should always be printed as an introduction to it.* Wieland, or the Transformation, the first of the series of brilliant novels by which Brown gained his enduring reputation, was published in 1798. Its appearance marked an era in American literature. It is in all respects a remarkable book. Its plot, characters, and style are original and peculiar. The family of Wieland are of German descent, well-educated, and move in the best society. A tendency to religious fanaticism is hereditary, and the death of the father is mysterious and terrible. The son, an amiable enthusiast, lives with his wife and children in seclusion, near the Schuylkill; near him his sister, to whom he is tenderly attached, and in the neighbourhood Pleyel, his wife's brother. Six years of uninterrupted happiness precede the opening of the drama. A man of middle age, ungainly person, and rustic dress, is now seen frequently wandering in the vicinity. He is accosted by Pleyel, who remembers that they have met in Spain, where he appeared in a different character. His name is Carwin. His knowledge and wit are unbounded, his voice variably musical, and his conversation so attractive that he is with little hesitation received into the society at Mettingen. Soon the nights are made fearful by strange voices, and warnings of danger, or startling by unlooked-for revelations. By Wieland they are referred to a supernatural agency; the others are perplexed; and all seem to be approaching a catastrophe. At length Wieland is summoned in a mysterious manner to testify his submission to the divine will by the sacrifice of his warmest affections, his dearest pleasures; and in obedience to the heavenly messenger destroys his wife and children, and seeks the life of his sister, who escapes by an accident. He is arrested and convicted of murder, but regards the proceedings with heroic calmness, confident that he has but fulfilled the will of God. The key to all this is ventriloquism. It is objected by Mr. Prescott and other very able critics, that the explanation is unsatisfactory, and that the character of Carwin is contradictory, unnatural, and devilish. With deference, I think all who have written upon this point for no critic has hitherto taken a different view of it-have done so It is printed in Dunlap's Life and Selections from the works of Brown, vol. ii. p. 200-261. upon a superficial examination of the history, and without a consideration of Wieland's peculiar mind and life. The optical illusions may have been the exaggerations of a heated imagination. Ventriloquism at that time was a faculty not generally known to exist, and it is reasonable to suppose that the actors in this drama had never heard of it. By less powerful means the impostor Matthias produced similar effects.* Alexander Vattemare and others have acquired as perfect a control as is here described over their voices. But notwithstanding the author's opinion, and his own surprise and horror at the catastrophe, Carwin is called a "demon." Driven by a father's brutal severity at an early age from amid the forests into the city, he struggled with "low wants and lofty will" until he attracted the attention of an adventurer, who perceived his genius and trusted by a suitable education to make him an efficient promoter of his plans. After a few years, passed in Europe, he quarrelled with his patron, and returned, poor, friendless, and dispirited. Solitary walks in the vicinity of Philadelphia led to an acquaintance with the Wielands. His principles justified an intrigue with one of their inmates, and though he had forsworn his dangerous art, in an emergency he resorted to it to prevent a discovery which would have been more dangerous to another than himself. Ignorant perhaps of Wieland's superstition, and to test the vaunted courage of his sister, as well as to preserve the secrecy of his amour, he made frequent experiments and found amusement in the wonder and in the discussions they excited. To screen himself from punishment his former patron had accused him before the magistrates of Dublin, and a reward for his apprehension was now offered in the gazettes. He suddenly quitted | Mettingen, and on his return learned with undissembled horror the last scenes in the family of Wieland. He was unwise, unfortunate, wicked, but not a "fiend," nor actuated by "diabolical malice." The careful reader of the narrative will perceive that the credulous Wieland already supposed himself in communication with the invisible world, and that on the night when he thought the sacrifice of his family was demanded, the author represents his imagination as heated to * Vide Matthias and his Impostures, by William L. Stone. phrensy by fears respecting his sister. He | nobility, nor is his conduct, as presented in the earlier part of the narrative, unnatural or unparalleled in real life. His notions in regard to marriage are peculiar; he keeps a mistress, a woman of education, with whom, as with others, he