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MEMOIRS 
 
 OF 
 
 CHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN, 
 
 THE AMERICAN NOVELIST. 
 
Just Published, 
 
 CARWIN, THE BILOQUIST, and other TALES. 
 By C. B. BROWN, Author of Wieland, Ormond, &c. 3 vols. 
 
MEMOIRS 
 
 OF 
 
 CHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN, 
 
 THE AMERICAN NOVELIST. 
 
 AUTHOR OF 
 WIELAND, ORMOND, ARTHUR MERVYN, &c. 
 
 WITH SELECTIONS 
 
 FROM HIS 
 
 ORIGINAL LETTERS, 
 
 AND MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS. 
 
 BY 
 
 WILLIAM DUNLAP. 
 
 LONDON . 
 
 PRINTED FOR HENRY COLBURN AND CO. 
 PUBLIC LIBRARY, CONDUIT STREET, HANOVER SQUARE. 
 
 1822, 
 
PRINTED EY J. GflEEN, LEICESTER STREET, 
 LEICESTER SQUARE. 
 
 
PgZ- 
 
 MEMOIRS 
 
 OF 
 
 CHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN 
 
 IT is generally expected that the subjects of 
 biography should be men, who, having attracted 
 the world s gaze by their deeds, their inventions, 
 or their writings, leave at their death a strong- 
 curiosity, to be satisfied by a detail of their pri 
 vate lives, and the circumstances which led to 
 their notoriety. But the subject of the present 
 work had not attracted that universal notice, nor 
 excited that interest, even among his country 
 men generally, which would authorize the writ 
 ing his life upon the principle of gratifying pub 
 lic curiosity ; yet there are not wanting suffi 
 cient reasons to induce an expectation that 
 this volume will excite interest, convey in 
 struction, and induce a lively regret that its 
 
 B 
 
2 
 
 MEMOIRS OF 
 
 subject was prevented by death, from attaining 
 that celebrity, which his talents and acquire 
 ments must have gained for him, and of leaving 
 to his country works of the highest importance, 
 both scientific and literary. 
 
 Charles Brockden Brown was among the 
 earlier adventurers into the world of fiction, and 
 the painful path of public amusement or instruc 
 tion, by the pen and the press, whom the United 
 States of America produced ; and the early ad 
 venturers in all perilous undertakings are justly 
 objects of curiosity and interest. Those who 
 first saw the propriety of men in a new and 
 better political state, throwing off the shackles 
 of an absurd prejudice, in favour of European 
 opinions and writings, as they had thrown from 
 them the proffered chains, and rejected the pre 
 tensions of European tyranny ; those who first 
 saw that the inhabitants of a country, no less 
 removed by the enjoyment of greater liberty and 
 better forms of government, by the more exten 
 sive diffusion of the benefits of education and 
 property, and the consequent greater purity of 
 public morals, from the tyranny and intolerance 
 of the long-established governments of Europe, 
 and the squalid ignorance and poverty of the 
 principal part of their population, than by the 
 remoteness of their situation from the ordinary 
 
CHARLES BKOCKDEN BROWN. 3 
 
 range of European politics and influence of 
 European ambition ; those, who at the same 
 time that they acknowledge the inestimable 
 value of English, French, and German litera 
 ture, saw the necessity of establishing a literature 
 for their own country ; who saw the advantages 
 of publications suited to a new state of manners 
 and political economy, and which should not 
 only produce original instruction, but point out 
 and sever the good from the bad, in the litera 
 ture and institutions of Europe ; however ineffi 
 cient their efforts may have been, they are enti 
 tled to the thanks of their countrymen, and will 
 hereafter be esteemed, not merely in proportion 
 to that which they performed, but to the effects 
 of their efforts upon those who follow in the 
 path they opened. On this ground, as well as 
 on that of uncommon talents and exemplary vir 
 tues, the subject of the following pages is enti 
 tled to a large portion of public attention. 
 
 It may be asserted, that no man contemns the 
 credit which is derived from ancestry. The ho 
 nours which are bestowed, or assumed, from 
 the mere circumstance of being able to speak 
 of the fame or virtues of our forefathers, are 
 doubtless of little value in comparison with 
 those honours which personal merit obtains; 
 yet they are, in the opinion of mankind, of 
 
 B 2 
 
4 MEMOIRS OF 
 
 some worth, and are felt to be so by every in 
 dividual. Of this species of credit, Charles 
 Brockden Brown had a, larger share than falls 
 to the lot of the greater portion of mankind : 
 and stood on the happy level with most of his 
 fellow-citizens of the United States. His 
 parents were virtuous, religious people, and as 
 such held a respectable rank in society ; and 
 he could trace back a long line of ancestry hold 
 ing the same honourable station. Natives of 
 England, and professing those religious opinions 
 which drew upon the first of the sect the con 
 temptuous appellation of Quaker (an appellation 
 which, though bestowed in reviling, has be 
 come a name of honour and adoption through 
 the virtues of the possessors) his ancestors fled 
 from the persecutions of their country in the 
 same ship with William Penn, and trusted to 
 the savages and the wilderness, rather than to 
 the justice of their countrymen. 
 
 Charles Brockden Brown was born on the 
 seventeenth day of January, in the year 1771, 
 in the city of Philadelphia. 
 
 Brown is one of those names which belongs 
 to so great a portion of those who descend from 
 English parentage, that it ceases to identify an 
 individual. Brockden is a happy addition 
 which was derived from a distant relation whose 
 
CHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN. 5 
 
 history, as preserved in the traditionary records 
 of the family, is too remarkable to be passed 
 over without notice. 
 
 Charles Brockden lived in England, under 
 the reign of the infamous Charles the Second. 
 It is well known that the latter part of the life 
 of the monarch was disturbed, if not by con 
 science, at least by the dread of the people s ven 
 geance. Reports of plots and conspiracies 
 disturbed the pensioner of France, even in the 
 arms of his mistresses. Charles Brockden 
 was at that time a student in the office of a 
 lawyer who was deeply implicated in one of 
 these plots. The conspirators assembled at 
 the house of his master for the purpose of 
 holding a consultation on the most practicable 
 mode of accompli shing their design. Brock 
 den in an adjoining room heard distinctly the 
 whole of their conversation, but w 7 as at length, 
 by some untoward accident, discovered by the 
 conspirators. Aware of his clanger he coun 
 terfeited sleep ; but so serious was the dread 
 of detection, excited by this circumstance in 
 the minds of the conspirators, that for their 
 mutual security, the majority of them resolved 
 upon his immediate death. His master wish 
 ing to preserve the life of his apprentice, 
 represented him as too stupid to comprehend 
 
O MEMOIRS OF 
 
 the meaning of their conversation, had he listened 
 to it, and used his eloquence to persuade them 
 not to embrue their hands in the blood of an 
 innocent boy. They yielded for the time, but 
 so great was his personal danger afterwards, 
 from the returning apprehensions of the con 
 spirators, that his master insisted on his embra 
 cing the first favourable opportunity of embark 
 ing for America. This the boy accordingly 
 did, and was promoted by his talents and indus 
 try to an important office in the province of 
 Pennsylvania, which he filled with dignity and 
 honour. From this person Charles Brown in 
 herited the additional name of Brockden. 
 
 Charles Brockden Brown at a very early 
 period of childhood acquired that fondness for 
 books which increased with him through life. 
 Possessing a frail and delicate constitution he 
 seldom mingled in the sports of children, and 
 that spirit of curiosity which is strong within 
 us at our entrance upon the bustling scenes of 
 life, not being gratified or dissipated by the usual 
 communication and exertions of childhood, found 
 in books a delightful source of knowledge, and 
 an inexhaustible fund of amusement. The mind 
 of Charles was intensely devoted to reading, at 
 an age in which boys are usually exhausting 
 their superabundant spirit of animation in what 
 
CHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN. 7 
 
 appears idle recreation, but which often gives 
 spring and force to both mental and physical 
 exertion in future life. His parents relate, that 
 when but an infant, if they left home, he requir 
 ed nothing but a book to divert him, and on 
 their return they would find him musing over 
 the page with all the gravity of a student. On 
 his return from school they would find him at 
 the hour of dinner in the parlour, where, having 
 slipped off his shoes, he was mounted on a table 
 and deeply engaged in the consultation of a map 
 suspended on the side of the wall. It was thus 
 that in Charles intellectual labour itself became 
 a species of recreation ; and thinking, which is 
 to the uncultivated so laborious and irksome an 
 occupation, became to him the most delightful 
 of employments. 
 
 At the age of ten Charles was reproved by a 
 visitor of his father s for some remark, which 
 brobably ought to have called forth commenda 
 tion, by the contemptuous appellation of boy. 
 After the guest had departed, " Why does he 
 call me boy ?" said Charles ; " does he not 
 know that it is neither size nor age, but under 
 standing, that makes the man ? I could ask him 
 an hundred questions, none of which he could 
 answer." At this period of his life he was so 
 intimately acquainted with the science of geo- 
 
8 MEMOIRS OF 
 
 graphy, that he became a sort of gazetteer to his 
 father, and would point out to him on the map 
 or chart almost any part of the world which he 
 made inquiry after; and could generally give 
 some account of the place. 
 
 With habits so happily adapted to derive every 
 advantage from instruction and disciplined study, 
 he entered the school of Robert Proud, now well 
 known as the author of the history of Pennsyl 
 vania. At the age of eleven he received from 
 this gentleman the rudiments of the Latin and 
 Greek languages ; and Mr. Proud always spoke 
 in the most flattering terms of his rapid profici 
 ency and unabating industry. The constitution 
 of Charles, at all times delicate, was now break 
 ing down beneath the efforts which strengthened 
 and enriched his mind. What pity it is that the 
 application which most assimilates man to the 
 exalted idea that we form of immortal per 
 fection should so certainly tend to enfeeble 
 his body and shorten his mortal existence, 
 while the brutalizing occupations of continued 
 and thought-expelling labour, give firmness, 
 vigour, and duration to the frame of man. We 
 are thus, however, taught to check the ardent 
 pursuit of knowledge, and deny gratification to 
 our love of seclusion ; to recal our minds to the 
 mingled scenes of society, and impose upon our 
 
CHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN. 9 
 
 bodies the necessary tasks of labour and health 
 ful exercise. Charles s preceptor at this time 
 recommended an abstinence from study, and 
 prescribed relaxation and excursions into the 
 country as indispensable for the re-establishment 
 of his health. 
 
 The excursions of Charles were made on foot, 
 and so great was the benefit which he received 
 from his pedestrian exercises, that he continued 
 the practice ever after. The man who is habi 
 tuated to solitary walking knows that it is impos 
 sible to make the mind move with the same 
 creeping pace which is imposed upon the body ; 
 ever alert, it flies into every region of the known 
 and unknown world, and while the feet measure 
 the distance between two mile-stones, the mind 
 ranges through the boundless regions of possible 
 existence. Hence arises an habitual abstraction, 
 which operating upon a mind so previously pre 
 pared as that of Charles s, caused, from a total 
 unconsciousness of what was passing- about him, 
 or of the flight of time, or the progress of his 
 feet, such unseasonable rambles as often to ex 
 cite great uneasiness in the different members of 
 his family. 
 
 After he left the school of Mr. Proud, which 
 was before he had completed the. sixteenth year 
 of his age, he wrote a number of essays, some in 
 
10 MEMOIRS OF 
 
 verse and some in prose. Amongst these may 
 be mentioned, a version of a part of the book of 
 Job, some of the psalms of David, and several 
 passages of Ossian. At the age of sixteen he 
 sketched plans of three distinct epic poems, one 
 on the discovery of America, another on Pizar- 
 ro s conquest of Peru, and a third on Cortez s 
 expedition to Mexico. With these he was much 
 engrossed, and for some time thought life only 
 desirable as a mean for their accomplishment. 
 
 About this time Charles busied himself in in 
 venting a species of short-hand writing, and 
 actually enabled himself to take down the 
 words of a speaker almost as rapidly as they 
 are usually uttered ; he likewise studied, un 
 assisted but by books, the French language. 
 In this state of intellectual revelry, by diversify 
 ing his studies and pursuits, he gave to each a 
 character of novelty, which answered the pur 
 poses of relaxation, and by the aid of his pedes 
 trian rambles kept up as ample a portion of 
 strength and health as the nature of his constitu 
 tion and the slender texture of his body would 
 admit. 
 
 But amidst the diversities of study and changes 
 of avocation in which his active mind ran riot, it 
 now became indispensably necessary for him to 
 make his choice of a profession. That freedom 
 
CHARLES BKOCKDEN BROWN. 11 
 
 almost amounting to licentiousness with which 
 Charles roved unguided in pursuit of knowledge, 
 had not fitted him for the severe study of one 
 science ; however, he made his choice of the 
 profession of the law. This science, to a mind 
 so ardent in the pursuit of information, opened 
 a wide and inexhaustible field for indulgence. 
 It is withal, in this country, one of the roads to 
 opulence, and the most certain path to political 
 importance and fame. Charles needed not the 
 importunity of friends or relatives to decide his 
 choice in favour of the law ; and was, with high 
 expectations of future eminence in that profes 
 sion, apprenticed to Alexander Wilcox, esq., an 
 eminent lawyer of Philadelphia. 
 
 There is no circumstance of more importance 
 to a man s future welfare, than that his early 
 associates should be happily chosen. Brown 
 selected for his first set of friends, several young 
 men of brilliant talents, amiable dispositions, 
 and ardent minds ; who, though all of charac 
 ters very distinct from his, excited his emula 
 tion, and called into action his mental powers. 
 He at this time became one of a society for de 
 bating questions of law, and had for associates 
 young men who have since been the ornaments 
 of the profession ; yet Charles was, amongst 
 these, distinguished both for solidity of judg 
 ment, and acuteness of investigation. 
 
12 MEMOIRS OF 
 
 After the day passed in Mr. Wilcox s office, 
 Charles retired to his chamber, and recorded in 
 a journal all the incidents and reflections which 
 had occurred in that space of time. He com 
 posed and transcribed letters, and even copied 
 into his journal the epistles he received from 
 his correspondents. This severe tax upon his 
 time was intended for improvement both in 
 thinking and writing, and as a record of that 
 improvement. He was always anxious to acquire 
 a facility of writing, and a correct graceful style ; 
 and journalizing was the first expedient which 
 suggested itself to him for the accomplishment 
 of that desirable object. He early, however, 
 studied with assiduity the writings of the best 
 English authors, with the same view : and those 
 who have attended to his later writings, will not 
 hesitate to give great praise to the style in which 
 they are composed, and to lament that so early 
 a period was put by death to the rapid improve 
 ment of his rich and active mind. 
 
 Among the associates of Brown, was one of 
 the name of Davidson, who conceived the de 
 sign of forming and establishing a literary society. 
 Brown was invited to become a member ; but 
 not having at that time a just idea of the im 
 provement always derived from such associations, 
 he entered reluctantly into the plan ; but soon 
 became the leader, and prepared a set of rules, 
 
CHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN. 13 
 
 which were adopted with some slight modifica 
 tions. The society consisted of nine members, 
 and was called the Belles Lettres Club. Its ob 
 ject was two-fold improvement in composition 
 and eloquence; and in both, there is good reason 
 to believe that Brown excelled his companions. 
 As member of the law society, Charles was 
 no less zealous and active. While president, it 
 was part of his official duty to record his judg 
 ment on the questions debated. These records 
 are now preserved, and they afford an honour 
 able testimony to his sagacity, sound judgment, 
 and research. They are likewise delivered in a 
 style of gravity becoming a judge, and widely 
 different from that in which he usually wrote. 
 
 It has been remarked by a friend, " that 
 the most complicated judgment," recorded by 
 Charles, " embracing reported cases of unusual 
 subtlety, with his reasons at length, on a ques 
 tion by far the most difficult that fell to his pro 
 vince to decide, is delivered with more perspi 
 cuity than any of the rest, in a language destitute 
 of all embellishment, and with peculiar nicety 
 of detail. He was, in fact," continues the same 
 friend, " a model of the dry, grave, and judicial 
 style of argument. Directly after he had disposed 
 of the question, as appears fronvhis journal, he 
 gave vent to Ins fancy in a poetical effusion, as 
 
14 MEMOIRS OF 
 
 much distinguished hy its wild and eccentric 
 brilliancy, as the other composition was for its 
 plain sobriety and gravity of style. They are 
 perfect opposites ; and any one who perused 
 them, would with difficulty be persuaded that so 
 much eccentricity, and so much regularity, were 
 the productions of one man ; much less would 
 he believe them to have proceeded from the 
 same source, with the interval of a few moments 
 only." 
 
 While thus ostensibly studying law, but in 
 reality indulging himself in every freak sug 
 gested by his love of literature and of fame, he 
 presented himself to the world in the Columbian 
 Magazine, in the character of " ARhapsodist." 
 The first number of this series was published in 
 the month of August, 1789. 
 
