melancholy mood. The remaining incidents of his journey through the wilderness were not remarkable, except toward the end, when he was attacked by a dysentery, and cured himself, as he supposed, by eating raw eggs. He was assailed, also, by a tremendous storm of rain, wind, and lightning, until he and his horse were both blinded, and unable to go on. Aware of his danger, he sought the first open space, and, dismounting, stood for half an hour under the most profuse The roaring shower-bath he had ever experienced from above.

of the storm was terrible; several trees around him were broken off and torn up by the roots, and those that stood were bent almost to the ground. Limbs of trees, weighing several hundred pounds, whisked past him like feathers. He was astonished how he escaped, and said afterward that he would rather take his chance in a field of battle than in such a storm.

On the fourteenth day of his journey he arrived at Natchez, having overcome every obstacle alone, and without being acquainted with the country. What astonished the boatmen even more than this was the fact that the journey was performed without whisky. From Natchez Wilson proceeded to New Orleans, where he arrived on the 6th of June. The approach of the sickly season warned him not to tarry long in this city, and accordingly, on the 24th he embarked in a ship bound for New York, where he arrived on the 30th of July, and soon reached Philadelphia, laden with a light cargo of subscribers, and a much more valuable one of ornithological specimens, many of which were entirely unknown to naturalists.

In the early part of 1812, Wilson published the fifth volume of his Ornithology, and the following volumes, up to the seventh, appeared as rapidly as the nature of the work would admit. The difficulty of obtaining efficient assistance became very embarrassing, and exposed Wilson to a vast amount of annoyance. He was compelled to color many of the plates himself, and the closeness with which he applied himself to this task was no doubt prejudicial to his health. As soon as the seventh volume made its appearance, its author and Mr. Ord (his biographer) set out on an

expedition to Great Egg Harbor, New Jersey, where they remained for nearly four weeks, collecting materials for the eighth volume. Immediately on his return to Philadelphia he applied himself with fresh enthusiasm to his task, and by August had completed the letter-press for the eighth volume, though the whole of the plates were not finished. The confinement and intense application which this demanded were more than his frame could sustain. He was seized with a fresh attack of dysentery, and after suffering under it for ten days, died on the 23d of August, 1813, in the forty-seventh year of his age. His remains were deposited in the cemetery of the Swedish Church, in the District of Southwark, Philadelphia. A plain marble tomb marks the spot, bearing an appropriate inscription.

That the industry of Wilson was equal to his natural talents is proved by the fact that in little more than seven years, “without patron, fortune, or recompense," he accomplished more than the combined body of European naturalists had achieved in a century. We need no further evidence of his unparalleled industry than the fact that of two hundred and seventy-five species which were figured and described in his American Ornithology, fifty-six had not been taken notice of by any former naturalist. In estimating this devotion to .science, we must bear in mind the disadvantages under which he labored. By the terms of his contract with his publishers, he bound himself to supply all the drawings and letter-press necessary for the work; notwithstanding which, we find him, immediately after the publication of the first volume, undertaking all the hardships and annoyances of a canvasser. On his journey, to be sure, he gained valuable specimens, and contributed to his general ornithological knowledge, but he was unable to proceed in the literary portion of the work. Long before the seventh volume was issued the publishers felt disheartened. The success of the work did not satisfy their expectations, and to continue its publication became merely a matter of professional pride with them. Wilson could not be unmindful of this fact, and it must have pained him sadly. It is, indeed, remarkable that, in spite of these drawbacks, he persevered; but they account for the willingness with which he undertook more than his share of the work. He was anxious to get through with it as rapidly as possible, dreading, perhaps, that the enthusiasm of the publishers might wane at any mo

ment, or, at all events, desiring to relieve them of an unwelcome burden.

