ed-(much, as the Poly-glott Bible maker succeeded, whose preface al ways brings the tears into our eyes in burying all his friends-outliving all confidence in himself-wasting fortune after fortune-breaking his legs, and wearing out his life, in deplorable slavery, without even knowing it.)— Even so, poor Brown succeeded-in getting out-by piece-meal, a small, miserable, first edition-on miserable paper (even for that country)—a first volume of one or two of his worksthe second volume following, at an interval-perhaps of years-the second edition never-never, even to this hour. -Yet will these people talk of their native literature.

There has never been; or, as the QUARTERLY Would have it-there has not ever been, any second edition, of anything that Brown ever wrote-in America, we mean. We say this, with some positiveness (notwithstanding the most unprofitable uproar lately made about him there, for which we shall give the reasons, before we have done with Brother Jonathan cut where it may-hit or miss)-because we know, that, very lately, it was impossible to find, even in the circulating libraries of his native city (Philadelphia) any complete edition of his works:-Because we know, that, when they are found, anywhere (in America) they are odd volumes-of the same edition, so far as we can judge-printed all of a heap'-or samples of some English edition :-Because a young Maryland lawyer told OURSELF, not long ago, that he had been offered an armful of Brown's novels-(by a relation of Brown's family)-which were lying about in a garret, and had been lying about, in the same place, the Lord knows how long-if he would carry them away-or, as he said, ' tote 'em off, ye see.' But, being a shrewd young fellow-not easily 'cotch;' having heard about an executor de son tort, for meddling with a dead man's goods and suspecting some trick (like the people, to whom crowns were offered, on a wager, at sixpence a-piece,) he cocked his eye-pulled his hat over one ear-screwed up his mouth, and walked off, whistling 'Tain't the truck for trowsers, tho'

Some years ago, we took up CHARLES

BROCKDEN BROWN; disinterred him ; embalmed him ; did him up, decently; and put him back again—(that is— one of us did so.)-Since then, poor Brown has had no peace, for his countrymen. We opened upon the North American creature-making him break cover; and riding after him, as if he were worth our while. Then-but never till then-(we were the first)— did they give tongue, on the other side of the Atlantic.-We puffed him a little. They have blown him up-skyhigh.'-We went up to him, reverently

they, head-over-heels. We flattered him somewhat-for he deserved it; and was atrociously neglected. But they have laid it on with a trowel.He would never have been heard of, but for us.-They are determined, now, that we shall never hear of anything else. We licked him into shape: they have slobbered him-as the anaconda would a buffaloe (if she could find one)-till one cannot bear to look at him. We pawed him over, till he was able to stand alone-in his own woods-they-till he can neither stand nor go; till we should not know our own cub, if we saw him.

The talking about him began, clumsily enough-and, as usual, with a most absurd circumspection, in the North American Review: All the newspapers followed-of course-all the magazines-tag, rag, and bob-tail : And then, just in the nick of time, came out proposals from a NewYorker, to publish a handsome edition of BROWN'S NOVELS; at less, we believe, than one dollar (4s. 6d.) avolume worthy of him-worthy of the age-and-worthy of America,' by subscription.

There the matter ended. Nothing more was done-of course. The family were scattered-very likely to the four winds of heaven;-and what if there was a niece living in Philadelphia-that was no business of theirs. They talked about his books; but nobody thought of subscribing. They called him the "Scott" of Americaand there the matter ended.

It was one thing to make a noise ; ̈ another to pay money. His countrymen had kicked up a dust, about his grave-talked of the " star-spangled banner"-and what more would

ye expect of his countrymen? The whole community were up in armspeople were ready to go a pilgrimage to his birth-place-if there were no toll to pay-but not one in a million can tell, to this hour, where he was born-where he lived-where he died →or what he has written. They had ransacked the circulating libraries, anew; looked into such of his novels, as they could find, most of them for the first time, and the "balance," for the last time; dried out the grease righted the leaves-wrote over the margins-dog-eared what was agreeable-hurried through a part-skipped the rest-smuttied their fingers paid a 'fippenny bit' a-head-and what more would you have?

They had bragged of their national spirit, as being unexampled-(they were right-it is unexampled): of their national genius, which had been able to "extort" praise from us-in spite of our teeth;-they had made a plenty of noise about poor Brown; hurraed, like fine fellows, for American literature-and what more would any reasonable man-who knows them thoroughly-desire?

BROWN wrote ARTHUR MERVYN ; EDGAR HUNTLY; CLARA HOWARD; WIELAND; JANE TALBOT; ORMOND; and some papers, which have since been collected, and called the BIBLO

QUIST.

CLARA HOWARD and JANE TAL

BOT

are mere newspaper novels; sleepy, dull common-sense-very absolute prose-nothing more.

ARTHUR MERVYN is remarkably well managed, on many accounts; and miserably in others. It was the first, the germ of all his future productions. Walbeck was himself he never equalled him, afterwards-though he did play him off, with a new name and a new dress, in every new piece. Explanations were designed-half-given, but never finished: machinery, half disclosed-and then forgotten, or abandoned.-Brown intended, at some future day, to explain the schoolmaster, that seduced the sister of Mervyn, into Walbeck :-Incidents are introduced, with great emphasis, which lead nowhere-to nothing; and, yet, are repeated in successive works.Thus (we speak only from recollection-and have not seen one of the books for many a year)-in Arthur Mervyn, Edgar Huntly, and, perhaps, in Jane Talbot, a sum of money comes

into the possession of "another person"-who converts it, under strong temptation, to his own use.Let us

pass on.