deals with sincerity and frankness. In the last half of the book the characters are not sustained. Tedious episodes, having no connection with the main story, and new and useless actors are obtruded. In the first part the style is better than in his other works, but in the last part it is feeble. A suspicion arises that, growing weary of his task, he hastily filled out his volumes with fragments of other tales, abandoning any plan he may have entertained for the denouement. was in a state to hear voices when no voices sounded, and to see sights invisible to other eyes; Carwin had no direct connection with these last events. It was a terrible but not unparalleled instance of self-delusion. This was evidently the author's meaning. Mr. Prescott curses with Dryden the inventors of fifth acts, by which a tragedy's "pleasing horrors" are unravelled. But Brown had higher objects than to entrance the fancy. He was a careful anatomist of the mind, and, familiar with its wonderful phenomena, had no need of gorgons and chimeras. He would have failed of the end he had in view if he had not shown the causes of his effects; and in considering whether his explanations are sufficient we are not to inquire if we ourselves should have been deceived as Wieland was, but if such an intellect, with such an education and experience, and under such circumstances, could have been thus wrecked. I confess that, remembering some of the best authenticated facts in the more recent history of fanaticism and superstition, I can perceive nothing unnatural or improbable in this work, nor do I think that a key to its mysteries renders it in any degree uninteresting. Brown had withdrawn from Philadelphia when the yellow fever approached that city in 1793, but when in 1798 the epidemic threatened to desolate New York, he and his friends determined to continue in their house, which was in a healthy part of the town. Dr. Smith was detained by professional duties; Brown would not go lest his friend should need his personal attention; Smith died, Brown nearly lost his life by his benevolence, and on his partial recovery from a severe illness, accepted an invitation to reside with William Dunlap at Perth Amboy, in New Jersey. Here, while all the horrors of the plague were fresh in his memory, he wrote his third novel, Arthur Mervyn. The hero is the son of an ignorant farmer, whose second marriage with a youthful and vulgar woman drove his only child into the world. His mother had possessed education and refinement above her condition, and Mervyn had received from her and from a stranger who had wandered into the country and died at his father's house, a degree of knowledge unusual among boys of his class in Pennsylvania. On his arrival in the city his services are engaged by Waldeck, an accomplished villain, who keeps a splendid establishment, and transforms the rustic into an elegant young man of the town. Waldeck's character, as a work of art, is the best in the novel, the interest of which arises chiefly from his profligate career, and the ra Brown's second novel is entitled Ormond. The scenes are New York and Philadelphia, and the time near the close of the last century, embracing the period of the yellow fever. The first part of the story is very interesting. The incidents are dramatic and natural, and the characters are drawn with great distinctness. An artist, of taste and cultivation, but moderate powers, finding his professional income insufficient to meet the increasing wants of his family, upon the death of his father embraces the hereditary occupation of pharmacy, and grows rich. A partner, bound to him by every tie of gratitude, robs him and quits the country, leaving him in his old age in blindness and beggary. His daughter, Constantia Dudley, is the heroine, and there are few heroines in American fiction more natural and beautiful. The formal introduction of Ormond is unsuccessful. His character however is soon boldly and clearly exhibited in his action. It is one to be judged differ-vages of the pestilence, which are described ently by different sorts of people. Common morality is very shallow. Common sentiment is sickly. He would be a monster to the vulgar apprehension. Yet he is not without with wonderful fidelity and distinctness. The incidents have little cohesion, the characters are needlessly multiplied, and the careless prolixity of the last volume is redeemed by K few such graphic and powerful sketches as in the first enchain the reader's attention. Arthur Mervyn was followed by Edgar Huntley, the Memoirs of a Somnambulist. The scene is near the forks of the Delaware, in Pennsylvania. A friend of the hero has suddenly disappeared. It is supposed that he is murdered. Huntley, meditating upon his fate, wanders at night by an unfrequented path toward the residence of a friend, and by the moonlight discovers a person digging the ground under a tree; he perceives that he occasionally stops and exhibits intense emotion; his