"Independent of that part of his work which was Wilson's particular province, viz., the drawing and describing of his subjects, he was necessitated," says Mr. Ord, " to occupy much of his time in coloring the plates; his sole resource for support being in this employment, as he had been compelled to relinquish the superintendence of the Cyclopædia. This drudgery of coloring the plates is a circumstance much to be regretted, as the work would have proceeded more rapidly if he could have avoided it. One of his principal difficulties, in effect, and that which caused him no small uneasiness, was the process of coloring. If this could have been done solely by himself, or-as he was obliged to seek assistance therein—if it could have been performed immediately under his eye, he would have been relieved of much anxiety, and would have better maintained a due equanimity, his mind being daily ruffled by the negligence of his assistants, who too often, through a deplorable want of skill and taste, made disgusting caricatures of what were intended to be modest imitations of simple nature. Hence much of his precious time was spent in the irksome employment of inspecting and correcting the imperfections of others. This waste of his stated periods of labor he felt himself constrained to compensate by encroachments on those hours which nature, conscious of her rights, claims as her own-hours which she consecrates to rest-which she will not forego without a struggle, and which all those who would preserve unimpaired the vigor of their mind and body must respect. Of this intense and destructive application his friends failed not to admonish him, but to their kind remonstrances he would reply that 'life is short, and without exertion nothing can be performed.' But the true cause of this extraordinary toil was his poverty."

And thus Alexander Wilson died from over-exertion in trying to gain a living by coloring the plates of that work which was destined to make his name illustrious.

EDMUND CARTWRIGHT.

AMONG the names of those eminent inventors who have given to the useful arts and to manufactures their present importance— who have in the most direct and perceptible way benefited the civilization of the world-the name of Edmund Cartwright, the inventor of the power-loom, deserves to be borne in warm and grateful remembrance. Although not strictly a self-made man, he owes his reputation entirely to himself, and as he obtained this at an advanced period of life, his story furnishes the instructive lesson that it is never too late to exert the highest faculties of the mind, even when they have been occupied in utterly different pursuits to those to which they are now newly called.

Edmund Cartwright was born in the year 1743, at Marnham, in the county of Nottingham, England. His family was ancient and respectable, although in somewhat reduced circumstances. Being intended for the Church, Edmund had more than ordinary care bestowed on his education. After leaving the school at Wakefield, he was sent to University College, Oxford, and subsequently was elected a fellow of Magdalen College. When the time arrived for taking holy orders, he was appointed to the living of Brampton, near Chesterfield, and afterward of GoadbyMarwood in Leicestershire. At an early age he displayed some literary ability, and published, anonymously, a collection of poetical pieces. In 1770 he published, in his own name, a legendary poem entitled "Armida and Elvira," which was received with much favor, and passed through several editions in a short time. He wrote, also, the "Prince of Peace," and sonnets to Eminent Men." After this he became a regular contributor to the "Monthly Review," and a literary correspondent with many eminent persons.

In these congenial and tranquil callings Cartwright's life passed away peacefully and profitably until his fortieth year. Happening to be at Matlock in the summer of 1784, he fell in company with some Manchester gentlemen, whose conversation was destined to change the whole tenor of his life. They talked of

manufacturing, and especially of Arkwright's spinning machinery. One of the company observed that, as soon as Arkwright's patent expired, so many mills would be erected, and so much cotton spun, that hands would never be found to weave it. To this the listener replied that Arkwright must then set his wits to work to invent a weaving-mill. This led to a conversation on the subject, in which the Manchester gentlemen unanimously agreed that the thing was impracticable, and in defense of their opinion they adduced arguments which Cartwright was certainly incompetent to answer, or even to comprehend, being totally ignorant of the subject, having never, at the time, seen a person weave. He controverted, however, the impracticability of the thing by remarking that there had been lately exhibited in London an automaton figure which played at chess. "Now you will not assert, gentlemen," said Cartwright, "that it is more difficult to construct a machine that shall weave, than one that shall make all the variety of moves that are required in that complicated game." Some time afterward, a particular conversation recalled this conversation to his mind. It struck him that, as in plain weaving, according to the conception he then had of the business, there could only be three movements, which were to follow each other in succession, there could be little difficulty in producing and repeating them. Full of these ideas, he immediately employed a carpenter and smith to carry them into effect. As soon as the rough model was finished, he got a weaver to put in the warp, which was of such materials as sailcloth is usually made of. To his great delight, a piece of rough cloth was the result. His delight was unbounded, for it proved that his theory was correct. As he had never before turned his thoughts to mechanism, either in theory or practice, nor had seen a loom at work, nor knew any thing of its construction, it will be readily supposed that his machine was a rough one. The warp was laid perpendicularly, the reed fell with a force of at least half a hundred weight, and the springs which threw the shuttle were strong enough to have thrown a Congreve rocket. It required the strength of two powerful men to work the machine at a slow rate and only for a short time. "Conceiving, in my simplicity," says Cartwright, "that I had accomplished all that was required, I then secured what I thought a most valuable property by a patent, dated 4th of April, 1785. This being done, I then condescended to see how other people