 Although the title was assumed, the character 
 was not. Charles in these essays exhibits him 
 self. We behold a young and ardent mind 
 straining after unattainable perfection, always 
 dissatisfied with and struggling to surpass its 
 most successful efforts. He tells the world with 
 what rapture he has held communion with his 
 own thoughts amidst the gloom of surrounding 
 woods, where his fancy has peopled every ob 
 ject with ideal beings, and the barrier between 
 himself and the world of spirits, seemed burst 
 
CHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN. 15 
 
 by the force of meditation. In this solitude he 
 feels himself surrounded by a delightful society ; 
 but when he is transported from thence, and com 
 pelled to listen to the frivolous chat of his fellow 
 being s, he then suffers all the miseries of soli- 
 
 O 
 
 tude. He acknowledges, however, that his inter 
 course and conversation with mankind had 
 wrought a salutary change ; that he can now 
 mingle in the concerns of life, perform his ap 
 propriate duties, and reserve that higher species 
 of discourse for the solitude and silence of his 
 study. 
 
 That Charles thus early saw the error of in 
 dulging in this romancing vein, and perceived 
 that it unfitted him for the conversation and 
 duties of real life, is here made evident ; but that 
 he had at this time or even much later in life, 
 corrected the evil, was not true. He long after 
 this period loathed the common pursuits and 
 common topics of men, and appeared in society 
 an eccentric, if not an isolated being. 
 
 About this time he published in an Edentown 
 newspaper, a poetical address to Dr. Franklin. 
 " The blundering printer," says Charles in his 
 journal, " from his zeal or his ignorance, or per 
 haps from both, substituted the name of Wash 
 ington. Washington therefore stands arrayed 
 in awkward colours. Philosophy smiles to be- 
 
16 MEMOIRS OF 
 
 hold her darling son ; she turns with horror and 
 disgust from those \vho have won the laurel of 
 victory in the field of battle, to this her favourite 
 candidate who had never participated in such 
 bloody glory, and whose fame was derived from 
 the conquests of philosophy alone. The printer 
 by his blundering ingenuity made the subject 
 ridiculous ; every word of this clumsy panegyric 
 was a direct slander upon Washington, and so 
 it was regarded at the time." 
 
 The mimic practice of the law either as pleader 
 or judge, which occurred in the debates of the 
 society of students, was the only practice of the 
 science which Charles was doomed to undertake. 
 As the time approached which rendered it neces 
 sary for him to pass from the office of his master 
 to one of his own, to consider real instead of 
 fictitious cases, and mingle in real debate as the 
 champion of the really oppressed, the mind of 
 Brown shrank from the scenes he saw preparing 
 for him, and conceived an antipathy to the pro 
 fession which he had voluntarily chosen, which 
 neither the persuasions and arguments of his 
 friends, nor his own sense of duty, were sufficient 
 to overcome. 
 
 Of the numbers who are educated for the pro 
 fession of the law, very many in this country turn 
 aside to some other pursuit, which appears to 
 
CHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN. 17 
 
 them more profitable or less arduous. Many 
 who have dissipated that time in idleness or li 
 centious pleasures which should have been de 
 voted to study, shrink from the practice of their 
 intended profession, from a consciousness of ig 
 norance, and a reluctance to encounter the la 
 borious application known to be necessary. But 
 none of these causes for relinquishing a chosen 
 profession will apply to Charles Brockden Brown. 
 The acquisition of wealth by another pursuit was 
 not his inducement. Riches were not objects 
 of desire with him at this period of his life, and 
 by relinquishing his prospects of emolument 
 from his profession, he threw himself as a help 
 less dependent upon his relatives. The fear of 
 encountering arduous stud^ did not deter him. 
 The labour of thought and investigation, or of 
 the application of the pen, had no terrors for 
 him. Every species of riotous or licentious 
 pleasure was his abhorrence. For the cause of 
 that bitter regret and disappointment which he 
 inflicted upon his family, we must look to some 
 other source ; and in the JRhapsodist, already 
 quoted, we find it. 
 
 He had formed a world of his own in which 
 he delighted to dwell, and with whose inhabit 
 ants he was habituated to commune, to the ex 
 clusion of the dull or sordid being s of real life. 
 
 c 
 
18 MEMOIRS OF 
 
 The conversation which he heard passing 1 among* 
 his fellow beings relative to those objects which 
 constituted the sources of their joys and sorrows, 
 appeared " frivolous chat," or, as doubtless it 
 often was, the offspring of " folly, ignorance, and 
 cupidity." Society was to him solitude, and in 
 solitude he found delightful converse. It was 
 this shrinking from society, this solitude, this 
 wrong estimate of the views, motives and cha 
 racters of mankind, which wrought so power 
 fully upon the mind of Brown, as to make him 
 turn aside from the obvious path which led to 
 competence, honour, and self-approbation. 
 
 Charles on this occasion persuaded himself 
 that he acted rightly, or he would not so have 
 acted. Yet this conviction being grounded on 
 error, like all erroneous opinions, was subject 
 to doubts and misgivings, which preyed upon 
 his happiness and undermined his health. He 
 had three brothers older than himself, all ac 
 tively engaged in the pursuit of happiness and 
 fortune, according to the usual fashion of the 
 world; of these, and of his aged parents, he 
 was the distinguished favourite ; he was justly 
 looked upon as the most highly-gifted member 
 of the family, and as destined for their happi 
 ness and honour. His abandonment of the path 
 chosen for him, was to them a serious disap- 
 
CHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN. 19 
 
 pointment and affliction : and this, to Charles, 
 who loved them with the purest fraternal and 
 filial affection, was a cause of sorrow and un 
 utterable regret. 
 
 To support himself against the persuasions 
 and arguments of his friends, and against the 
 suggestions of his own better judgment, he 
 resorted to all the sophisms and parodoxes with 
 which ignorance and ingenious prejudice had 
 assailed the science or the practice of the law. 
 He professed that he could not reconcile it wither? 
 his ideas of morality to become indiscriminately 
 the defender of right or wrong ; thereby inti 
 mating", if not asserting, that a man must, in 
 the practice of the law, not only deviate from 
 morality, but become the champion of injustice. 
 He would demand, what must be the feelings 
 of a lawyer if he had become an auxiliary in the 
 cause of wrong and rapine ? If the widow and 
 the orphan were thus by a legal robbery deprived 
 of their just and righteous claims through the 
 superior artifice or eloquence of the advocate, 
 was he not as criminal as the man who commit 
 ted such felony without the sanction of a court 
 of justice, and for which the same court would 
 pronounce the severest punishment ? He endea 
 voured to persuade himself and his hearers, that 
 unless a lawyer could reconcile his mind to the 
 
 c 2 
 
20 MEMOIRS OF 
 
 practice of all this iniquity, there was little 
 prospect of his succeeding in his profession, and 
 of course that the acquisition of fame and for 
 tune were only to be considered as proofs of the 
 wrongs done, and the miseries inflicted upon 
 his fellow men. 
 
 The friends of Brown did not easily relin 
 quish the object of their wishes, or cease to 
 urge arguments founded in truth, with all the 
 eloquence of thorough conviction. They re 
 presented to him that men of irreproachable 
 characters, who stood in the front ranks of 
 honour, had acquired all their celebrity at the 
 bar. His answer was, that the opinion of the 
 world was always equivocal, sometimes sus 
 picious, and often beyond all question wrong. 
 The favourable regards of the world were 
 conferred indiscriminately on virtue or vice, in 
 nocence or guilt; as all history evinces. Would 
 this, or did it ever in a single solitary instance 
 counterbalance the remorse of their own con 
 sciences when such good opinions were paid 
 for services which they never performed, or to 
 merit to which they had no pretensions ? Was 
 it not rather the severest of all satires, when we 
 were applauded for virtues which we never pos 
 sessed, and as unjust as it would be to violate a 
 neighbour s property and to claim it as our 
 
CHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN. 21 
 
 own ? Did not the evil extend even farther 
 than this, and was it not productive of more 
 moral injury by appropriating the rewards of 
 virtue, the good opinion of the world, to vice : 
 and thus make a common property of what 
 ought to belong exclusively to one, and con 
 found all distinctions between right and wrong ? 
 In the present case he denied the validity of the 
 evidence produced, and contended that whether 
 these men were justly entitled to such celebrity 
 could only be known by themselves. Their 
 motives to conceal their real characters from the 
 world were obvious and palpable, and if they 
 were monopolizers of the fame of better and 
 more deserving men, this was of itself an argu 
 ment why he should not add another name to 
 their list. The universality of such an evil 
 mig ht be a reason for reforming such abuses by 
 stronger and more incessant exertions ; but was 
 clearly none why it should be rendered more 
 diffusive, inveterate, and consequently more 
 alarming, by his individual participation in the 
 guilt. 
 
 These erroneous opinions which governed 
 Charles in this important decision, he had good 
 cause to renounce when too late for the change 
 to remedy the evil. I shall have to record his 
 intimate knowledge of men, who in the practice 
 
22 MEMOIRS OF 
 
 of the law have invariably practised the dictates 
 of justice and of honour, one of whom was among 
 the most valued, tried, and best known of his 
 friends. 
 
 His opinions respecting the practice of the 
 law at a subsequent period, may be known by 
 the following extract from a letter written in 
 answer to one from a student who was impatient 
 to be admitted to the bar. 
 
 " Your letter has indeed a very singular 
 appearance, and I congratulate myself more 
 than ever on the enjoyment of your friendship ! 
 What ! is all this wisdom from a youth ? whose 
 passions are impetuous ? who has been exposed 
 to all the seductions of pleasure, with no other 
 security than his own prudence and reflection ? 
 And is his conduct agreeable to those maxims ? 
 Justly then may he indulge the impulse of vir 
 tuous ambition, and please himself with the 
 prospect of affluence and honours. Go on, 
 amiable and experienced youth, and mayest 
 thou speedily attain what thou so laudably 
 aspirest after the fair fame of integrity and the 
 peace of virtue. These are purposes that are 
 truly worthy of a rational being ; purposes that 
 are almost peculiar to thyself, which few men 
 of whatever age make the object of their wishes, 
 or prosecute with equal steadiness and diligence ; 
 
CHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN. 23 
 
 and which is still more rarely to be found in 
 the mind of those of the same age. 
 
 " May the hour in which you expect to be 
 admitted speedily arrive. Impatience is cer 
 tainly unnecessary. That there are many things 
 beside a knowledge of law requisite to form an 
 advocate, is very obvious ; and though your legal 
 knowledge may qualify you long before April 
 for admission, yet, my friend, there are other 
 accomplishments which, whatever should be 
 your diligence or resolution, you will scarcely 
 have attained in the seventh April after the next. 
 But if legal knowledge were the only requisite, 
 yet your impatience is unreasonable, since while 
 there remains any thing to be known, you cannot 
 be esteemed perfect ; since it is impossible for 
 you to know too much ; and since, after twenty 
 or thirty years study, there will still be a legal 
 something of which you are ignorant. 
 
 " It is true, that success in all the learned pro 
 fessions is too frequently the consequence of ac 
 cident, and that men are not always rewarded 
 exactly agreeably to their merits; but there are 
 particular exceptions, and, as a general observa 
 tion, it is undoubtedly true, that men of all 
 professions, and particularly lawyers, are suc 
 cessful in proportion to their skill. 
 
 " I need not tell you what, in my opinion, 
 
24 MEMOIRS OF 
 
 are the necessary accomplishments of a lawyer. 
 Our sentiments, I believe, are somewhat diffe 
 rent on this subject ; but, however few and sim 
 ple they may be, I cannot but still discover the 
 necessity of time and patience, diligence, and 
 the unreasonableness of yonr impatience for ad 
 mission. Whatever be the qualifications of an 
 accomplished lawyer, yet there are different de 
 grees of excellence in them. This undoubtedly 
 is his employment, to think, to write, and to 
 speak. The certainty and facility with which 
 he shall answer questions that come before him, 
 will unquestionably depend on the degree of 
 knowledge which he has acquired, and of the 
 sagacity which he possesses. Study and re 
 flection are the sources of legal knowledge, as 
 of every other kind, and these sources are inex 
 haustible. From these fountains, therefore, 
 whatever we possess must be drawn. But we 
 cannot draw too much, and every possible ac 
 cession to our store, must be not only not use 
 less, but highly advantageous to us, whether we 
 be eager for wealth or reputation. 
 
 " As a writer, both his style and his penman 
 ship are improvable by practice. How far the 
 qualities of style are entitled to his attention, 
 may perhaps be a question ; but that he has 
 numerous occasions for the exercise of penman- 
 
CHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN. 25 
 
 ship is indisputable ; and that it is highly his 
 interest to become master of an expeditious 
 mode of writing. A lawyer, whether at court, 
 or in his own closet, has perpetual use for his 
 pen ; and is it necessary to expatiate on the ad 
 vantages of writing with as much rapidity as 
 any man can articulate ? or can you doubt either 
 that you have not attained this, or that it is at 
 tainable ? 
 
 " With respect to speech, it may not be in 
 cumbent on my friend to make himself an ora 
 tor in the genuine sense. The talents of Cicero 
 could not, perhaps, with propriety, be displayed 
 in their full extent in any American court: but 
 what is more necessary or desirable, than to 
 deliver one s self with fluency and correctness ? 
 There are no ears to which the utmost degree 
 of accuracy of reasoning and language is unsuit 
 able which cannot relish the utmost degree 
 of perspicuity, both of expression and of argu 
 ment. But have you already attained these 
 qualifications ? In short, can you, on all occa 
 sions, conceive, and express clearly, forcibly, 
 and gracefully ? to which I may add, rapidly ? 
 These are attainments within your power. The 
 end is not unworthy the means. The more 
 you acquire before admission to the bar, the 
 less will remain to be acquired after. So little are 
 
26 MEMOIRS OF 
 
 any of your pursuits, merely as a lawyer, ob 
 structed by the delay of your admission, that it 
 will, in reality, be favourable to them. There 
 is a goal which you are desirous of reaching, 
 and between which and yourself, there is an 
 ample space. Now if your strength is at all 
 times equal, if, whenever you begin this ca 
 reer, exactly the same space of time will be 
 required to finish it, it is doubtless, proper to 
 begin as soon as possible, because the sooner 
 you begin, the sooner you will end ; but if by 
 delaying to begin for a reasonable time (two, 
 three, or four years) you do not set the goal at 
 a greater distance ; if, supposing you should 
 begin now, you would reach it in seven years ; 
 yet, if you should delay your enterprize for 
 two years, and begin then, your strength and 
 vigour would be augmented in the interval, so 
 as to enable you to reach it as soon as another 
 who began at this time, would not the delay 
 be rather advantageous than otherwise ? At 
 least, is the advantage greater on one side than 
 on the other ? And are not these your circum 
 stances, my dear W. ? The longer you delay 
 your admission, will you not be better qualified 
 for practice ? I have heard a gentleman observe, 
 that were he a student of law, he would not begin 
 to practise till he was twenty-seven or twenty- 
 
CHAHLES I5KOCKDEN BROWN. 27 
 
 eight years of age. But, my friend, perhaps 
 your domestic circumstances would not surfer 
 you to delay your admission so long, and I am 
 sure that your present attainments would not 
 justify so long a delay. You are very young, 
 and though it would perhaps be impossible, or 
 if possible, by no means necessary to continue a 
 student for seven or eight years longer, yet to 
 preserve that character for one or two years 
 more would neither be impossible, nor improper. 
 However you should think proper to determine, 
 were it in your power to hasten or procrastinate 
 your admission, yet these considerations ought 
 at least to make you patient under unavoidable 
 delays." 
 