suspicions are aroused, and when the earth is closed up he follows the man through tangled mazes of a forest to a cavern, where he loses sight of him. This man is Clithero, a foreigner employed in the vicinity, who in his sleep has been burying some memorials of an eventful life, which is subsequently detailed to Huntley to avert the impression that Clithero was concerned in his friend's death. In following the sleep-walker on various occasions Huntley is led into extraordinary adventures, and among scenes of gloomy wildness and sublimity, which are described with a freedom, boldness, and occasional minuteness, which are extremely effective. This is the only work in which Brown has introduced Indian characters, and the pictures he has given of savage life are eminently striking. The work exhibits the intensity, and the anatomical knowledge of human passions, for which his previous writings are distinguished, and it has their numerous and various faults, the worst of which perhaps is a want of proportion. Brown subsequently published Clara Howard, Memoirs of Stephen Calvert, and Jane Talbot. The last is the shortest and least attractive of his fictions. When he left the retreat of Mr. Dunlap, at Perth Amboy, he returned to Philadelphia, where in 1799 he commenced The Monthly Magazine and American Review. It was discontinued in the following year. In 1804 he married Miss Linn, with whom he had become acquainted in New York. She was the sister of the Rev. Dr. John Blair Linn,* of whom he afterward wrote a memoir. In 1805 he began The Literary Magazine and American Register, which was continued five years, * Author of "Valerian," "The Powers of Genius," etc. during which time it was chiefly supported by his own contributions. In 1806 he established The American Register, which appeared in semi-annual volumes until its publication was interrupted by his death. He translated the work on the United States by Volney, with whom he had contracted a friendship during his residence in this country; and he wrote several elaborate political pamphlets, the principal of which were, An Address to the Government of the United States on the Cession of Louisiana to the French, and on the late Breach of Treaty by the Spaniards; The British Treaty; and An Address to the Congress of the United States on the Utility and Justice of Restrictions upon Foreign Commerce, with Reflections upon Foreign Trade in General, and the Future Prospects of America. The year after his marriage he wrote to Dunlap, "You judge rightly when you think I am situated happily; my present way of life is in every respect to my mind. There is nothing to disturb my felicity but the sense of the uncertainty and instability that clings to every thing human. I cannot be happier than I am. Every change therefore must be for the worse. My business, if I may so call it, is altogether pleasurable. My companion is all that a husband can wish for, and in short, as to my personal situation, I have nothing to wish but that it may last." But it did not last. His constitution, as I have before mentioned, was delicate. His lungs were now affected, and he was compelled to give up active exercise. Confined to his house he pursued with unremitting ardour his favourite studies. His only descendant, my friend William Linn Brown, Esquire, of Philadelphia, has shown me numerous large architectural drawings, executed in his last years with such skill and care, that they seem like engravings; and an elaborate Geography, of which all is written but the book relating to this country. It is in a beautiful round hand, as legible as a printed page. The late John Murray, of London, who once had the MS. in his possession, was of opinion that if it had been finished and published, the great work of Malte-Brun would never have been translated. In 1809 Brown consented to travel, in the hope of benefit from change of scene. By easy stages he visited the states of New Jersey and New York; in November he was confined to his chamber; and on the twenty-second of February, 1810, he died, having just finished the thirty-ninth year of his age. The distinguishing characteristics of his works I have already noticed. The faults of their construction doubtless were in some degree owing to the great rapidity with which they were written. The author and the printer were engaged at the same time upon nearly every one of them; and he sometimes had three or four under way at once. In all of them are indications that he grew weary before they were finished. His style is not good; in a majority of his works at least it lacks simplicity and directness, and has numerous verbal faults. "Thee," "thou," "thine," are rarely admissible except in addresses to the Deity. Brown was educated a Quaker, and it was no affectation in him therefore to use what this sect calls the "plain language;" but there is no excuse for "thee" and "thine" in the same sentence with "you" and "yours." He makes "adore" a synonym