On the 25th. of this month I remove to the schoolhouse beyond Gray's Ferry to succeed the present teacher there. I shall recommence that painful profession once more with the same gloomy, sullen resignation that a prisoner re-enters his dungeon or a malefactor mounts the scaffold; fate urges him, necessity me. The agreement between us is to make the school equal to 100 dollars per quarter, but not more than 50 are to be admitted. The present pedagogue is a noisy, outrageous fat old captain of a ship, who has taught these ten years in different places. You may hear him bawling 300 yards off. The boys seem to pay as little regard to him as ducks to the rumbling of a stream under them. I shall have many difficulties to overcome in establishing my own rules and authority. At Gray's Ferry, where he was then settled, Wilson again wrote in July: "Leave that cursed town at least one day. It is the most striking emblem of purgatory, at least to me, that exists. No poor soul is happier to escape from Bridewell than I am to smell the fresh air and gaze over the green fields after a day or two's residence in Philadelphia...." George Ord, Wilson's staunch friend, literary executor, biographer, and editor of the last two volumes of the _American Ornithology_, thus characterized him: "He was of the _genus irritabile_, and was obstinate in opinion." He would acknowledge error when discovered by himself, "but he could not endure to be told of his mistakes. Hence his associates had to be sparing of criticism, through fear of forfeiting his friendship. With almost all his friends he had occasionally, arising from a collision of opinion, some slight misunderstanding, which was soon passed over, leaving no disagreeable impression. But an act of disrespect he could ill brook, and a wilful injury he would seldom forgive." In 1801, while teaching and studying German at Milestown, Pennsylvania, Wilson had another unfortunate love affair, in this instance with a woman already married. To this he alluded in letters written in the summer of that year to his friend Orr, with whom he later quarreled. On August 7, 1801, he wrote: "The world is lost forever to me and I to the world. No time nor distance can ever banish her image from my mind. It is forever present with me, and my heart is broken with the most melancholy reflections."