 One of the earliest friends of Brown was a 
 young man of singular beauty andanimation,com- 
 bined with talents of a most fascinating quality. 
 The writer became acquainted with him through 
 the introduction of Brown, and never has ceased 
 to regret his premature death. The characters 
 of Brown and W. were in most points essential 
 ly different, but composed of such contrarieties 
 as never came into serious and repulsive col 
 lision. In depth and extent of inquiry, various 
 and accurate knowledge, even on those points 
 with which W. himself was most familiar, 
 
28 MEMOIRS OF 
 
 Brown was pre-eminent. W. had a ready, per 
 suasive and fascinating eloquence always at 
 command ; a fancy prompt and vigorous, with a 
 wit which delighted even those at whose ex 
 pense it was exerted. Such talents rendered 
 him a valuable acquisition to the law society, 
 for he too was a student preparing for the bar. 
 If too careless or indolent to investigate his sub 
 ject, he was ever able to adorn it, and was 
 heard with delight, if not with conviction. Pos 
 sessing a warm and susceptible heart, he early 
 attached himself to Charles, and an acquaintance 
 formed in the first instance by the casual meet 
 ings of the society, soon consolidated into a per 
 manent friendship ; a friendship which in fact 
 existed until the death of W. When W. was 
 present they were almost inseparable compa 
 nions ; when absent, they punctually corres 
 ponded. Amidst these testimonies of affection, 
 some which are characteristic may be selected. 
 In one of these Charles remarks, that the most 
 perfect and refined misery is the price at which 
 we buy just conceptions of propriety and duty, 
 by acting in opposition to them. The miseries 
 of vice and the blessedness of well doing, are at 
 testations equally strong of the value and digni 
 ty of virtue ; but the sense of this persuasion is 
 proportioned to the extent of those opposite 
 
CHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN. 29 
 
 consequences. Actions, he continues, are not the 
 just criterion of sentiments. He proceeds to set 
 before his correspondent the pleasures derived 
 from the indulgence of virtuous love, a smiling 
 family, and all the tender delights of honourable 
 intercourse, the acquisition of riches aud ho 
 nours. He goes on to assert that his friend 
 will hereafter realize the scene which his fancy 
 is painting now ; that he himself is only acting 
 the character of the prophet, and dwells with 
 peculiar delight in the indulgence of the visions 
 which fact and not fancy discloses. The ele 
 gance of this reproof will be better understood, 
 if we resort to the character of W. as it was 
 drawn by Brown himself, after the death of that 
 gentleman . 
 
 " I am led to these remarks, he continues, by 
 reading over the letters of my deceased friend 
 W. What a contrast between his actual deport 
 ment, and any notion of that deportment to be 
 collected by a stranger from his letters ! His 
 letters to me are as confidential as letters can 
 be, yet they form a picture totally the reverse of 
 his conversation and his conduct. He had no 
 small portion of wit, and this power was in part 
 exercised in company ; but the moment he took 
 up his pen to write a letter or an essay, he for 
 got all his mirth, became pensive, sentimental, 
 
30 MEMOIRS OF 
 
 and poetical. To hear him talk, one would think 
 that he never had a serious moment in his life. 
 He literally sung himself to sleep, and awakened 
 in a burst of laughter. To see the effusions of 
 his pen, one would imagine that he was a stran 
 ger to smiles ; that he was for ever steeped in 
 tears and wrapped in melancholy. In this there 
 was nothing that deserved to be called affecta 
 tion or hypocrisy, since he corresponded only 
 with those with whom he was occasionally in the 
 habit of conversing ; and his tongue regaled 
 them with unceasing jests, with just as much 
 sincerity as his pen saddened them with its 
 austerity, or melted them with its pathos. His 
 sonnets and letters talk almost altogether of 
 love, and on this subject no Petrarch was ever 
 more tender, refined and pathetic. The youth 
 was for ever in love, and was all impassioned 
 eloquence at the feet of an adored fair one ; but 
 his love was merely the exuberance of health, 
 and an ardent constitution. Consequently, his 
 love was always bestowed upon the present ob 
 ject, and never stood in the way of the most li 
 centious indulgences. After receiving a letter, 
 full of the most doleful eulogies of some divine 
 but refractory creature, and hinting his resolu 
 tion to shake off the yoke of his inauspicious 
 stars, I have hastened to his chamber to console 
 
CHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN. 31 
 
 him, and found him at a table presiding with 
 marks of infinite satisfaction, and keeping the 
 worthy crew that surrounded him in a constant 
 roar. Such was my friend, and such were his 
 letters. His tongue and his pen, his actions 
 and his written speculations, were as opposite 
 to each other as the poles. " 
 
 In one of the letters from Charles to W. may 
 be found a sentiment of a very singular nature, 
 as it shows his propensity to extract felicity from 
 a subject which is commonly regarded as unfor 
 tunate. He had discovered by accident, that Jhe 
 was afflicted with a myopism, by having acci 
 dentally put on spectacles accommodated to 
 such vision. He discovers that he possesses a 
 vision superior to that of ordinary men. He 
 had only to apply to his eyes, what Dr. Rush 
 calls the aid of declining vision, and he is usher 
 ed into a new and beautiful creation. He ob 
 serves that it is in his power to make the sun, 
 the stars, and all surrounding creation sparkle 
 upon his view with renovated lustre and beauty. 
 Not satisfied with this, he goes on to compare 
 his situation with the situation of those who had 
 ever beheld the sun in all his majesty and efful 
 gence. To him he had been in all his glories, a 
 stranger ; he had never been familiarly ac 
 quainted with so glorious a personage. 
 

 32 MEMOIRS OF 
 
 On the other hand, those who had always 
 revelled in the magnificence of nature, had 
 become satiated with its glory. Creation to 
 them could unfold no new beauty ; a glance of 
 the eye satisfied them, and it was a glory that 
 palled upon the sense. To him all this was a 
 territory unseen, and it seemed as if nature had 
 veiled her radiance from his view, to the end 
 that he might, when he pleased, indulge himself 
 in the enjoyment of her bounties. He was able 
 to discern light enough to guide his footsteps, 
 and to answer all the purposes of social inter 
 course ; all beyond this was novelty, was exqui 
 site enjoyment. To those who were surrounded 
 with more expanse of vision, all these blessings 
 were denied. He therefore felicitated himself 
 on the thought that he had not the optics of or 
 dinary men. 
 
 It has been already remarked, that he in 
 herited from nature a frail, delicate, and sickly 
 constitution ; a constitution which incapacitated 
 him for athletic exercise. In another letter to 
 one of his correspondents, he congratulates him 
 self on this infirmity. He is by the benevo 
 lence of nature rendered, in a manner, an exile 
 from many of the temptations that infest the 
 minds of ardent youth. Possessing such a con 
 stitutional infirmity, he had nothing to appre- 
 
CHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN. 33 
 
 hend from those enticements \vhich usually sway 
 the minds of young men. He had by nature 
 been devoted to contemplation. Whatever his 
 wishes might have been, his benevolent destiny 
 had prevented him from running into the frivo 
 lities of youth. He ascribes to this cause his 
 love of letters, and his predominant anxiety to 
 excel in whatever was a glorious subject of com 
 petition. Had he been furnished with the nerves 
 and muscles of his comrades, it was very far 
 from being impossible that he might have relin 
 quished intellectual pleasures. Nature had be 
 nevolently rendered him incapable of encounter 
 ing such severe trials. 
 
 From hence a question arose whether it was 
 virtue in him to refrain from those pleasures 
 which he felt no appetite to indulge in. He 
 gravely dismisses the argument with his opinion 
 that it was not. Far from repining, however, 
 he earnestly prays that he may never be allowed 
 a constitution sufficient to enable him to stand a 
 trial so severe ; that if his virtue must be placed 
 under the patronage of nature, he may never be 
 deserted by his guardian ; that his constitutional 
 imbecility may prevent his falling a victim to 
 those temptations which he has not virtue enough 
 to avoid. 
 
 That Charles was dissatisfied with his own 
 
34 MEMOIRS OF 
 
 conduct in relinquishing his profession, and that 
 the disappointment of his friends, and their 
 anxiety for his future welfare preyed upon his 
 spirits, is by no means doubtful with me. I will 
 here give two extracts from his letters which de- 
 velope his character, and show the gloom of his 
 mind in this early period of his life. 
 
 " As for me, I long ago discovered that nature 
 had not qualified me for an actor on this stage. 
 The nature of my education only added to these 
 disqualifications, and I experienced all those de 
 viations from the centre, which arise when all 
 our lessons are taken from books, and the 
 scholar makes his own character the comment. 
 A happy destiny indeed brought me to the know 
 ledge of two or three minds which nature had 
 fashioned in the same mould with my own, but 
 these are gone. And, O God, enable me to await 
 the moment when it is thy will that I should 
 follow them/ 
 
 " What, my friend, art thou certainly awake ? 
 Or is it that I am dreaming ? No, I believe you 
 incapable of adulation : and yet there are some 
 parts of your acceptable epistle, which are ex 
 tremely suspicious. But your motives do not 
 only excuse, but justify you. When a friend is 
 sinking into a quicksand or struggling with a 
 
CHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN. 35 
 
 suffocating stream, there is nothing can betide 
 him which is so dangerous as despair ; and one, 
 who, though near at hand, is unable to afford 
 him any personal assistance, cannot be more 
 serviceable to him, than by cherishing his hopes, 
 and keeping him from yielding to despair: and 
 if in the ardour of our exhortations, and the pre 
 cipitancy of our zeal, we chance to deviate from 
 rigid truth, and facilitate his escape, by invigo 
 rating his efforts with flattering representations 
 of his power, and delusive promises of triumph, 
 is it not more to be commended than censured ? 
 " I have not been deficient in the pursuit of 
 that necessary branch of knowledge ; the study 
 of myself. I will not explain the result, for have 
 I not already sufficiently endeavoured to make 
 my friends unhappy by communications, which 
 though they might easily be injurious, could not 
 be of any possible advantage. I really, dear W. 
 regret that period when your pity was first ex 
 cited in my favour. I sincerely lament that I 
 ever gave you reason to imagine that I was not 
 so happy, as a gay indifference with regard to 
 the present, stubborn forgetfulness with respect 
 to the uneasy past, and excursions into lightsome 
 futurity could make me : for what end, what 
 useful purposes were promoted by the discovery ? 
 It could not take away from the number of the 
 
 D 2 
 
36 MEMOIRS OF 
 
 unhappy, but only add to it, by making those 
 who loved me participate in my uneasiness, 
 which each participation, so far from tending to 
 diminish, would in reality increase, by adding 
 those regrets of which I had been the author in 
 them, to my original stock. 
 
 " I have a brother, whom I am bound by in 
 numerable ties to revere and love. I have not 
 seen him except for a few days, these eight years. 
 He has gained wisdom by experience, a bitter 
 series of experiments ; but though there has sub 
 sisted no personal intercourse between us for so 
 long a time, we have talked frequently and co 
 piously to each other by the assistance of the 
 pen. His letters are lessons lessons of pru 
 dence, and there is no maxim which he has 
 so frequently inculcated, as that of covering from 
 the eyes of others, with an impenetrable mask, 
 whatever fears or anxieties may agitate us. 
 
 " This precept I have broken only with regard 
 to you and B. The propriety of this rule, I 
 have frequently experienced from the advantages 
 resulting from adhering to it ; and may I not add 
 that its propriety has also been evinced by the 
 inconveniences which I have felt by deviating 
 from it ? For no man ought to act, but in pur 
 suance of some rational motive, and what useful 
 purpose could be answered by making C. B. B. 
 
CHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN. 37 
 
 better known to his friends? What but their im- 
 happiness could be produced by It? 
 
 " Forget me, my friend, as saon as possible. 
 At least, forget that any latent anguish or cor 
 roding sorrow, is concealed under that aspect of 
 indifference which has become habitual. Why 
 should I any longer talk to you of myself ? Why 
 should my letters be the busy and malicious wit 
 nesses of my faults and follies ? You are too 
 young to be any father confessor. I wonder you 
 have not declared your disapprobation of the 
 usual strain of my epistles. I smile (though it 
 must be owned, with less gaiety than seriousness) 
 at the foolish part which I have acted so long, 
 unreasonably and unnecessarily imparting sor 
 row to those whom I must wish happy in pro 
 portion as I love them, and calling out for con 
 solations, which I know to be impossible to be 
 obtained. 
 
 " For shame, thou idiot or thou madman ! 
 cease thy lamentable croakings. Reserve gloomy 
 meditations and useless complaining for thy 
 chamber, and show at least thy magnanimity by 
 concealing that which thou canst not cure. Here 
 drops the curtain. The catastrophe of the drama 
 if acted openly, will only diffuse a melancholy 
 gloom over the audience. All that remains shall 
 be transacted in secret, and behind the scenes. 
 
38 MEMOIRS OF 
 
 " Had I never had friends and relations, I am 
 convinced that before this time I had ceased either 
 to exist, or to exist as an inhabitant of America. 
 I know from experience the strength of that ob 
 stacle to the direful schemes of despair, which 
 results from possessing friends who would be, at 
 least for a time, inconsolably afflicted by the loss 
 of the sufferer. It is indeed my interest, perhaps, 
 to add to the number of my friends, because in 
 proportion to their number, will be the obstacles 
 to any rash design. 
 
 " I have indeed sincerely lamented I must 
 lay down my pen till my thoughts flow in a less 
 uneasy channel. Your letter has made me ex 
 tremely serious. Why did you not comply with 
 my request, and forbear to expatiate on this 
 theme ? but I flatter myself that you will pay 
 more regard to it in future. 
 
 " I expected that I should give you pleasure 
 by the information relating to your father ; that 
 good, worthy, hospitable man, whom I shall al 
 ways remember with affection and respect both 
 for his own sake, and that of his son. You can 
 not imagine how highly I am pleased with myself 
 for my seasonable recollection of this interview, 
 and my seasonable relation of it. 
 
 " It was my vanity, perhaps, that was pleased 
 in your father s approbation of the friends whom 
 
CHARLES BKOCKDEN BROWN. 39 
 
 his son had chosen : and yet may I not reason 
 ably believe that my friendship was useful to 
 him ? Will any one be made worse, will his 
 understanding be depraved, or his heart be cor 
 rupted, by associating with me ? Will his love 
 of learning and of virtue be impaired ? I think 
 not ; for I am neither incorrigibly stupid, nor 
 remorselessly wicked. I am a lover and admirer 
 of all that is good and fair in the physical and 
 moral universe. No one gazes at genius with 
 more enthusiastic delight and admiration, or at 
 virtue with greater love and reverence. No : I 
 am determined to believe that W. might have 
 chosen a more pernicious and unprofitable 
 friend. 
 
 " This part of my letter will require no an 
 swer. I know not indeed why it was written. 
 I indeed find so much reason to censure and 
 despise myself, that I expatiate with more plea 
 sure, and consequently at greater length, on any 
 circumstance of self-applause. I seize any thing, 
 however weak and dubious, by which I can hope 
 to raise myself from that profound abyss of ig 
 nominy and debasement, into which I am sunk 
 by my own reflections. And that a man of so 
 much experience and discernment as your father, 
 approves the choice of his son of me as a 
 friend, is too pleasing an idea to be easily re- 
 
40 MEMOIRS OF 
 
 linquished, and is a counterbalance for many 
 anxieties. 
 
 " Do you read the books which you mention ? 
 Is your reading altogether legal ? Surely such 
 constant and invariable legality is not indispen 
 sably necessary. I, indeed, am inclined to think 
 that, so far from being necessary to adhere so 
 strictly to the case, it is absolutely necessary 
 sometimes to deviate from it; but it is likely 
 that I am mistaken. If my own experience, were 
 to determine my opinion, I should rather think 
 that he only can derive pleasure, and conse 
 quently improvement, from the study of the law, 
 who knows and wishes to know nothing else. 
 As a student, I believe you have always acted in 
 the most prudent and reasonable manner, and 
 a method of which (abstractedly considered) the 
 propriety should appear dubious to me, would 
 be sufficiently vindicated by your practice." 
 
 A friend who had read the letters and journals 
 of Mr. Brown makes the following remarks. 
 He taxed his correspondents always to make 
 themselves the heroes of their own letters : no 
 thing, he said, was productive of so much delight 
 as to hear of their welfare, to share their joys 
 and their sorrows. On the other hand, in his 
 own letters he sedulously avoided the mention of 
 
CHARLES BKOCKDEN BKOWiV. 41 
 
 himself, on the ground that he had nothing per 
 sonal to communicate, which would give his 
 correspondents pleasure ; and his native delicacy 
 forbade him to excite unnecessary pain. His 
 correspondence, therefore, with his most inti 
 mate friends, wears a curious cast. On their 
 side, is the utmost frankness in the disclosure of 
 all the little circumstances affording them de 
 light ; on his part he joins in their joy, and 
 revels in their intellectual hilarity ; presents 
 these circumstances again in a more fascinating 
 shape, and makes his page the depository of all 
 the benevolent sympathies in which he so mu 
 nificently indulges. We should be led to sup 
 pose him entirely happy that his heart was 
 perfectly at ease. Now, in requital for all this 
 frankness and confidence, what is communicated 
 on his part ? Literally nothing. When pressed 
 on this subject, he declares that his own heart 
 shall be the depository of its own gloomy sensa 
 tions ; and that when he cannot communicate 
 pleasure, he will communicate nothing. He re 
 presents his afflictions as beyond the power of 
 friendship to redress ; and that it would be 
 mean in him to excite sympathy so unavailing. 
 " Do I wish the friendship of such men, " he would 
 say, " only to make myself a burthen to them ? 
 Must not they themselves despise me, if I thus 
 
42 MEMOIRS OF 
 
 abuse their confidence, and endeavour to load 
 them with the miseries which my unhappy fate 
 has destined me to endure ? Have I no other 
 pleasure in friendship than what is derived from 
 the miseries of my friends ? No/ he would 
 say; "let me participate in all their joys and sor 
 rows, but let my misfortunes be borne by my self." 
 -Thus does his private journal often furnish a 
 most striking contrast to his familiar letters. By 
 the former, we discover his heart to be oppressed 
 with gloom and dejection ; while, if we cast our 
 eyes on a letter of the same date, we shall find 
 him entering into all the gay and cheerful feel 
 ings of his friends abandoning the contempla 
 tion of his own sorrows for a moment, to assist 
 in the prolongation of their hilarity. His earliest 
 character was formed on this romantic standard, 
 nor did he ever renounce it afterwards. Not 
 only in his epistolary, but in his personal inter 
 course with his friends, he acted on this princi 
 ple : and if at any time he departed from this 
 resolution by accident, he severely censures him 
 self in his journal ; taxes himself with pusillani 
 mity, and makes the most ardent protestations 
 that he will endeavour to amend. As an instance 
 of his inflexible perseverance, he was once, at the 
 house of a friend, afflicted with a malady by 
 which his life was put in the most imminent 
 
CHARLES BROCK DEN BROWN. 43 
 
 jeopardy. All the anxiety that he testified was, 
 that he should become burthensome to his 
 friends : a reflection which seemed to give him 
 much more uneasiness than the pains with 
 which he was afflicted. 
 