for "love" or "respect;" "somewhat" for "something," and "ruminate" for "meditate," occur constantly; and the ear is offended by "museful," "deliquiem," or other unusual or pedantic words in almost every page. If his works were pruned of their redundancies, if their needless episodes were erased, and a judicious proof-reader should make the requisite occasional changes of words, extraordinary merits, which are independent of these blemishes, would secure them a popularity they have never yet possessed. Brown was a man of unquestionable genius and a true scholar. His works are original, powerful, and peculiar, and with all their faults will continue to be read by educated and thoughtful men. THE DEFENCE OF WIELAND. FROM WIELAND. THEODORE WIELAND, the prisoner at the bar, was now called upon for his defence. He looked around him for some time in silence, and with a mild countenance. At length he spoke : It is strange; I am known to my judges and my auditors. Who is there present a stranger to the character of Wieland? who knows him not as a husband—as a father-as a friend? yet here am I arraigned as a criminal. I am charged with diabolical malice; I am accused of the murder of my wife and my children! It is true, they were slain by me; they all perished by my hand. The task of vindication is ignoble. What is it that I am called to vindicate? and before whom? You know that they are dead, and that they were killed by me. What more would you have? Would you extort from me a statement of my motives? Have you failed to discover them already? You charge me with malice; but your eyes are not shut; your reason is still vigorous; your memory has not forsaken you. You know whom it is that you thus charge. The habits of his life are known to you; his treatment of his wife and his offspring is known to you; the soundness of his integrity and the unchangeableness of his principles are familiar to your apprehension; yet you persist in this charge! you lead me hither manacled as a felon! you deem me worthy of a vile and tormenting death! Who are they whom I have devoted to death? My wife-the little ones that drew their being from me-that creature who, as she surpassed them in excellence, claimed a larger affection than those whom natural affinities bound to my heart. Think ye that malice could have urged me to this deed? Hide your audacious fronts from the scrutiny of Heaven. Take refuge in some cavern unvisited by human eyes. Ye may deplore your wickedness or folly, but ye cannot expiate it. Think not that I speak for your sakes. Hug to your hearts this detestable infatuation. Deem me still a murderer, and drag me to untimely death. I make not an effort to dispel your illusion; I utter not a word to cure you of your sanguinary folly; but there are probably some in this assembly who have come from far. For their sakes,. whose distance has disabled them from knowing me, I will tell what I have done, and why. It is needless to say that God is the object of my supreme passion. I have cherished, in his presence, a single and upright heart. I have thirsted for the knowledge of his will. I have burnt with ardour to approve my faith and my obedience. My days have been spent in searching for the revelation of that will; but my days have been mournful, because my search failed. I solicited direction; I turned on every side where glimmerings of light could be discovered. I have not been wholly uninformed; but my knowledge has always stopped short of certainty. Dissatisfaction has insinuated itself into all my thoughts. My pur poses have been pure; my wishes indefatigable; but not till lately were these purposes thoroughly accomplished, and these wishes fully gratified. I thank thee, my Father, for thy bounty! that thou didst not ask a less sacrifice than this! that thou placedst me in a condition to testify my submission to thy will! What have I withheld which it was thy pleasure to exact? Now may I, with dauntless and erect eye, claim my reward, since I have given thee the treasure of my soul ! I was at my own house; it was late in the evening; my sister had gone to the city, but proposed to return. My mind was contemplative and calm; not wholly devoid of apprehension on account of my sister's safety. Recent events, not easily explained, had suggested the existence of some danger; but this danger was without a distinct form in our imagination, and scarcely ruffled our tranquillity. Time passed, and my sister did not arrive; her house is at some distance from mine, and though her arrangements had been made with a view to residing with us, it was possible that, through forgetfulness, or the occurrence of unforeseen emergencies, she had returned to her own dwelling. Hence it was conceived proper that I should ascertain the truth by going thither. I went. On my way my mind was full of those ideas which related to my intellectual condition. In the torrent of fervid conceptions, I lost sight of my purpose. Sometimes I stood