EDGAR HUNTLY was the second essay-ORMOND, the last. About WIELAND we are not very certain. These three are unfinished, irregular, surprising affairs. All are remarkable for vividness, circumstantiality, and startling disclosures, here and there: yet all are full of perplexity-incoherence

and contradiction. Sometimes, you are ready to believe that Brown had made up the whole stories, in his own mind, before he had put his pen to the paper; at others, you would swear that he had either never seen, or forgotten, the beginning, before he came to the end, of his own story. You never know, for example, in Edgar Huntly, whether

an Irishman, whose name we forget-a principal character, is, or is not, a murderer. Brown, himself, seems never to have made up his own mind on that point. So-in Wieland-you never know whether Brown is, or is not, in earnest-whether Wieland was, or was not, supernaturally made away with. So-in Ormond-who was the secret witness?-to what purpose?-What a miserable catastrophe it is -Quite enough to make anybody sick of puling explanations.-Now, all this mystery is well enough, when you understand the author's intention. Byron leaves a broken chain-for us to guess by-when his Corsair is gone. We see that he scorns to explain. Byron is mysterious-Brown only perplexing. Why?-Because Brown undertakes to explain; and fails. Brown might have refused as Byron did. We should have liked him, if he had, all the better for it; as we do Byron. But we shall never forgive him, or any other man, dead or alive, who skulks out of any undertaking, with an air-as if not he, but other people are to be pitied.We have our eye on a case, in point; but-no matter

now.

Brown wanted material. What little he found, though it had all the tenuity of pure gold, he drew out, by one contrivance and another, till it disappeared in his own hands. So long as it would bear its own weight, he would never let go of it; and, when it broke he would leave off spinning, for a time, as if his heart had broken with it. He would seem to have al

1813-and he was not far from 35. He went off in a lingering consumption, with a broken heart-and a spirit absolutely crushed.

I saw him, said Mr SULLY, the painter, whom we have given a sketch of, in our August number-I saw him, a little time before his death. I had never known him-never heard of him -never read any of his works. He was in a deep decline. It was in the month of November-our Indian summerwhen the air is full of smoke. Passing a window, one day—I was caught by the sight of a man-with a remarkable physiognomy-writing, at a table, in a dark room.

The sun shone

directly upon his head. I never shall forget it. The dead leaves were falling, then-it was Charles Brockden Brown.

IRVING, in his "TALES," has purloined a head, and a scene, from Brown -probably, without knowing it; as Brown purloined from Godwin-if so --why, so much the better for all parties. It has been the rage of late. In WIELAND, there is a description of a murderer's face, appearing in a deserted house—at night. Irving makes direct use of this head, in the negro, looking over the rock; and, indirectly, in his account of the picture, which, in its frightful distinctness, is not only very like Brown, but wholly unlike Irving. Yet, what are we to expect of a traveller" who does not even pretend to know his own property; whose "trunk," as he says himself, is full only of odds and ends-belong ing to other people? Geoffrey used once, to remind us, in his veneration for the antique, of the man who had an old jack-knife, which he held in such veneration-that, in progress of time, he put-first a handle to itand then a blade: Now, he reminds us of a very dear friend, who complains, that he never says a good thing, but he is in doubt, immediately, about its being his own; is always fancying that he must have read it, or seen it, or heard of it, before-and what is harder yet-he says, "whenever I whisper the thing, to my particular friends-they always appear to think so, too." It is a deplorable case, to be sure. More of Irving, however, in due season; and yet we cannot give him the go-by, without a question or two. Geoffrey is a devilish good fellow after 1, in the genteel-comedy way; and,

sometimes, in broad quiet humour, as we mean to shew, after our own fashion, by and by. But-but-if we are not mistaken, he wrote a very fine thing, about Mr T. CAMPBELL, in America-by way of introduction to Mr C.'s poetry. Mr I. then came over the water; or, as they say on t'other side- came out"-and Mr C. wrote some very pretty thing-in Londonabout Mr I., of course. Mr I. then wrote a paper or two-could he do less?-for the NEW MONTHLY. But— now, we are coming to it-and if it be true, it is too bad—we speak only from hearsay, not having seen the NEW MONTHLY of late; they do say that a certain "some periodical," which Geoffrey had been told about, or heard of, but had never seen-as containing a certain story, "in print," which Geoffrey himself tells, and, they do say, spoils in telling-is the NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE itself, edited by Mr T. CAMPBELL himself. If so, what a predicament! how very uncomfortable for some folks!

But let us finish with BROWN. IRVING is not alone under this charge of purloining from him-his face and eyes. There are NEAL and COOPER

both of them have stolen his catamounts, and played the devil with his Indians. NEAL, however, is content with "catching the idea❞—and working it up, till it scratches his own fingers. But Cooper-so far as he cansteals the broom ready made! Neal is altogether too much of a poet. He overdoes everything-pumps the lightning into you, till he is out of breath, and you, in a blaze.-In his lucid intervals, he appears to be a very sensible fellow; but, in his paroxysmsthere is not a page of his, that wouldn't take fire, in a high wind. He writes volume after volume, to the tune of three or four a-month; hardly one of which it is possible to read through: and yet, we could hardly open at a passage, without finding some evidence of extraordinary power-prodigious energy—or acute thinking. He is, undeniably, the most original writer, that America has produced-thinks himself the cleverest fellow in Americaand does not scruple to say so. He is in Europe now.

So, with COOPER. The only catamount, that ever he ventured upon, was a tame one, which had escaped out of Brown's clutches, first, with