 Dissatisfied with himself, and with the most 
 gloomy prospects of the future scenes destined 
 for his lot in life, Charles, as if to avoid the pre 
 sence of his disappointed friends, rambled from 
 h ome without any apparently defined object. At 
 New York he was introduced to the acquaintance 
 of the writer, by Dr. Elihu Hubbard Smith. 
 
 E. H. Smith was a native of Litchfield, Con 
 necticut, and only son of Dr. Reuben Smith, 
 of that place. From his infancy attached to 
 books, Elihu was at a very early period qualified 
 to enter college, and was accordingly placed at 
 Yale, then under the presidency of Dr. Styles. 
 After passing through college with reputation, 
 he was still a boy, and his father very judicious 
 ly placed him under the care and tuition of Dr. 
 Dwight, now president of Yale College, then 
 minister of Greenfield, Connecticut, and princi 
 pal of an academy of high reputation in that vil 
 lage. After due preparation in medical studies 
 under bis father, Elihu was sent to Philadelphia 
 for the purpose of completing his education as a 
 physician, and in that city became an associate 
 
44 MEMOIRS OF 
 
 of Brown s. Being qualified for practice, Dr. 
 Smith fixed upon the city of New York for 
 the place of his residence, and became the inti 
 mate associate and friend of the writer, so con 
 tinuing until his death. To this inestimable 
 young man I owed the friendship of Brown. 
 
 The first visit of Charles to New York was not 
 of long duration, but he found himself so cor 
 dially adopted into a society so well suited to his 
 taste and pursuits, that the visit was soon re 
 peated, and for years succeeding, New York be 
 came almost the home of Brown. For several 
 years it was my good fortune to have him as an in 
 mate with my family, on these visits, sometimes 
 at New York, and sometimes at Perth Amboy : 
 but upon an establishment being formed in a com 
 modious house in New York, by Dr. Smith, 
 and Wm. Johnson, esq. Brown at their invita 
 tion joined them, and thenceforward only resided 
 with me when my family was at Perth Amboy. 
 No two men were ever more sincerely attach 
 ed to each other, than Charles Brockden Brown 
 and Elihu Hubbard Smith ; yet in many particu 
 lars no two men were ever more different. Both 
 under the necessity of being economists, Brown 
 I/ acted as if he had no use for money ; while 
 Smith systematically calculated his resources, 
 and contracted his wants rigidly within the 
 
CHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN. 45 
 
 reach of his means. Brown was without system^ 
 in every thing ; Smith did nothing but by rule, 
 and was as strict an economist of his time as of 
 his money. Brown was negligent of personal i^ 
 appearance, even to slovenliness ; while Smith 
 was in cleanliness, neatness and attention to the 
 proprieties of dress, a perfect model; and seemed 
 to make the purity of his person, and even of 
 his clothing, an index of the purity of his mind. 
 Brown was in mixed company often silent and^ 
 absent ; Smith entered readily into the views and 
 conversation of those around him with the ease 
 of a man of the world. Their long and intimate 
 intercourse tended to assimilate them in some of 
 these particulars, and in none more than in the 
 necessary attention to personal appearance and 
 propriety of dress. They were both jonrnalizers, 
 or recorders of the passing events of their lives, 
 their studies, their thoughts and their actions ; 
 but in this as in other things, Brown was fitful^ 
 and irregular, while Smith was uniform, dili 
 gent and orderly. 
 
 A great source of pleasure and improvement 
 to Charles during his residence in New York was 
 a literary society, formed before his first visit, 
 which under the humble appellation of " the 
 Friendly Club," continued for several years to 
 meet weekly at the house of one or other of the 
 
 
 
 
46 MEMOIRS OF 
 
 members, to discuss literary or other subjects ; 
 and occupied part of the time in conducting a 
 review. The members of this club were Wm. 
 Johnson, esq. ; Dr. Edward Miller ; the Rev. 
 Dr. Samuel Miller; Dr. S. L. Mitchell ; James 
 Kent, Esq. ; Anthony Bleecher, esq. ; Dr. 
 E. H. Smith; Charles Adams, esq. ; John 
 Wells, esq. ; W. W. Woolsey, esq. ; C. B. Brown, 
 and the writer. With most of the members of 
 the Friendly Club, Brown was in the habits of 
 the strictest intimacy, and enjoyed their society 
 unreservedly on other occasions, as well as the 
 stated times of periodical meeting-. 
 
 In his journals, Brown frequently mentions 
 the meetings of the Club. On one occasion he 
 has these words: " Last evening spent with the 
 clubbists at K/s. Received from the candour of 
 K. a severe castigation for the crimes of disputa- 
 tiousness and dogmatism. Hope to profit by the 
 lesson that he taught me." 
 
 ^ His journals of this time are interspersed with 
 plans and scraps of, Utopias, which are left in so 
 unfinished a situation as to be unintelligible. In 
 common with many ardent minds filled with a 
 love of their fellow- creatures, he sought for some 
 plan by which to improve and secure human 
 happiness. Many delightful visions floated in 
 his imagination, and their traces will be per- 
 
CHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN. 47 
 
 reived in the portions of his early writings now 
 presented to the public ; but these schemes were 
 none of them ever so arranged as to produce a 
 complete or finished work. 
 
 Previously to my becoming acquainted with 
 Brown, he had visited Bethlehem and Nazareth, 
 and rambled on foot over the adjacent county. 
 He had likewise visited Connecticut, and made 
 acquaintance with many of the friends of his be 
 loved Elihu H. Smith. Of these journeys I have 
 no memorials except scanty and unsatisfactory 
 notices, which will be the more regretted by the 
 reader, after perusing the following account of 
 an excursion to Rockaway with two friends, 
 written in the form of a letter, and first pub 
 lished in the Literary Magazine. 
 
 " DEAR R. 
 
 " What possible amusement can you expect 
 from my recital of a jaunt to Rockaway ? I can 
 not dignify trifles, or give to vulgar sights a no 
 velty, by making them pass through my fancy. 
 That fancy, you well know, has no particle of 
 kindred to that of poet or painter, and nobody 
 should pretend to describe, who does not look 
 through the optics of either painter or poet. Be 
 sides, my ignorance circumscribes my curiosity. 
 I have few objects of remembrance with which 
 
48 MEMOIRS OF 
 
 to compare the objects that I meet with. Hence, 
 as the carriage whirls along 1 , faces, fences, houses? 
 barns, cultivated fields, pass rapidly across my 
 eye, without leaving a vestige behind them. 
 You will of course ask me, how the fields are 
 inclosed ? how they are planted ? what portion 
 is tilled ? what is wood, and what is waste ? Of 
 what number, materials, dimensions, and form 
 are the dwellings, the granaries, the churches, 
 the bridges, the carriages ? What is the coun 
 tenance, the dress, the deportment of the pas 
 sengers, and so forth ? through an endless cata 
 logue of interrogatories. 
 
 " Now I cannot answer a word to all these 
 questions. Your attention, on the contrary, 
 during such a journey would be incessantly 
 alive ; you would take exact note of all these 
 particulars, and draw from them a thousand in 
 ferences as to the nature of the soil, the state of 
 agriculture, and the condition of the people. 
 While your companions were beguiling the time 
 by a map: by looking eagerly forward to the 
 baiting place, and asking the driver now and 
 then, how many miles he had to go to dinner, or 
 cursing the dust, the heat, the jostling, and the 
 hard benches, and conversing with each other, 
 all your senses, and your whole soul would be 
 chained to passing objects. Not a stone would 
 
CHARLES BKOCKDEX BIIOWN. 49 
 
 you meet with, but would instantly pass through 
 your crucible ; not a tree or a post, but would 
 serve as a clue to the knowledge of the soil, cli 
 mate, and the industry of the island. You would 
 count the passengers, take an inventory of their 
 dress, mark their looks and their steps; you 
 would calculate the length, breadth, and height 
 of all the buildings ; and compare every thing 
 you saw, from the church to the pig-pen, and 
 from the parson to the plough-boy, with all that 
 you had seen elsewhere. 
 
 " Such is the traveller, my friend, that you 
 would have made ; and you would have known 
 more of Long-Island in a few hours, than many 
 who have lived within sight of it these fifty 
 years : I, alas ! am one of those whom fifty 
 years of observation would leave in the same 
 ignorance in which they found me. 
 
 " Tis true, as you say, that such an unob 
 servant wretch as I represent myself to be, may 
 yet amuse by relating his own sensations ; and 
 his narrative, if it give no account of the scene 
 of his journey, will, at least, comprise a picture 
 of his own character. An accurate history of 
 the thoughts and feelings of any man, for one 
 hour, is more valuable to some minds than a 
 system of geography ; and you, you tell me, are 
 one of those who would rather travel into the 
 
50 MEMOIRS OF 
 
 mind of a ploughman, than into the interior of 
 Africa. I confess myself of your way of think 
 ing ; but from very different motives. I must 
 needs say I would rather consort for ever with 
 a ploughman, or even with an old Bergen mar 
 ket-woman, than expose myself to an hundredth 
 part of the perils which beset the heels of a 
 Ledyard or a Parke. 
 
 " You see how ingeniously I put off this un 
 pleasant task ; but since you will not let me off, 
 I must begin. Remember, it is a picture of my 
 self, and not of the island, that you want : and 
 such, how disreputable soever it may be to the 
 painter, you shall have. I have some comfort in 
 thinking, that most of the travellers to Rockaway, 
 are but little wiser and more inquisitive than 
 myself. 
 
 " In the first place, then, we left I/s at one 
 o clock. The day was extremely fine, and pro 
 mised a most pleasant ride. You may suppose 
 that we were most agreeably occupied in the 
 prospect of a journey which neither of the three 
 had ever made before : but no such thing. We 
 thought and talked of nothing but the uncertainty 
 of getting seats in the stage, which goes at that 
 hour from Brooklynn, and the reasonable appre 
 hension of being miserably crowded, even if we 
 could get seats. Such is my aversion to being 
 
CHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN. 51 
 
 wedged with ten or twelve in a stage coach, that 
 I had previously resolved to return, in case of 
 any such misfortune. So I told my friends ; but 
 in this I fibbed a little, for the naked truth was, 
 that I wanted a pretext for staying behind ; hav 
 ing left society in New York, the loss of which 
 all the pleasures of Rockaway would poorly 
 compensate. 
 
 " We passed the river, and after dining at the 
 inn, were seated in the coach much more at our 
 ease than we had any reason to expect. We rode 
 through a country altogether new to me, twelve 
 or fourteen miles (I forget which) to Jamaica. 
 Shall I give you a peep into my thoughts ? I am 
 half ashamed to admit you, but I will deal sin 
 cerely with you. Still, say I, my consolation is, 
 that few travellers, if their minds were laid as 
 completely open to inspection, would come off 
 from their trial with more credit than myself. 
 
 " I confess to yon, then, that my mind was 
 much more busily engaged in reflecting on the 
 possible consequences of coming off without 
 several changes of clothes in my handkerchief, 
 and without an umbrella to shelter me from sun 
 shine and rain, than with the fields and woods 
 which I passed through. My umbrella I had 
 the ill luck to break as we crossed the river ; and 
 as to clothes, I had the folly, as usual, to forget 
 
 E 2 
 
52 MEMOIRS OF 
 
 that Rockaway was a place of fashionable resort, 
 and that many accidents might happen to pro 
 long our stay there four or five days, instead of a 
 single day ; and yet think not that I was totally 
 insensible to passing objects. The sweet pure 
 country air, which was brisk, cool and fresh 
 enough to make supportable the noon-tide rays 
 of a July sun, to the whole force of which my 
 seat beside the driver exposed me, I inhaled with 
 delight. I remember little, however, but a coun 
 try, pretty much denuded of its ivoods, (as 
 Sam. Johnson would say) a sandy soil ; stubble 
 fields, houses fifty years old, a couple of miles 
 from each other, and most of them, especially 
 those farthest on the road, exact counterparts of 
 such as we see in Dutch and Flemish landscapes ; 
 four-wheeled rustic carriages, of a most dispro- 
 portioned length, crazy and uncouth, without 
 springs, entered from behind, and loaded with 
 women and children, pigs and chickens ; not a 
 single carriage of elegance or pleasure to be met 
 with, though overtaken by half a dozen gigs, 
 going to the same place with ourselves. 
 
 " We reached Jamaica at five o clock, and here 
 we staid one hour. A glass of lemonade, a 
 plentiful ablution in cold water, and a walk with 
 B. in a church-yard opposite the inn, were all the 
 surprising events which distinguished this hour. 
 
CHARLES BROCKDEJS BROWN. 
 
 53 
 
 Tliis island is one of the oldest of European 
 settlements in North America, and we therefore 
 expected to find in this church-yard some me 
 morial of ancient days, but we were disappointed. 
 There were many grave-stones, broken or half 
 sunken, or blackened by age, but the oldest date 
 was within forty years. The church, though 
 painted anew and furbished up lately, was about 
 seventy years old, as an inscription on the front 
 informed us. There was another of a much 
 more antique cast within view, but we did not 
 approach it. 
 
 " I hope you will be sparing of your questions 
 respecting Jamaica, for I can answer none of 
 them. I asked not a single question statistical 
 or topographical of our hostess. I did not count 
 the houses, and therefore can form no notion of 
 the population. It is a spacious, well-looking 
 village, many of whose houses appear to be built 
 as summer retreats for wealthy citizens, and that 
 is all I can say of it. 
 
 " During our second stage, I was placed much 
 more at my ease than during the first. I was \ 
 seated beside a pretty little girl, whom all the 
 company took care to inform that they thought 
 her pretty. For my part, her attractions made 
 little impression on my fancy. To be infirmly 
 delicate in form, to have a baby -like innocence 
 
 J 
 
54 MEMOIRS OF 
 
 of aspect, and a voice so very soft that it can 
 scarcely be heard, are no recommendations to 
 me. She prattled a good deal about a squirrel 
 and canary-bird which she had at home, and that 
 respectful attention was paid to a pair of very 
 sweet lips, which the words that fell from them 
 would never have obtained. The rest of our 
 company were men, and I have not wit enough 
 to extract any oddity or singularity from their 
 conversation or appearance. Two of them, you 
 know, were my companions, and the other two 
 cheerful and w^ell-bred strangers. 
 
 " I, for the most part, was mute, as I usually 
 am, in a stage-coach and among strangers. Not 
 so my two friends. B. finds a topic of talk and 
 good humour in every thing, and J. s amenity is 
 always ready to pursue the other s lead. I forget 
 all their topics, except a very earnest discussion 
 of the merits of different lodging-houses, at the 
 sea-side, and many sympathetic effusions, drawn 
 forth by the shipwreck of another coach , On 
 the first head we concluded to go to the house 
 nearest the sea, one Ben CornwalPs, our purpose 
 being as much to gratify the eye as the touch, 
 and there we accordingly arrived, pretty late on 
 a chill, moist and cloudy evening. 
 
 " There are few men who are always masters 
 of their spirits, and mine, which had not been 
 
CHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN. 55 
 
 high through the day, fell suddenly some degrees 
 lower, on stepping out of the carriage into the 
 piazza of the house. This place appeared, at the 
 first glance, to want at the same time the com" 
 forts and seclusion of a private house, and the 
 order and plenty of a public one. The scene 
 without was extremely dreary, and the vicinity 
 of the sea, not being a quarter of a mile distant, 
 gave us very distinctly the music of his multitu 
 dinous waves. 
 