still; sometimes I wandered from my path, and experienced some difficulty, on recovering from my fit of musing, to regain it. The series of my thoughts easily traced. At first every vein beat with rapture known only to the man whose parental and conjugal love is without limits, and the cup of whose desires, immense as it is, overflows with gratification. .... The Author of my being was likewise the dispenser of every gift with which that being was embellished. The service to which a benefactor like this was entitled, could not be circumscribed. My social sentiments were indebted to their alliance with devotion for all their value..... For a time, my contemplations soared above earth and its inhabitants. I stretched forth my hands; I lifted my eyes, and exclaimed, Oh! that I might be admitted to thy presence! that mine were the supreme delight of knowing thy will, and of performing it! The blissful privilege of direct communication with thee, and of listening to the audible enunciation of thy pleasure! What task would I not undertake, what privation would I not cheerfully endure, to testify my love of thee? Alas! thou hidest thyself from my view; glimpses only of thy excellence and beauty are afforded me. Would that a momentary emanation from thy glory would visit me that some unambiguous token of thy presence would salute my senses! In this mood I entered the house of my sister. It was vacant. Scarcely had I regained recollection of the purpose that brought me hither. Thoughts of a different tendency had such absolute possession of my mind, that the relations of time and space were almost obliterated from my understanding. These wanderings, however, were restrained, and I ascended to her chamber. I had no light, and might have known, by external observation, that the house was without any inhabitant. With this, however, I was not satisfied. I entered the room, and the object of my search not appearing, I prepared to return. The darkness required some caion in descending the stair. I stretched my hand to seize the balustrade by which I might regulate my steps. How shall I describe the lustre which, at that moment, burst upon my vision! I was dazzled. My organs were bereaved of their activity. My eyelids were half-closed, and my hands withdrawn from the balustrade. A nameless fear chilled my veins, and I stood motionless. This irradiation did not retire or lessen. It seemed as if some powerful effulgence covered me like a mantle. I opened my eyes and found all about me luminous and glowing. It was the element of heaven that flowed around. Nothing but a fiery stream was at first visible; but, anon, a shrill voice from behind called upon me to attend. I turned. It is forbidden to describe what I saw; words would be wanting to the task. The lineaments of that being, whose veil was now lifted, and whose visage beamed upon my sight, no hues of pencil or of language can portray. As it spoke, the accents thrilled to my heart. The sound, and visage, and light vanished at once. What demand was this? The blood of Catharine was to be shed. My wife was to perish by my hand. I sought opportunity to attest my virtue: little did I expect that a proof like this would have been demanded. My wife!" I exclaimed; "O God! substitute some other victim. Make me not the butcher of my wife. My own blood is cheap. This will I pour out before thee with a willing heart; but spare, I beseech thee, this precious life,or commission some other than her husband to perform the bloody deed!" In vain. The conditions were prescribed; the decree had gone forth, and nothing remained but to execute it. I rushed out of the house and across the intermediate fields, and stopped not till I entered my own parlour. My wife had remained here during my absence, in anxious expectation of my return with tidings of her sister. I had none to communicate. For a time, I was breathless with my speed. This, and the tremors that shook my frame, and the wildness of my looks, alarmed her. She immediately suspected some disaster to her friend, and her own speech was as much overpowered by emotion as mine. She was silent, but her looks manifested impatience to hear what I had to communicate. I spoke, but with so much precipitation as scarcely to be understood; catching her at the same time by the arm, and forcibly pulling her from her seat. "Come along with me; fly; waste not a moment; time will be lost, and the deed will be omitted. Tarry not; question not; but fly with me!" This deportment added afresh to her alarms. Her eyes pursued mine, and she said, "What is the matter? For God's sake, what is the matter? Where would you have me go?" My eyes were fixed upon her countenance while she spoke. I thought upon her virtues; I viewed her as the mother of my babes; as my wife; I recalled the purpose for which I thus urged her attendance; my heart faltered, and I saw that I must rouse to this work all my faculties: the danger of the least delay was imminent. |