Sometimes, she said, he would seem as if he were walking up to her, and would suddenly wheel round, and walk back as fast as he could. Supper being ready, he sat down, but had eaten only a few mouthfuls when he started up, speaking to himself in a violent manner. At these times, she said, she observed his face to flush, as if it had come on him in a fit. He lighted his pipe, and, drawing a chair to the door, sat down, saying to Mrs. Grinder (the landlady), in a kind voice, "Madam, this is a very pleasant evening." He smoked his pipe for some time, but quitted his seat and traversed the yard as before. He said he would sleep on the floor, and his servant brought bearskins and a buffalo-robe, which were immediately spread out for him. The landlady then retired to the kitchen, which was in the adjoining apartment. She experienced some alarm at the strange behavior of her guest, and could not sleep. He was still pacing his apartment in an agitated manner, and talking loud, as she said, "like a lawyer." Suddenly she heard the report of a pistol, and simultaneously the fall of a heavy body on the floor, accompanied with the agonized exclamation, "Oh Lord!" Immediately afterward she heard the report of another pistol, and in a few minutes she heard him at her door calling out, "Oh, madam, give me some water and heal my wounds." The logs being open and unplastered, she saw him stagger back and fall against a stump that stands between the kitchen and room. He crawled for some distance, and raised himself by the side of a tree, where he sat for about a minute. He once more got to the room; afterward he went to the kitchen door, but did not speak. She then heard him scraping the bucket with a gourd for water, but this cooling element was denied the dying man. The woman was so completely paralyzed by the terrible tragedy that she did not move for two hours. Servants were then aroused, and on entering the room they found the poor fellow on the bed, still alive. He uncovered his side, and showed them where the bullet had entered. A piece of his forehead was blown off, and had exposed the brains without having bled much. He begged they would take his rifle and dispatch him, and he would give them all the money he had in his trunk, exclaiming, "I am no coward; but I am so strong so hard to die." He begged the servant not to be afraid of him, for he would not hurt him. In this dreadful condition he remained for two hours. Just as the sun rose above the trees his mortal sufferings terminated. Few men can read this heart

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 shower-bath he had ever experienced from above. The roaring 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