 " Our curiosity would not allow us to go to 
 bed, till we had touched the ocean wave. We, 
 therefore, after a poor repast, hastened down to 
 the beach. Between the house and the water, 
 is a wide and level expanse of loose white sand, 
 which is a pretty good sample of Arabia or Zaara, 
 as I have heard them described. Tell me, you 
 who have travelled, whether every country, in 
 the temperate zone, of moderate extent and some 
 what diversified, contains not samples of every 
 quarter of the globe ? 
 
 " The air was wet to the touch and saline to 
 the taste, but the novelty of the scene, which 
 a canopy of dark clouds, with a pale star gleam 
 ing now and then through the crevices, tended 
 to increase, buoyed up rny spirits to their usual 
 pitch. To my friend B. this novelty was ab 
 solute. He never before saw the ocean ; but 
 
56 MEMOIRS OF 
 
 to me it was new only as I now saw it, at night. 
 Seven years ago I found my way to the margent 
 of the sea, between Sandy hook and the mouth 
 of the Raritan. I took a long peregrination on 
 foot, in company with two friends, and shall 
 never forget the impression which the boundless 
 and troubled ocean, seen for the first time, from 
 an open beach, in a clear day, and with a strong 
 wind blowing landward, made upon me. It 
 was flood-tide, and the sandy margin formed a 
 pretty steep shelf. The billows, therefore, rose 
 to a considerable height, and broke with great 
 fury against it ; and my soul was suspended for 
 half an hour, with an awe, a rapture which I 
 never felt before. Far different were my feel 
 ings on this occasion, for the sea w r as no 
 longer new to me, and the scene itself was far 
 less magnificent. There was scarcely any wind, 
 the tide was ebb, and the shore declined almost 
 imperceptibly. 
 
 " As we came to this place for the purpose of 
 bathing, and had so short a time to stay, we 
 thought we could not begin too early, and there 
 fore stript immediately, notwithstanding the 
 freshness of the air, and what is of greater mo 
 ment, our ignorance of the shore. 
 
 " Up, pretty high upon the shore, is a house, 
 no better than a fisherman s hut. Tis a mere 
 
CHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN. 57 
 
 frame of wood, boarded at the sides and top, 
 with no window, and a door-way. The floor is 
 sand, and there are pegs against the wall to 
 hang clothes upon. There is a tub provided 
 for cleansing the feet from the sand, which when 
 wet clings to the skin like bird-lime. Towels, 
 which are furnished at the house, we brought 
 not with us. 
 
 " Is there anything, the advantages of which 
 are more universally and constantly manifested, 
 than order ? Its value is seen in the most trivial 
 matters, as in the most momentous. This room 
 was pitch dark, and we were wholly unacquainted 
 with it: and yet by the simple process of hang 
 ing our clothes, as we take them off, on a peg, 
 and putting them on in the same order re versed, 
 there is no difficulty. Some of us w r ere not so 
 wise as to practice this order, and, of conse 
 quence, were condemned to grope about half an 
 hour longer than others, in the dark, for stock 
 ings, sleeve-buttons, hats, and handkerchiefs. 
 
 " What w r ould physicians say to standing- 
 naked on a bleak night, with the wind at east, 
 while the billows broke over you for ten minutes ? 
 There is an agreeable trepidation felt, while the 
 scene is new, and the sudden effusion of cold 
 water must, methinks, produce powerful effects 
 of some kind or another. 
 
58 MEMOIRS OF 
 
 " As we were early comers to this house, we 
 were honoured each with a room to himself. 
 There were twenty or thirty persons to be accom 
 modated, besides a numerous family, in a wooden 
 house of two stories ; so that we could not but 
 congratulate ourselves on the privilege thus se 
 cured to us. The chamber, however, allotted tome 
 was a little nook, about seven feet long and three 
 w r ide, only large enough to admit the bedstead 
 and him that slept in it. In such excursions as 
 these, however, hardships and privations are 
 preferable to ease and luxury. There is some 
 thing like consciousness of merit in encounter 
 ing them voluntarily and with cheerfulness. 
 There is a rivalship in hardihood and good hu 
 mour, more pleasurable than any delights of the 
 senses. A splenetic or fastidious traveller is a 
 great burden to himself and to his company, and 
 ought, through mere generosity, to keep himself 
 at home. In saying this, I am conscious, that in 
 some degree, I pronounce my own condemna 
 tion, but I hope I am not very culpable. 
 
 " My friends rose at day-light next morning, 
 and went to bathe. They gave me warning, 
 but I heeded it not. My little nook had half 
 melted me with heat, and I felt as if unqualified 
 for the least exertion. I was sorry to have lost 
 the opportunity, and rose, when the sun was high 
 
CHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN. 59 
 
 in the heavens, with some degree of regret. But 
 more lucky than I deserved to be, I found a 
 country waggon at the door, ready to carry down 
 any one that chose, to the strand. I went down 
 with another. 
 
 " This was a far different bathing from that 
 of the night before. The waggon carries us to 
 the water s edge, and there we may undress at 
 our leisure amidst a footing of clean straw, con 
 venient seats and plenty of napkins. The wag 
 gon receives us directly from the water, and 
 carries us home without trouble or delay. On 
 this occasion the sun was just warm enough to 
 be comfortable, and the time oMay exactly suited 
 to the bath. Such is my notion of the matter, 
 but I doubt whether any body else will agree 
 with me. Sun-rise and sun-set are the usual 
 bathing times. 
 
 After breakfast, we took a walk along the 
 strand. My pastime consisted in picking up 
 shells; in sifting and examining the fine white 
 sand ; in treading on the heels and toes of the 
 wave, as it fell and rose, and in trying to find 
 some music in its eternal murmur. Here could 
 I give you long descants on all these topics, but 
 my vague arid crude reveries would only make 
 my dull epistle still more dull. The sun at last 
 broke out with the full force of midsummer, and 
 
60 MEMOIRS OF 
 
 we panted and waded through the sand, home 
 ward, with no small regret that we had ventured 
 
 I so far. We Americans in general have feeble 
 heads : those of us, I mean, who were not born 
 
 ( to dig ditches and make hay. A white hat, 
 broad-brimmed, and light as a straw, is an insuf 
 ficient shelter against the direct beams of the sun. 
 What must we have suffered on this occasion 
 when the vertical rajs fell on a surface of smooth 
 white sand ? We were almost liquefied before 
 we reached the house. 
 
 " The company, at this house was numerous, 
 and afforded, as usual, abundant topics of specu 
 lation. Some were young men, in the hey-day 
 of spirits, rattling, restless, and noisy. Some 
 were solid and conversible, and some awkward 
 and reserved. Three ladies, married women, 
 belonged to the company : one of whom said 
 nothing, but was as dignified and courteous in 
 demeanour as silence would let her be : another 
 talked much, and a third hit the true medium 
 pretty well. I did not fail to make a great many 
 reflections on the passing scene, which, together 
 with a volume of Cecilia, made the day pass not 
 very tediously. 
 
 " My friends always carry books with them, 
 even when they go abroad for a few hours. 
 One of them to day produced the Maxims of La 
 
CHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN. 61 
 
 Bruyere; the other, those of Rpchefoucault ; 
 and some minutes were consumed in decypher- 
 ing and commenting 1 on these. But the subject 
 which engrossed most attention in the morning, 
 was a plan for procuring a dozen of claret for 
 the embellishment of dinner : and the return of 
 man and chaise without the claret for which they 
 had been sent to a distant tavern, cast a great 
 damp upon the spirits of most of us. We g*ot 
 rid of the afternoon pretty easily, by giving an 
 hour or two to the bottle, and the rest to the 
 siesta. As to our talk at dinner, there was per 
 fect good humour, and a good deal of inclination 
 to be witty ; but I do not recollect a single good 
 thing that deserves to be recorded ; and my 
 powers do not enable me to place the common 
 place characters around me in an interesting or 
 amusing point of view. As to myself, I am never 
 at home never in my element at such a place 
 as this. A thousand nameless restraints encum 
 ber my speech and my limbs ; and I cannot even 
 listen to others with a gay, unembarrassed mind. 
 Towards evening it began to rain ; and not only 
 imprisoned us for the present, but gave us some 
 apprehensions of a detention here for a week : 
 a detention, which, for many reasons, one of 
 which I have already mentioned, would have 
 proved extremely disagreeable to me. 
 
62 MEMOIRS OF 
 
 " My friend, I have grown very tired of my 
 story. I believe I will cut short the rest, and 
 carry you back with me, next morning, to New 
 York, in a couple of sentences. The weather 
 on the morrow was damp and lowering, but it 
 cleared up early. We were again agreeably dis 
 appointed in our expectations of a crowded stage ; 
 and, after breakfasting at Jamaica, reached town 
 at one o clock. On my return, I was just as 
 unobservant of the passing scene as before, and 
 took as little note of the geography of the isle. 
 Set me out on the same journey again, and I 
 should scarcely recognise a foot of the way. I 
 saw trees, and shrubs, and grasses ; but I could 
 not name them, being as how I am no botanist. 
 
 " Perhaps, however, I mistake the purpose of 
 such journies ; which is not to exercise the rea 
 soning faculties, or to add to knowledge ; but to 
 unbend to dissipate thought and care, and to 
 strengthen the frame, and refresh the spirits, by 
 mere motion and variety. This is the language 
 which my friends hold ; but I confess, mere 
 mental vacuity gives me neither health nor plea 
 sure. To give time wings, my attention must 
 be fixed on something : I must look about me 
 in pursuit of some expected object ; I must 
 converse with my companion on some reason 
 able topic ; I must find some image in my own 
 
CHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN. 63 
 
 fancy to examine, or the way is painfully tedious. 
 This jaunt to Rockaway has left few agreeable 
 traces behind it. All I remember with any plea 
 sure, are the appearance of the wide ocean, and 
 the incidents of bathing in its surges. Had I 
 been a botanist, and lighted upon some new 
 plant a mineralogist, and found an agate or a 
 petrifaction a naturalist, and caught such a but 
 terfly as I never saw before I should have re 
 flected on the journey with no little satisfaction. 
 As it was, 1 set my foot in the city with no other 
 sentiment, but that of regret, for not having em 
 ployed these two days in a very different manner." 
 
 The incidents here so pleasantly recorded are 
 extremely trivial, but the whole serves to deve- 
 lope the character of the man, and as is observed 
 by a friend when writing on the subject which 
 now occupies me, " in the life of a literary man 
 character is biography." The same friend thus 
 pursues the subject : " HOAV can it be expected 
 that the life can be embellished by splendid inci 
 dent, when the very profession of the man allows 
 of no other than what passes while seated in soli 
 tude at his writing-desk. When existence is 
 devoted to pensive musing, are we called upon 
 to create incidents ? or must it be what it professes 
 to be, a biography of intellect merely ? If we 
 
64 MEMOIRS OF 
 
 examine this subject more rigidly, it will be 
 found that these employments, the reception, and 
 the answering 1 of letters, the recital of friendship 
 and antipathies, and the thousand nameless 
 anxieties which a solitary being 1 enjoys, or suffers, 
 are themselves the incidents in the life of a literary 
 man. In comparison with these, the time when 
 a book was published of which he was the author, 
 the profits of the bookseller on the publication 
 of the work, how heavily the first edition went 
 off, and the rapidity with which it was succeeded 
 by the remainder, are nothing, literally nothing. 
 Incidents themselves, and those of the most ex 
 traordinary cast, do not always point to charac 
 ter. An artificial character is often assumed, 
 and incidents favourable to its establishment are 
 employed, when, if the life of a man were deter 
 mined by this standard, a coward would appear 
 in the habiliments of heroism, and a knave in the 
 garb of honesty. It is only when life appears 
 in what may be denominated its undress, when 
 there is no motive to wear a mask, that the 
 genuine character of man can be discerned. 
 The incidents of a literary existence must be 
 such as are connected with that mode of being. 
 If the life of such a man passes in the solitude of 
 his closet, and is no otherwise diminished than 
 by variegated studies, we say nothing more in 
 
CHARLES BROCKDEX BROWN. 65 
 
 fact, than that he was a literary man. Why 
 should we annex the word incident, merely to 
 some marvellous occurrence such only as the 
 traveller or the warrior encounters ? It is im 
 possible that life can pass without incident with 
 any being who inherits common-sense. There 
 must be a change of thought, what Johnson 
 pompously calls a cession and retrocession of 
 intellect. These are incidents ; these are the 
 means by which this solitary being is enabled to 
 build a name for the admiration of future ages. 
 They constitute the very materials with which 
 his works are constructed ; and by these, if the 
 above objection has any validity, we are led to 
 expect that a man would write a novel, or com 
 pose a poem in the same manner in which he 
 would win a battle. That portion of time de 
 tached from what the world vulgarly denominates 
 incident, is therefore the precise period which 
 it is the duty of a biographer to display. Had 
 his hero been engaged in the contests of the field, 
 or of the bar, then indeed might the public look 
 with propriety for incidents of another sort. 
 But such is not the employment of a writer ; 
 solitude alone furnishes him with appropriate 
 incident. Whatever other adventures might be- 
 fal him if he should mingle in a battle, or the 
 bustling avocations of life, so far would the rela- 
 
 F 
 
66 MEMOIRS OF 
 
 tion of such circumstances lead the public astray, 
 as to his reputation as a writer. The incidents 
 of an author, are his ideas, and those who look 
 for more than these in the history of an author, 
 must expect to find what they deserve disap 
 pointment. I know it has been often trium 
 phantly said, even by those who admire an 
 author s work, what can the life of such a man 
 afford us ? It is merely a life barren of incident, 
 as his own works, from the labour with which 
 they are constructed, will abundantly testify. 
 Now, had this intellectual labour eventuated in 
 the erection of a pyramid, or in the accomplish 
 ment of a victory, they would expect to derive 
 amusement from the biography of such a man ; 
 but still as he has only produced a book which 
 they themselves admire more than they would 
 do either the one or the other, his life, or more 
 properly the histoiy of the means by which 
 another was able to execute a work so important, 
 becomes entirely insignificant. And why is this 
 difference ? Because the one is perhaps accom 
 plished by manual labour merely the brute 
 labour and perhaps the predominant mind which 
 directed the work in every stage of its progress, 
 had not been engaged in the erection of the 
 massy marble. Yet allow that the man who had 
 planned the pyramid, or the victory, should him- 
 
CHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN. 67 
 
 self have mingled with the labours, the proba 
 bility is that he would have been able to have 
 executed what he had so ingeniously designed. 
 What mankind can see and feel, when the minds 
 of others in the hands of an architect begin to 
 assume a visible, tangible, and permanent shape, 
 this they are disposed to admire ; but had these 
 very persons read how such a pyramid could be 
 erected, or such a battle achieved, they would 
 probably have laughed at the author as an idle 
 visionary, unworthy of regard. And yet this 
 very pyramid, or this very battle, would have 
 been a practical comment on the justice of this 
 despised author s remarks. Incident, then , so far 
 as it is connected with our present purpose, 
 means fairly this a dispassionate recital of the 
 thoughts which passed in the mind of Brown. 
 It does not mean, and it cannot mean, that he 
 should have been personally engaged in those 
 marvellous adventures which his pen afterwards 
 describes ; for had he acted in those characters^ 
 he never would have been the author of such 
 works." 
 
 Ever fond of analysis, Charles, even in very 
 early life, would take no opinion upon trust. He 
 found in his own mind abundant reason to reject 
 many of the received opinions of mankind, and 
 to doubt the reality of many facts upon which 
 
 F 2 
 
68 MEMOIRS OF 
 
 those opinions are founded. Much of his read 
 ing- at this time tended to bewilder, rather than 
 enlighten, and to confirm his predisposition to 
 scepticism. In common with many others, he 
 imputed to wrong causes the defects which are 
 but too apparent in existing systems. >He saw 
 the wrong, and injustice, and evil, which exist; 
 and instead of attributing them to the ignorance 
 and selfishness of individuals, he assigned as the 
 cause, the errors or inefficiency of those codes 
 which are intended to enlighten or to restrain. 
 
