The design once conceived, he pursued it with characteristic ardor. It was an undertaking, indeed, that seemed to Wilson's friends altogether impracticable for one situated as he was, without patronage or fortune. But he overruled all their objections, terming them the maxims of a cold and calculating philosophy; and declared his resolution of proceeding, if it should cost him his life: "I shall, at least," he said, "leave a small beacon to point out where I perished."

This was heroic, and his resolution was fully tried. Many years of weary waitings, toils, disappointments had he to pass through, before any prospect of success opened upon him. But his perseverance, aided by a favoring Providence, at length opened the way. He found at last an enterprising publisher in Mr. Bradford, of Philadelphia; and in the month of September, 1808, the first volume of the "American Ornithology" was sent forth, in a style of magnificence which did as much honor to the country, as the matter of the work did to its author.

Other volumes followed in successive years, making Wilson's name and powers known through the length and breadth of the land. His toil in preparing the work, making and coloring the drawings, as well as in undertaking extensive journeys to collect materials through the wild West and South, was excessive. In fact, he died, at length, a martyr to his labors and to the earnest pursuit of his darling object. In the year 1813, while engaged upon the eighth volume of his work, a circumstance occurred which brought him to his end. "Sitting, one day," says his biographer,

"conversing with a friend, he caught a glimpse, from the window, of a rare bird which he had long been desirous of seeing. With his usual enthusiasm, the moment he beheld it, he seized his gun, rushed out of the house in pursuit, and, after an arduous search, during which he swam across a river, he succeeded in shooting it; but he succeeded at the expense of his life. He caught a severe cold, which brought on an attack of his former foe, the dysentery, which, after an illness of ten days' duration, ended his worldly career."

So died Alexander Wilson, a true martyr to the love of science in one of its most pleasing forms. He found at last his true place and use in the world. May his memory long be revered both in his own and in his adopted country! I may add that Wilson's love for America, the land of his adoption, was at least equal to that which he felt for the land of his birth. This appears in all his letters. It shows itself, also, in an oration which he pronounced on the occasion of Mr. Jefferson's entering upon the presidency, March 4, 1801. And the same spirit appears in the following lines, in which he expresses his regret that the magnificent scenery of the western world had found as yet so few poetical describers:

"Yet nature's charms, that bloom so lovely here,
Unhailed arrive, unheeded disappear,

While bare black heaths and brooks of half a mile
Can rouse the thousand bards of Britain's isle.
There scarce a stream creeps from its narrow bed,
There scarce a hillock lifts its little head,
Or humble hamlet peeps their glades among,
But lives and murmurs in immortal song.

Our western world, with all its matchless floods,
Our vast transparent lakes and boundless woods,
Stamped with the traits of majesty sublime,
Unhonored weep the silent lapse of time;

Spread their wild grandeur to th' unconscious sky,
In sweetest seasons pass unheeded by;

While scarce one Muse returns the songs they gave,
Or seeks to snatch their glories from the grave."

Since Wilson's day, however, a great change has taken place in this respect. A Bryant, a Percival, a Sigourney, a Longfellow, and many more, have arisen to paint in verse the charms of American scenery. And as years roll on, still other poets will arise, not only to describe their country's scenes, but also to narrate their countrymen's deeds, "in thoughts that breathe, and words that burn." America asks only time.

THE LAND OF BURNS.

There have been loftier themes than his,
And longer scrolls and louder lyres,

And lays lit up with Poesy's

Purer and holier fires.

Yet read the names that know not death,

Few nobler ones than Burns are there,

And few have won a greener wreath
Than that which binds his hair.

HALLECK.

to

ONE pleasant morning in the month of September, I set out with a friend from Glasgow, pay a visit to the "Land of Burns"-his birth-place, monument, and the other scenes and places on the banks of the Doon, which are hallowed by association with the poet's memory.

I

Ayr, which we first reached, is rather a handsome town, especially in the more modern parts. viewed it with much interest, from the double train of associations it awakened-with Burns and with Wallace. With what eyes did I gaze at the spot where stood those "barns of Ayr," which Wallace burned, with the "Southron" tyrants in them. The river Ayr is a broad, fine stream. On reaching it, there we beheld the "Twa Brigs," which Burns has celebrated. The new bridge is lower down the

stream, and broader than the other. To pay due respect to both, we crossed the former in going, and the latter in returning.

Burns's monument and birth-place are distant about two and a half miles from Ayr. The scenery, as we rode on, struck me as being rather English than Scotch, having that neat, trim, and cultivated look, which is so characteristic of England,-green hedges, with occasionally a reach of stone wall and handsome gateways, and on all sides well tilled fields.

Our first visit was to the monument.

This is an elegant structure. It is a kind of little temple, open on all sides, and supported by small columns of the rich Corinthian order. Below, is a room containing a bust of the poet, and several curiosities connected with his history. Among these is a Bible in two small volumes,-the same, it is said, which Burns gave to his "Highland Mary." This book, we were informed, had once been in America, and had been procured at a high cost. It contained the poet's autograph.

After viewing these interesting relics, we ascended to the top of the monument, where a lovely prospect met our eyes. Just below us was the flowing Doon, with its "banks and braes." It seemed a swift stream, here and there bubbling and foaming as it went. It had steep banks, and from the opposite one the ground sloped gradually upward to a high hill, which was surmounted with pretty groves, interspersed with glades and openings. On this side also the ground ascended, but very gradually; and, stretching far away to the left,