 A principle, with him, was sacred in propor 
 tion as it accorded with his preconceived sensa 
 tions : and these sensations, as has been already 
 abundantly seen, were ardently romantic. = What 
 ever of defect was discernible in existing sys 
 tems, he imputed to the wrong cause ; which was 
 to some inherent ineffectiveness in the system 
 itself, and not to the depravity of our common 
 nature, so capable of perverting the best systems 
 to the worst of purposes. That all human sys 
 tems are fallible, is saying nothing more than 
 that they were not all the workmanship of our 
 munificent Creator. But Charles took other 
 ground : in the overflowing philanthropy of his 
 heart, he was prone to believe that all these in 
 jurious consequences were imputable to the laws 
 of the land. Finding a defect in the law, when 
 
 V 
 Hi 
 
 * 1, 
 
CHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN. 69 
 
 vigorously analysed, and that man continued to 
 perpetrate outrages against it, he thought too 
 often that these were imputable to the law itself. 
 Hence, in many of his earlier speculations, he 
 reasons upon what mankind would not do, had 
 not such authority interposed its injunction. His 
 feelings, warmed as they always were by human 
 sufferings, aided this deception, until he imputes 
 to the law itself the creation of those very evils 
 which it was designed most assiduously to guard 
 against. To this he might probably have been 
 led by the perusal of history. Tyrants have 
 existed, undoubtedly ; and all authority may be 
 called tyramiy, if the dreams of a visionary are 
 allowed the force and authority of Iawi\^J 
 
 Hence the ardour with which he speaks, un 
 less the peculiarity of his character is known 
 unless his warm and sublimated fancy his in 
 tense feelings are taken into consideration, will 
 need an apology. Fortunately, it may be found, 
 as has been proved by the letters already given, 
 in the excellence of his heart. And it is not an 
 uninteresting speculation to observe, how those 
 plunging tenets and dangerous doctrines which 
 he advanced, in his first entry into public life, 
 become gradually contracted as he mingles with 
 men, and observes human manners, Subtleties 
 that may be defended by an able logician in a 
 
70 MEMOIRS OF 
 
 thousand different ways, are abandoned when he 
 sees them brought to the test of experiment, and 
 fail. 
 
 To give the reader a more detailed account, 
 extracts from a work, entitled " ALCUIN," writ 
 ten in the fall and winter of the year 1797, will 
 be found subjoined to this sketch. They consist 
 of some ingenious speculations on the subject of 
 the matrimonial institution, intermixed with 
 sophistry and visionary enthusiasm. 
 
 It was deemed proper to give a full and front 
 view of such speculations, to show the arguments 
 which ingenious sophistry might urge against 
 any existing establishment, and at the same time, 
 how little mankind will be benefited by the sub 
 stitute recommended as a cure for such evils. 
 That imperfection is written on the features of 
 humanity, is certainly a discovery which has no 
 claim to novelty. If we consider the operation 
 of a law, merely to discover what instances of 
 partial injustice may arise, and overlook all the 
 benefits resulting from its adoption, nothing is 
 easier than to point out such defects. With the 
 aid of eloquence nothing is easier than to repre 
 sent such defects of gigantic magnitude, and suf 
 ficiently forcibly that they may be thought to 
 warrant the repeal of such a law. But when 
 such ingenuity is pressed upon this point to pro- 
 
CHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN. 71 
 
 vide a substitute for what it demolishes, it 
 commonly terminates in an evil, ten-fold more 
 alarming than what has been so violently 
 declaimed against. The misery of such spe 
 culations is, that their projectors do not see the 
 end of their own arguments. The sanctity of 
 the matrimonial tie, may give rise to instances of 
 partial injustice and oppression for which the law 
 has provided a remedy. If these instances are 
 urged as valid objections against matrimony, they 
 may be made to appear formidable and convin 
 cing ; but the alternative proposed is, indiscri 
 minate intercourse. It is made dependent on 
 the will of the parties, their caprices, their jea 
 lousies and their antipathies, reasonable or un 
 reasonable, which they themselves would be the 
 first to condemn afterwards, when they shall unite 
 and when they shall separate. 
 
 Had the proposition thus advanced by this 
 writer been stated to him as a substitute for the 
 ceremonial solemnities now in use, he would 
 have been the first to have anathematised the 
 introduction of such dangerous novelties. He 
 would have rejected the amendment to the ma 
 trimonial code at once: for none entertained 
 higher ideas of the sanctity of such obligations, 
 than this very author. But, following his own \ 
 speculations, intent only on finding fault with 
 
72 MEMOIRS OF 
 
 existing establishments, in order to make him 
 self consistent in the sequel, he is compelled to 
 plunge headlong into the very difficulty he 
 would have wished most sedulously to avoid. 
 Such is the fate of those who let speculation loose 
 without discretion. They are compelled to jus 
 tify what in heart they abhor, and to defend 
 enormities that shock their moral sense, before 
 they are conscious of their being pressed into 
 such service. It is now too late to retreat, 
 and the error must be fairly brazened out, or 
 what is still worse, it must be admitted by the 
 speculatists themselves, that they harboured 
 wrong ideas on the subject. It is curious to ob 
 serve how the zeal of Charles in this inquiry re 
 laxes, as soon as he states the substitute. He 
 feels the press of the difficulty, and not knowing 
 how to abandon the subject in the first place, or 
 to maintain it in the next, abruptly concludes 
 his argument altogether. 
 
 This silence, this guardedness, this expressive 
 caution, introduced at the very moment that the 
 author is substituting a remedy for all the evils 
 which he declaims so eloquently against, is per 
 haps the best comment on the impracticability 
 of his amendment. The author seems to aban 
 don his own project in disgust, and while he is, 
 when writing, forcibly impressed with the 
 
CHARLES BKOCKDEN BROWN. 73 
 
 miseries attending* our present mode of solem 
 nizing the matrimonial rite, he seems equally 
 convinced that it is better to tolerate those, than to 
 adopt the alternative which he himself proposes. 
 On this subject, where it might be supposed he 
 should lay out his whole strength, he shrinks 
 from the investigation, and dreads the conse 
 quences that result. The substitute which he 
 did thus propose, in all probability convinced 
 the author himself of the sophistry of his own 
 arguments. 
 
 Of this treatise Mr. Brown remarks in his 
 journal, " I have completed a third and fourth 
 part of the dialogue of Alcuin, in which the topic 
 of marriage is discussed with some degree of 
 subtlety, at least." 
 
 He then goes on to speak of a romance which 
 he began at this time, but never finished. 
 
 " \\ hen this was finished, I commenced some 
 thing in the form of a romance. I had at first 
 no definitive conception of my design. As my 
 pen proceeded for ward, my invention was tasked, 
 and the materials that it afforded were arranged 
 and digested. Fortunately I continued to view 
 this scheme in the same light in which it had at 
 first presented itself. Time therefore did not 
 diminish its attractions. The facility I expe 
 rienced in composition, and the perception of 
 
74 MEMOIRS OF 
 
 daily progress encouraged me ; and my task was 
 finished 011 the last day of December. 
 
 " I hardly know how to regard this exploit. 
 Is it a respectable proof of perseverance or not ? 
 Considering my character in its former appear 
 ances, this steadiness of application might not 
 have been expected. What is the nature or 
 merit of my performance ? This question is not 
 for me to answer. My decision is favourable or 
 otherwise, according to the views w 7 hich I take 
 of the subject. When a mental comparison is 
 made between this and the mass of novels, I 
 am inclined to be pleased with my own pro 
 duction. But when the objects of comparison 
 are changed, and I revolve the transcendent 
 merits of Caleb Williams, my pleasure is dimi 
 nished, and is preserved from a total extinction 
 only by the reflection that this performance is 
 the first ; that every new attempt will be better 
 than the last, and that considered in the light of 
 a prelude or first link, it may merit that praise 
 to which it may possess no claim, considered as a 
 last best creation.* 
 
 * The work here alluded to was never finished. A series of 
 letters constituting all that the author completed of this in 
 tended romance, is printed in the collection just published, 
 entitled, " Caiwin and other American Tales, and Pieces, by 
 C. B. Brown, author of Wieland, &c." 
 
CHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN. 75 
 
 " It was at first written in a hasty and inac 
 curate way. Before I can submit it to a printer, 
 or even satisfactorily rehearse it to a friend, it 
 must be wholly transcribed. lam at present en 
 gaged in this employment. I am afraid as much 
 time will be required by it as was necessary to 
 the original composition. I do not fear but I 
 shall finish my labour, barring all extraordinary 
 accidents." 
 
 In the year 1793, Mr. Brown had seen the 
 desolation of his native city by that pestilence 
 which is known by the name of yellow-fever. 
 His father s family, his brethren and himself 
 were among those who fled in time to avoid its 
 influence, and to escape the necessity of witness 
 ing those scenes of loathsome misery which dis 
 tinguished that disease. But in 1798, Charles, 
 by remaining in New York until too late to fly, 
 either with safety or propriety, was made an in 
 mate of the disease, beheld it in its most horrid 
 forms, and saw expiring the victims of its irre 
 sistible power, men as much distinguished for 
 their talents arid acquirements as for every virtue 
 which can dignify our nature. 
 
 The city of New York had been visited several 
 years in succession by the pestilence, but its in 
 habitants flattered themselves each year that the 
 afflictions of the foregoing would not be renewed. 
 
76 MEMOIRS OF 
 
 Many, however, removed with their families each 
 summer into the country. Among this number 
 was the writer, and Mr. Brown had frequently 
 been his guest at Perth Amboy on such occa 
 sions. At this period he was pleasantly situated 
 with his friends Smith and Johnson, and when 
 the rumour of the yellow-fever having again 
 broke out in certain quarters of the town reached 
 him, he w r as persuaded that as their neighbour 
 hood was free from infection, they were safe. 
 
 In a letter to his brother James, dated the 
 twenty-fifth of August, 1798, after mentioning 
 his literary plans, for he was then preparing to 
 publish " Wieland," and the project of a Maga 
 zine for his profit had been suggested ; he con 
 cludes thus: " Heavy rains, uncleansed sinks, 
 and a continuance of unexampled heat, have 
 within these ten days, given birth to the yellow- 
 fever among us, in its epidemical form. Death 
 and alarms have rapidly multiplied, but it is 
 hoped that now, as formerly, its influence will be 
 limited to one place. You may be under no 
 concern on my account, since my abode is far 
 enough from the seat of the disease, and my 
 mode of living, from which animal food-and spi 
 rituous liquors are wholly excluded, gives the 
 utmost security." 
 
 This plan was in accordance to the theory of 
 
CHARLES BIIOCKDEN BROWN. 77 
 
 his friend Smith, who rigidly practised it himself 
 at all times. Brown had much reason to rely 
 upon the judgment of Smith, but if he did not 
 feel that perfect security which his letter avows, 
 he assumed the tone for the purpose of quieting 
 the apprehensions of his friends. 
 
 On the 4th of September he writes thus to 
 his brother James, justifying his continuance in 
 New York. 
 
 " When did you learn to rely upon rumour 
 and newspaper information ? As to the state of 
 this city, you might naturally suspect that it 
 would be misrepresented and exaggerated. 
 There is abundance of alarm, and the streets 
 most busy and frequented will speedily be 
 evacuated. As to the malignity of this disease, 
 perhaps its attack is more violent than ordinary, 
 but E. H. S. to whom I read your letter, answers 
 for me that not more than one out of nine, when 
 properly nursed, die ; and that its fatality there 
 fore, is much less than the same disease in Phi 
 ladelphia. 
 
 " In the present healthful state of this neigh 
 bourhood it would be absurd to allow fear to 
 drive me away. When there is actual and in 
 disputable danger it would be no less absurd to 
 remain, since even if the disease terminate favour- 
 
78 MEMOIRS OF 
 
 ably, or even were certain so to terminate, we 
 are sure of being infinitely troublesome to others 
 and of undergoing much pain. E. H. S. has 
 extensive and successful practice in this disease. 
 Through fatigue and exposure to midnight airs, 
 he is at present somewhat indisposed, but will 
 shortly do well. If, when this fever attacks our 
 neighbourhood I run away, I am not sure that I 
 shall do right. E. H. S. at least, probably John 
 son, will remain, at all events ; and if I run the 
 risk of requiring to be nursed, I must not forget 
 that others may require to be nursed by me, in a 
 disease where personal attentions are all in all." 
 
 I trust that I need not remark upon the truth 
 of the above sentiment, or call the reader s atten 
 tion to the high point of view in which it places 
 Mr. Brown s character. The letters which at 
 this time he wrote to his brother James were in 
 answer to earnest entreaties of his family that he 
 would fly from New York as they had done from 
 Philadelphia, where the pestilence raged with 
 equal malignity. 
 
 A few days after he writes thus : 
 " This pestilential air seems to be extending 
 itself to all quarters. Things here wear a very 
 gloomy aspect. Pearl and Water Streets are 
 
CHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN. 79 
 
 wholly desolate, and all business is at a stand. 
 The lowest computation supposes one-half of the 
 inhabitants to have fled. Notwithstanding this 
 depopulation, especially in the most infected 
 spots, I am sorry to add that the malignity in 
 creases, and the number of deaths. 
 
 " The atmosphere is perceptibly different from 
 former years, and leaves nobody in perfect health, 
 but the quarter where I reside is still free from 
 sickness. All the physicians who have at all 
 attended patients in this fever have been indis 
 posed. Our friend E. H. S. s indisposition has 
 nearly gone, but he ascribes his preservation from 
 death entirely to his vegetable diet and his re 
 fusing his attendance at the beginning of his com 
 plaint, to the summons of the sick. He is now 
 nearly able to resume the medical functions. 
 Five physicians much conversant with the sick 
 have died within a very short space." 
 
 On Tuesday the 12th of September, while 
 the ravages and malignity of the pest were hourly 
 increasing, and Dr. Smith had just regained 
 strength to lend again his aid to the accumulating 
 sufferers, an interesting stranger arrived from the 
 equally pestilential city of Philadelphia, whose 
 fate and its consequences, brought the desolation, 
 in its most fearful form, home to the domestic 
 
80 MEMOIRS OF 
 
 establishment of the three friends, Johnson, Smith 
 and Brown. 
 
 Joseph B. Scandella was a native of the Vene 
 tian state. Of an opulent and distinguished 
 family, he had been educated as a physician, but 
 had devoted his faculties to gene ral improvement 
 in science. He left home early in life for this 
 purpose, and visited England as secretary to the 
 Venetian embassy. From thence his attention 
 was called to our growing empire in the West ; 
 and to a liberal curiosity and ardent mind, no 
 country on earth could be so attractive as that 
 where the great experiment of an almost bound 
 less federative republic had already made such 
 progress as seemed to defy every effort of igno 
 rance and malice to frustrate it. 
 
 He first visited the English provinces. When 
 in the United States, he made various journies in 
 every direction, particularly bending his atten 
 tion to the southern and western districts, where 
 agriculture, the foundation of national wealth, is 
 extending with such rapid strides, the happiness 
 of an independent yeomanry, and erecting an 
 empire which must necessarily correct, by its 
 influence upon their interests, the tendency to 
 corruption and European political bias in the 
 maritime states. 
 
 After a residence of two vears in the United 
 
CHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN. 81 
 
 States, Dr. Scandella prepared to return, and in 
 the month of June embarked at the port of 
 Philadelphia. The vessel proved unfit for a sea 
 voyage and returned to port. He then came to 
 New York and took passage in a packet from this 
 port to Falmouth. Here he renewed an ac 
 quaintance begun in Philadelphia with Dr. E. 
 H. Smith. The detention of his baggage by 
 some accident occasioned him to lose this oppor 
 tunity of embarkation, and while awaiting another 
 the yellow-fever broke out in both cities. Not 
 withstanding ite more early progress and greater 
 malignity in Philadelphia, his concern for the 
 welfare of an amiable family of helpless females, 
 a widowed mother and her daughters, induced 
 him to return to that city. He witnessed the 
 death of every individual of the family. 
 
 After enduring the continual loss of rest, and 
 exposing himself to the influence of an infected 
 atmosphere for ten days, he set out on his return 
 to New York, and in crossing the causeway be 
 tween Newark and this place first felt the deadly 
 disease upon him. He arrived in the evening at 
 the Tontine Coffee-House, and knowing the 
 necessity of a lodging as much as possible re 
 moved from the heartlessness of a hotel, he 
 exerted himself to procure admittance at the 
 various boarding-houses, but terror steeled every 
 
82 MEMOIRS OF 
 
 heart, and shut every door against the sick 
 stranger. The benevolent Smith heard of his 
 arrival, sought him instantly, and found him, 
 under the influence of the pestilence, in bed at. 
 the Coffee-House. He removed him to his room, 
 resigned him to his bed, and became his physician 
 and nurse. 
 
 On Sunday morning the 17th of September, 
 Brown writes thus to his brother : 
 
 " When calamity is at a distance it affects us 
 but little, and no sympathy for others can realize 
 that distress which does not immediately affect 
 us. You have discovered by the public papers 
 the deplorable condition of our city, which in 
 fact exceeds that of Philadelphia, inasmuch as 
 the mortality bears a greater proportion to the 
 population with us. Another circumstance great 
 ly enhances our calamity, for the victims to this 
 disease have been in innumerable cases, selected 
 from the highest and most respectable class of 
 inhabitants. Till lately, horrible as this evil is, 
 and much conversant with it through the medkim 
 of physicians as I had been, I was not much 
 affected by it until, during the last week, this 
 fatal pest has encompassed us and entered our 
 own doors. 
 
 " On Tuesday last, an Italian gentleman of 
 
CHARLES EROCKDEX BROWX. 83 
 
 great merit and a particular friend of E. H. S. 
 arrived in this city from Philadelphia. The 
 disease had already been contracted, and admis 
 sion into the board ing*- houses was denied him. 
 Hearing of his situation our friend hastened to 
 his succour and resigned to him his own bed. 
 A nurse was impossible to be procured, and this 
 duty therefore devolved upon us. Many moral 
 incidents concurred to render this a most melan 
 choly case. The disease was virulent beyond 
 example, but his agonies have been protracted to 
 this day. He now lies in one apartment of our 
 house, a spectacle that sickens the heart to be 
 hold, and not far from his last breath, while, in 
 the next, our friend E. H. S. is in a condition 
 but little better. 
 
 " Extreme fatigues and anxieties could not 
 fail of producing a return of this disease in Elihu. 
 How it will end Heaven knows. 
 
 " Sunday evening. Our Italian friend is dead, 
 
 and Elihu is preparing to be transported to s, 
 
 whose house is spacious, healthfully situated, and 
 plentifully accommodated. Our own house is a 
 theatre of death and grief, where his longer 
 continuance would infallibly destroy him and us. 
 
 " Before his last attack, E. H. S. became sen 
 sible of the disproportionate hazard which he in 
 curred, and had determined as soon as his friend 
 Scandellahad recovered or perished, and his pre- 
 
 G 2 
 
84 MEMOIRS OF 
 
 sent patients had been got rid of, to withdraw 
 from town/ 
 
 Brown had been himself attacked by the first 
 symptoms of the fatal disease, and was removed 
 to the house of the same friend who now re 
 ceived the unfortunate Smith. Brown s symp 
 toms yielded to medicine, not so his friend s ; 
 he lingered a few days in a state allied to stupor ; 
 the efforts of his medical friends Miller and Mit- 
 chill were utterly unavailing ; he saw the last 
 symptom of disease, black vomit, pronounced the 
 word " decomposition, "and died. 
 
 Thus perished, on Wednesday the twenty-first 
 of September, 1798, in the twenty-seventh year 
 of his age, Elihu Hubbard Smith ; a man whose 
 whole ambition was to increase his intellectual 
 powers with a view of devoting them to his fel 
 low men. 
 
 In the Medical Repository, a work of which 
 he was one of the most zealous founders, and 
 which was conducted after his death by his 
 friends Miller and Mitchill, appeared a few lines 
 devoted to his memory, from which I will in 
 dulge myself by repeating to the public the 
 testimony of the enlightened writers : 
 
 " There are few who perished during that 
 calamitous season, whose fate excited more uni 
 versal regret, and whose memory will be more 
 
CHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN. 85 
 
 fondly and permanently cherished than Elihu H. 
 Smith. In his domestic relations, the knowledge 
 of his excellence was necessarily confined to 
 few ; but by those few, his conduct as a son and 
 a brother will ever be regarded as a model of un 
 blemished rectitude. Indefatigable in the pro 
 motion of the true interest of those allied to him, 
 a casual observer would be disposed to imagine 
 his whole attention to be absorbed by this object, 
 and that he whose affections were so ardent, and 
 his mind so active for their good, had no leisure 
 for the offices of friendship, and for the pursuit 
 of general happiness. To these valuable pur 
 poses, however, no one attended with more zeal 
 and assiduity. To those who were blessed with 
 his friendship (and the number was by no means 
 small), his attachment was unwavering and his 
 efforts for their benefit without intermission. To 
 the cause of general happiness he devoted his 
 abilities with no less zeal." 
 
 " His talents could not otherwise than slowly 
 surmount the obstacles which were thrown in 
 the way of his professional success by his youth, 
 and by the want of patronage and support. His 
 leisure he however devoted to the best purposes. 
 Besides his medical pursuits, he cultivated with 
 zeal and success, almost every branch of litera 
 ture. As a physician his loss is irreparable. 
 
86 MEMOIRS OF 
 
 He had explored, at his early age, an extent of 
 medical learning for which the longest lives are 
 seldom found sufficient. His diligence and ac 
 tivity, his ardour and perseverance, knew no 
 common bounds. The love of science and the 
 impulse of philanthropy, directed his whole pro 
 fessional career, and left little room for the cal 
 culations of emolument. He had formed vast 
 designs of medical improvements, which em 
 braced the whole family of mankind, and were 
 animated by the soul of benevolence." 
 
 Upon the removal of Dr. Smith from his own 
 dwelling to the house ofafriend, Mr. Brown re 
 signed to him the chamber he had occupied in 
 that friend s house, and by invitation removed to 
 Dr. Miller s. Of his feelings at this time we 
 must judge by his letters. The day before the 
 death of his friend, he thus addresses his brother. 
 
 " What shall I write ? I know that you ought 
 to have frequent information of what is passing 
 here, but I cannot trust myself with the narrative. 
 My labour is to forget and exclude surrounding- 
 scenes and recent incidents. 
 
 " Smith is not dead, but unless miracles be 
 wrought for him, another day will number him 
 with the victims of this most dreadful and relent 
 less of pestilences. My excellent friend Dr. Mil- 
 
CHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN. 87 
 
 ler, dissuades me from going to you. The jour 
 ney is too long, and the consequence of falling- 
 sick upon the road may be easily conceived. 
 Here then I must remain. 
 
 " The number of physicians is rapidly de 
 clining, while that of the sick is rapidly increas 
 ing-. Dr. Miller, whose practice, as his skill, 
 exceeds that of any other physician, is almost 
 weary of a scene of such complicated horrors. 
 My heart sickens at the perpetual recital of 
 which I am compelled to be an auditor, and I 
 long to plunge myself into woods and deserts 
 where the faintest blast of rumour may not 
 reach me. 
 
 " Thursday morning. The die is cast. E. 
 H. S. is dead. O the folly of prediction and the 
 vanity of systems ! 
 
 " In the opinion of Miller, the disease in no 
 case was ever more dreadfully and infernally 
 malignant. I am as well as circumstances will 
 permit, and shall, as soon as possible, leave the 
 city with William Johnson for Am boy or Con 
 necticut." 
 
 In another letter he says, " The weather has 
 lately changed for the better, and hopes are ge 
 nerally entertained that the pestilence, for so it 
 may truly be called, will decline. As to myself, 
 1 certainly improve, though slowly, and now en- 
 
88 MEMOIRS OF 
 
 Certain very slight apprehensions of danger to 
 myself. Still lam anxious to leave the city. To 
 go to Amboy and remain there for some time, 
 will be most eligible. This calamity has en 
 deared the survivors of the sacred fellowship, 
 W. D., W. J. and myself to each other in a very 
 high degree ; and I confess my wounded spirit, 
 and shattered frame, will be most likely to be 
 healed and benefited by their society. Permit 
 me, therefore, to decline going with you to Bur 
 lington. For a little while at least." 
 
 The next day, September twenty-fifth, Charles 
 addressed his brother from Perth Amboy. 
 
 " It is with great pleasure, that I now inform 
 you of my safe arrival at this place. Yesterday 
 I wrote to you informing you of my intention to 
 come hither on the morrow. After depositing 
 my letter, Wm. Johnson and myself, concluded 
 that if a water passage could readily be found to 
 Staten Island, it would be advisable to depart im 
 mediately. This being forthwith sought for, 
 was found. We left the city at two in the after 
 noon, and after a most auspicious passage arrived 
 at Amboy at sun-set. I already feel the sensa 
 tions of a new being, and am restored as it were 
 by magic, to a tolerable degree of health and 
 cheerfulness. 
 
CHARLES imoCKDEX BROWN. 89 
 
 "Here I wish to stay, at least for some weeks 
 in the enjoyment of the purest air and whole 
 some exercise. The change from a pestilential, 
 desolate, and sultry city, to the odours and 
 sprightly atmosphere of this village, is inexpres 
 sibly grateful and beneficial ; and I believe you 
 may dismiss all uneasiness, henceforth, on ac 
 count of my safety. I seize this early opportu 
 nity, to inform you of my removal, because it 
 was due to your generous concern for me." 
 
 After passing some weeks at Perth Amboy, 
 Mr. Brown visited his family, and on the return 
 of winter, took up his abode again in New York. 
 
 In the month of December, 1798, he thus 
 details to his brother Armit, a plan for a Maga 
 zine. 
 
 " Eight of my friends here, men in the high 
 est degree respectable for literature and influence, 
 have urged me so vehemently to undertake the 
 project of a magazine, and promised their contri 
 butions and assistance to its success, that I have 
 written and published proposals. Four hun 
 dred subscribers will repay the annual expense 
 of sixteen hundred dollars. As soon as this 
 number is obtained, the printer will begin, and 
 trust to the punctual payment of these for reim 
 bursement. All above four hundred, will be 
 
MEMOlliS OF 
 
 clear profit tome: one thousand subscribers will 
 produce four thousand five hundred dollars, 
 and deducting" the annual expense, will leave two 
 thousand seven hundred. If this sum be attain 
 able, in a year or two you will allow that my 
 prospect is consoling. The influence of my 
 friends, and their unexpected and uncommon 
 zeal, inspire me with a courage which I should 
 be unable to derive from any other quarter." 
 
 This was one of the many literary schemes 
 which now occupied the attention of Mr. Brown ; 
 for he at this time carried into effect the plan 
 which had long been forming in his mind of be 
 coming an author by profession ; of devoting 
 his life to book-making, and trusting his future 
 fortunes, as well as fame, to the labours of his 
 / pen. To become exclusively an author, was at 
 that time a novelty in the United States, and if 
 we except the editors of newspapers, no one 
 had relied solely upon the support of his talents 
 as a writer, and deliberately chosen this station 
 in society. Mr. Brown was so far successful, 
 that he never relinquished his plan, and, if health 
 and life had been continued to him, would have 
 supported in competence and reared to useful 
 ness, a numerous and amiable family. 
 
 His first publication was Alcuin, already men 
 tioned. In 1798, he published Wieland. This 
 
CHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN. 91 
 
 powerful and original romance, excited atten 
 tion and brought the author into the notice of 
 all readers of works of this description. Few 
 novels or romances have been written, which 
 seize so strongly upon the imagination and feel 
 ings of the reader, hurry him from the realities 
 which surround him, bury in oblivion his joys 
 or sorrows, and fix his whole attention on the 
 images which the author presents before him, as 
 Wieland. 
 
 In this work, the author, rejecting those events 
 which flow from causes well known and con 
 stantly in operation, among men in society 
 (which form the best and most useful ground 
 work for this species of composition), and dis 
 carding the hacknied machinery of castles, ban 
 ditti and ghosts, took, a new and untrodden 
 ground. " He made the events of his story de 
 pend upon, and flow from, two of those wonder 
 ful phenomena of the moral and physical world, 
 which, though known and established, were still 
 mysterious and undefined ; and, though vouched 
 for by unquestionable authorities, are of such 
 rare occurrence, as not to be familiar, or even 
 fully accounted for. Self-combustion is an awful 
 and mysterious phenomenon of nature. The 
 author of Wieland, by means of an instance of 
 the extinction of life, and bodily decomposition, 
 
92 MEMOIRS OF 
 
 which he relates as having- happened to the father 
 of his hero, accounts for a predisposition to the 
 reception of insane and pernicious images in the 
 mind of Wieland. The author then calls to his 
 aid a second mysterious and wonderful pheno 
 menon, the existence of which is not so well 
 attested as the first ventriloquism : arid by en 
 dowing one of his characters with this stupen 
 dous power a power which, when once exerted, 
 is incalculable in its effects, he excites his hero 
 to the commission of acts, which, though they 
 have their prototypes in authentic records, are of 
 a character so horrible, as to border on the 
 shocking, and in some measure defeat the end 
 of the inventor, by lessening the attraction of the 
 story. 
 
 Wieland, stimulated by what he considers su 
 pernatural premonition, murders his wife and 
 children ; and, finally, undeceived in part and 
 the high-wrought tone of feeling, which sup 
 ported him under a consciousness of well-doing^, 
 and of immediate communication with Heaven, 
 being let down by a glimpse of the truth he 
 commits suicide. The causes of these dreadful 
 effects, appear supernatural until the denouement 
 or explanation takes place. 
 
 The author had doubtless a right to assume 
 these wonderful appearances of nature as a basis 
 
CHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN. 93 
 
 for his fabrication. To his active imagination 
 and fertile mind, they suggested the materials 
 for erecting a superstructure of the greatest mag 
 nitude, and the most awful importance. Man 
 frail, ignorant, and dependent is prone to 
 superstition. In all ages, those natural pheno 
 mena, which are beyond the reach of our know 
 ledge, have been deemed supernatural. The 
 explosion of the electric fluid has been heard 
 with awe as the voice of the Creator of the 
 Universe : and its effect upon animal life an 
 effect as natural as that of fever or hunger, though 
 less common has been called his judgment, or 
 the immediate display of his anger. In like 
 manner, the expansion of subterraneous gases, 
 arid the misery occasioned by their rending the 
 surface of the earth on spots where cities have 
 been erected, has been ascribed to the jealousy 
 or anger of the all-benevolent God of our love 
 and gratitude. 
 
 As the causes of these effects became known, 
 they ceased to be thus regarded. But a pheno 
 menon so extraordinary, and apparently contrary 
 to the known laws of nature, as self-combustion, 
 though easily explained to the philosopher, can 
 not but, even at this time, hold the mind in 
 awful pause. The power of the biloquist, never 
 yet explained, if it really exists, may be so used 
 
94 MEMOIRS OF 
 
 as to produce effects, which must necessarily 
 unhinge the mind, and force it to fall into the 
 belief of supernatural interposition. Here Mr. 
 Brown had possession of engines w 7 herewith to 
 work, of the most powerful and novel kind, and 
 he made great use of them : but a doubt has been 
 suggested of the propriety or, .policy of resorting 
 to such tremendous agents in the conduct of a 
 novel. It is true that they are in nature: but, 
 to the generality of mankind, they appear more 
 strange, if not more unnatural, than ghosts or 
 spectres. 
 
 The instances of self-combustion, or ventrilo 
 quism*, are so rare, that a work, whose events 
 are founded on such materials, accords less with 
 popular feelings arid credulity, than if superna 
 tural agency had been employed -f. In all ages, 
 and in all nations, tales of ghosts, of sorcery and 
 witches, of genii, of demons, of local deities, and 
 of familiar spirits in short, of communication 
 with an invisible world of powerful and incor 
 poreal beings have received popular credence, 
 and been familiar to man from his cradle to his 
 
 * It must not be supposed, that by ventriloquism, I mean 
 the bungling trick which jugglers have called by that name. 
 
 f None of Mr. Brown s Novels are of that class which pre 
 tends merely to amuse, and is therefore addressed to "popular 
 feelings and credulity." His aim was much higher. ED. 
 
CHARLES BROCKDEN BROWX. 95 
 
 grave. When the agency of such beings is used 
 in a poem or tale, if we do not believe, we at 
 least are not shocked. On the other hand, to 
 the mass of readers, the natural causes of which 
 we are speaking, are so indefinite and so little 
 understood, that disappointment is experienced 
 when they are brought forward to account for 
 appearances which 4 " the reader had previously 
 supposed to be supernatural. It is perhaps al 
 ways unsatisfactory, to find that causes which 
 had purposely been made to convey an idea of 
 more than mortal agency, are merely natural. 
 The reader will remember the denouement of 
 " the family of Montorio," and the waxen doll 
 which inspires such high and mysterious ideas 
 in Mrs. Radcliffe s " Mysteries of Udolpho." 
 
 Notwithstanding these strictures upon Mr. 
 Brown s agents, the writer is disposed to class 
 Wieland among novels of the highest order. It 
 has a well-conducted fable, the incidents of which 
 all tend to its progress and development ; and 
 the style is pure, strong, and eloquent. 
 
 The great cause of all the evils which befall 
 Wieland and his family, Carwin the biloquist, is 
 a character approaching to the sublime, from the 
 mystery thrown around him, and yet at times 
 inspiring sentiments of disgust, and even con- 
 
96 MEMOIRS OF 
 
 tempt. The author does not give us the history 
 of this personage, and thus, as was always his 
 custom, left an opening fora continuation, or for 
 another romance. Accordingly Mr. Brown 
 afterwards began, and partly published " Memoirs 
 of Carwiii the Biloquist." This very interesting 
 fragment the reader will find well worthy of 
 perusal, and will regret that the author did not 
 finish a work so replete with novelty and interest.* 
 In December of the same year in which Wie- 
 land was published, Mr. Brown wrote his novel 
 of " Ormond, or the Secret Witness," which had 
 not the success of Wieland, neither did it deserve 
 it. It has been remarked that there is a strong 
 affinity between Ormond, the hero of this work, 
 and Falkland, in the celebrated romance of Caleb 
 Williams. Indeed, at this period of Mr. Brown s 
 life, he was an avowed admirer of jGpd win s 
 style, and the effects of that admiration may be 
 discerned in many of his early compositions. It 
 is remarked by the same writer, whose opinions I 
 have before quoted in respect to Mr. Brown and 
 his writings, that " Ormond and Falkland are 
 both endeared to us on their first appearance^ 
 and while every heart is warmed by their bene- 
 
 * See " Carwiii and other American Tales and Pieces, by 
 C. B. Brown;" just published. 
 
CHARLES BROCK DEN RROWX. 97 
 
 volence and disinterestedness, they are suddenly 
 converted into monsters of depravity. This 
 change so sudden and unexpected, is neverthe 
 less reconciled to the principles laid down by 
 these authors. Ormond and Falkland have each 
 their separate objects, which they endeavour to 
 obtain at first by honourable means. So long 
 as these means are found capable of answering 
 their purposes, the respective characters glide 
 smoothly on, and none of their noxious features 
 are made visible. But behind this plausible ex 
 terior of courtesy and benevolence, fiery and un 
 controllable passions are raging. They burn, it 
 is true, with a smothered fire, but both Falkland 
 and Ormond, are incited by those very passions 
 to do those very acts, which render them so 
 endearing to our eyes. They have no motive to 
 act otherwise than honourably, when they can 
 accomplish their objects by so acting. But when 
 they find that all these sacrifices avail them 
 nothing, they immediately forsake this artificial 
 character, and endeavour to obtain by dishonest 
 means, what with honourable means they could 
 not accomplish. 
 
 The apparent incredulity attached to the exist 
 ence of such characters results from the sudden 
 turn of events by which these changes are brought 
 about. The character takes its complexion from 
 
 ii 
 
98 MEMOIRS OF 
 
 these events ; as long as they are favourable, we 
 admire and respect ; and when unfavourable, we 
 abhor. 
 
 Thus Ormond labours to overcome the virtue 
 of Constantia, at first by loading her with favours 
 and imposing every species of obligation. These 
 are squandered with a prodigal munificence, and 
 her gratitude is raised to the highest pitch. 
 Her virtue is notwithstanding invulnerable to 
 all these assaults; and Ormond, thus foiled , changes 
 his mode of assault, and endeavours to accom 
 plish his object by open violence. 
 
 Ormond was published in 1799 : and Mr. 
 Brown prosecuted his labour in the region of 
 fiction, with an ardour increased by the success 
 he had obtained, and with a rapidity of execution 
 seldom paralleled. He had at this time begun 
 five novels, all of which were in a state of pro 
 gression. Two of the five were published this 
 same year Arthur Mervyn, and Edgar Huntly. 
 Arthur Mervyn, or Memoirs of the Year 1793, 
 was the third novel Mr. Brown published. The 
 following, which is the preface to it, will show 
 the views and intentions of the author: 
 
 " The evils of pestilence by which this city 
 has lately been afflicted, will probably form an 
 era in its history. The schemes of reformation 
 
CHARLES BROCK DEN BROWN. 99 
 
 and improvement to which they will give birth, 
 or, if no efforts of human wisdom can avail to 
 avert the periodical visitations of this calamity, 
 the change in manners and population which 
 they will produce, will be, in the highest degree, 
 memorable. They have already supplied new 
 and copious materials for reflection to the phy 
 sician and the politicaleconomist. They have not 
 been less fertile of instruction to the moral observer, 
 to whom they have furnished new displays of the 
 influence of human passions and motives. 
 
 " Amidst the medical and political discussions 
 which are now afloat in the community relative 
 to this topic, the author of these remarks has 
 ventured to methodize his own reflections, and 
 to weave into an humble narrative, such incidents 
 as appeared to him most instructive and remark 
 able among those which came within the sphere 
 of his own observation. It is every one s duty to 
 profit by all opportunities of incuhating on man 
 kind the lessons of justice and humanity. The 
 influences of hope and fear, the trials of fortitude 
 and constancy, which took place in this city, in 
 the autumn of 1793, have, perhaps, never been 
 exceeded in any age. It is but just to snatch 
 some of these from oblivion, and to deliver to 
 posterity a brief but faithful sketch of the condi 
 tion of this metropolis during that calamitous 
 
 ii 2 
 
100 MEMOIRS OF 
 
 period . Men only require to be made acquainted 
 with distress, for their compassion and their 
 chanty to be awakened. He that depicts, in 
 lively colours, the evils of disease and poverty, 
 performs an eminent service to the sufferers, by 
 calling forth benevolence in those who are able 
 to afford relief; and he who pourtrays examples 
 of disinterestedness and intrepidity, confers on 
 virtue the notoriety and homage that are due to 
 it, and rouses in the spectators, the spirit of salu 
 tary emulation. 
 
 " In the following tale a particular series of 
 adventures is brought to a close ; but these are 
 necessarily connected with the events which 
 happened subsequent to the period here de 
 scribed. These events are not less memorable 
 than those which form the subject of the present 
 volume, and may hereafter be published either 
 separately or in addition to this." 
 
 This last paragraph prepares the reader for a 
 sequel, which it will be my duty to notice here 
 after ; as Mr. Brown in this instance wrote and 
 published another volume in continuation. At 
 present I will confine myself to some remarks 
 upon the first part, published in 1799. 
 
 That species of pestilence which for years de 
 solated our principal cities, is now recollected by 
 
CHARLES BROCKDEN BROWX. 101 
 
 tliose who witnessed its effects with the sensa 
 tion of dangers long passed, sufferings and losses 
 reflected upon with tenderness, but without 
 acuteness. The younger part of the community 
 only know of the yellow-fever by books, or by 
 the traditionary tales of their fathers. All feel 
 as if the danger was past and never more to re 
 turn. Yet no one will say that on the return of 
 those blessings which foreign commerce is sup 
 posed to bestow on nations, we, in the midst of 
 security, shall not be again visited by a disease 
 which constantly exists in some of the countries 
 to which our merchants and sailors resort for 
 profit. With a view to the possible recurrence 
 of the same scenes, as well as for its merits as a 
 delineation of human nature as exhibited in our 
 country, Arthur Mervyn is a work intitled to 
 more than the common attention bestowed upon 
 novels. 
 
 The author introduces his hero to the reader, 
 sick of the prevailing pestilence of 1793, leaning 
 against the outer wall of a house in Philadelphia, 
 late in the evening, and but for the interference 
 of some humane passenger, destined to perish in 
 the street. Such a passenger returning to his 
 home, perceives the situation of the unfortunate 
 youth, and disdaining all those selfish considera 
 tions which led at that unfortunate period, to ac- 
 
102 MEMOIRS OF 
 
 tions of the most shocking hard-heartedness, re 
 solves, after consulting his wife, whose character 
 was equally benevolent and enlightened, to do 
 his duty to his fellow-creature. 
 
 Mervyn is received and nursed by this bene 
 volent pair ; he recovers, and they are forming 
 plans for his future welfare, when a friend visiting 
 at the house recognises him, and excites by his 
 conduct, suspicions against the character of the 
 youth they had preserved. The embarrassments 
 thus produced, lead to the youth s telling his 
 story, which constitutes the volume before us. 
 
 The son of a yeoman of Chester county, 
 Pennsylvania, and the only survivor of many 
 children, Arthur s treatment was such, as a deli 
 cate constitution required, and such circum 
 stances would prompt. His mother, whose supe 
 riority of intellect was decided in comparison 
 with his father, died : and left that domestic eco 
 nomy, which falls to the female head of the 
 family, to devolve upon a coarse rustic girl, who 
 soon enticed the father of our hero into mar 
 riage. The usual consequences ensue, and Ar 
 thur quits his father s roof to seek his fortune 
 in Philadelphia, destitute of knowledge of the 
 world, of friends, or of money. 
 
 He arrives in the night, after a long walk of 
 fifteen hours, and loses his bundle, containing all 
 
CHARLES BKOCKDEN BROWN. 103 
 
 his property, by leaving it in the market-place. 
 He recollects that a neighbour of his father s is 
 in town, and even the name of the inn at which 
 he puts up, and going thither, falls into the com 
 pany of a young man to whom he imparts his 
 situation, and who pays for his supper, and in 
 vites him to partake of his bed for the night. 
 
 The rustic Arthur is conveyed by a back-door 
 into a magnificent house, and up to a chamber 
 in the third story, where his companion, under 
 pretence of re-lighting his candle, leaves him 
 locked up. Surrounded by doubt and per 
 plexity, owing to the long absence of his con 
 ductor, his fears are increased by hearing one 
 near him breathing as in sleep : this proves to 
 be a child, and on the supposed approach of the 
 parents, Mervyn retires into a closet. A man enters, 
 who proves to be a husband who had deposited 
 this infantin his wife s bed, in the hope that she, 
 having recently lost her own, would adopt it. 
 This takes place, and Arthur not only hears the 
 dialogue appertaining to this incident, but an in 
 timation of a plan by which the husband, 
 through the agency of his brother, should de 
 fraud a rich nabob of thirty thousand dollars. 
 
 The perilous and perplexing situation of Ar 
 thur in the closet, and schemes for extricating 
 himself, are happily described and detailed ; arid 
 
104 MEMOIRS OF 
 
 not less so his difficulties in releasing himself 
 from the bed-chamber without that detection 
 which he so naturally dreaded. He at length 
 finds his way once more to freedom and the ca 
 nopy of Heaven. 
 
 His poverty is increased by the loss of his shoes, 
 which he leaves in the closet to facilitate his un 
 detected escape ; and, thoroughly discouraged 
 and disgusted with the city, he determines to 
 seek the country, and obtain employment as a 
 labourer : and, by chance, the street he takes 
 leads him towards the Schuylkill, over which he 
 had crossed in entering the town. Without 
 money to pay the toll for passage, he in his dis 
 tress turns into another street, and, wearied, seats 
 himself on the steps which lead to the door of a 
 magnificent mansion. While debating upon the 
 propriety of asking relief from the inhabitants, 
 he is disturbed by a servant who comes out to 
 wash the marble steps ; and, turning a corner, 
 meets a passenger whom he addresses, with a 
 request for a loan sufficient to pay his passage 
 and procure him a meal. 
 
 After some questions which lead to his know 
 ledge of the youth s unprotected and forlorn 
 situation, he leads him to his house the same 
 magnificent fabric from whose portal he had just 
 retired ; and having received proofs of his ability 
 
CHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN. 105 
 
 as a penman, and heard his artless story, he 
 employs him as an amanuensis. 
 
 His patron places him immediately in the 
 possession of a commodious apartment and 
 abundant wardrobe. When disguised in his 
 new habiliments, he surveys himself with won 
 der, and remarks his similarity to a stranger of 
 the name of Clavering, a melancholy-mad youth, 
 who had been received into the family of the 
 elder Mervyn, and died under his roof. 
 
 Wei beck (for such was the name of Mervyn s 
 patron), introduces him to a beautiful female, for 
 whom he requires that respect which would be clue 
 to his daughter. This lovely creature gives tokens 
 of the most lively surprise at the sight of Mer 
 vyn, who was clothed from a wardrobe which 
 had formerly belonged to another, and utters 
 exclamations in a language unknown to him, 
 conversing in the same foreign tongue with 
 W^elbeck, evidently on a subject connected with 
 Mervyn s appearance, and with a perturbation 
 which amounts to astonishment and distress. 
 
 After breakfast, the lady, at the request of Wei- 
 beck, plays and sings, adding to the astonish 
 ment of the enraptured rustic, to whom every 
 thing appertaining to his present situation ap 
 pears as the effect of magic. After she has re 
 tired, Mervyn is conducted to an apartment ad- 
 
106 MEMOIRS OF 
 
 joining that assigned as his ; and Welbeck shew 
 ing his right hand, mutilated by the loss of the 
 fore-finger, gives that as his reason for employing 
 an amanuensis, and explains to Mervyn his du 
 ties, which are not to commence until the next 
 week. In the mean time he is left to the disposal 
 of his time, with no other restrictions than a due 
 conformity to the hours of eating and sleeping 
 observed by the family. 
 
 Mervyn, left to his own reflections, endeavours 
 to account for all that has befallen him, and to 
 predict his future fortunes. Welbeck is no other, 
 in Mervyn s mind, than an illustrious foreigner 
 who has taken refuge with the remains of his 
 immense fortunes, in this land of refuge from 
 European oppression : the lady is his daughter : 
 the original owner of the clothes Mervyn wears 
 was his son. The lady s attachment to her de 
 ceased brother, is to be transferred to the man 
 who is so like him as to excite such lively sen 
 sations, and is to end in marriage. 
 
 After indulging some time in this waking 
 dream, he sallies forth, and his curiosity is ex 
 cited to gain some knowledge of the house in 
 which he had so lately been immured. From a 
 tailor in the neighbourhood, he learns that a 
 young married couple reside in the house, and 
 had lately lost their first-born babe, which had 
 
CHARLES BROCKDEX BROVVX. 107 
 
 nearly crazed the mother. Their names he does 
 not learn. 
 
 Soon after this, Welbeck exacts a promise 
 of silence from Mervyn, respecting- every part of 
 his story antecedent to his reception in his family. 
 This conduct of Wei beck s excites suspicions in 
 the breast of Mervyn ; and even before he expe 
 riences the inconvenience arising from a promise, 
 he repents having bound himself by it. The 
 curiosity of Mervyn, which at all times borders 
 on excess, is raised to a pitch far beyond that 
 produced by any impulse he had before received ; 
 and the well-imagined incidents which imme 
 diately follow, are calculated to raise it still 
 higher. 
 
 The reader cannot but be again reminded of 
 Caleb WiJl! ams an< ^ Falkland ; yet here is no 
 servile copy : the characters of Mervyn arid 
 Welbeck are distinct in many circumstances 
 from Williams and his master, and the situations 
 in which they are placed are altogether new. 
 
 Mervyn is requested by Welbeck to carry a 
 letter to Mrs. Wentworth, and is directed to 
 leave it with her servant ; but Welbeck having 
 represented the commission as of too much im 
 portance to be entrusted to a common messenger, 
 Mervyn, seduced by his desire to see the lady, 
 persuades himself that he shall better serve Wei- 
 
108 MEMOIRS OF 
 
 beck by delivering- the letter into her own hand, 
 and for that purpose is shewn into her parlour. 
 Here, while examining a portrait which reminds 
 him of one painted by the unfortunate Clavering 
 of himself, and given to Mervyn, and which had 
 been lost with his bundle on the night of his 
 arrival in town, Mrs. Wentworth enters, and is 
 almost as much surprised by his similarity to 
 some person known to her, as the lady at Wei- 
 beck s had been. 
 
 The lady having retired to write an answer to 
 Welbeck, Mervyn falls anew to examining the 
 contentsof the apartment, and to hisastonshment, 
 finds the portrait of Clavering, which had been 
 lost with the bundle. On Mrs. Wentworth s re 
 turn, he claims his property, which leads to 
 questions on her part putting him in a predica 
 ment extremely painful on account of his pro 
 mise given to Welbeck. He gives the lady some 
 account of Clavering s death, and breaks through 
 his embarrassment by declaring, that he will re 
 sign the portrait to her, but cannot disclose more 
 relative to himself or past transactions. 
 
 From Mrs. Wentworth he learns that Claver 
 ing was the son of the gentleman who owned the 
 house in which Welbeck resides. That he had 
 been thwarted in his wishes to go to Europe, had 
 suddenly disappeared, and as they had no traces 
 
CHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN. 109 
 
 of him on this side the Atlantic, they had pur 
 sued him to Europe. 
 
 On the return of Mervyn to Wei beck, he re 
 lates what had passed with Mrs. Wentworth, and 
 all he knew of Clavering. Wei beck undertakes 
 to satisfy Mrs. Wentworth s curiosity, and de 
 sires him to avoid her and persist in his plan of 
 secrecy. 
 
 A revolution had now taken place in the sen 
 sations of Mervyn. He no longer regarded 
 \V el beck and the lady with the same com 
 placency as at first. Mystery appeared incom 
 patible with virtue. Suspicions were awakened 
 which he could not quiet, and he feared for his 
 own safety, and even his own integrity. An acci 
 dental meeting between Mervyn and his patron at 
 the hour of day-break, at thedoor of his supposed 
 daughter, from which he was issuing, adds to the 
 misgivings and perplexity of the youth, which 
 are still further increased by perceiving that the 
 lady is in a state which is only compatible with the 
 character of a wife. The same day he is informed 
 that she had left the city to avoid the extreme 
 heat of the summer months. 
 
 An errand to the counting-house of a mer 
 chant, revives in the mind of Mervyn the inci 
 dents of his first night in Philadelphia. Thet- 
 fordthe merchant, on receiving Welbeck s letter, 
 remarks that it is from the nabob. The plot 
 
110 MEMOIRS Or 
 
 which he had overheard for robbing the nabob 
 is applied to Wei beck, and a determination 
 formed of warning the latter by relating all he 
 knew. In this purpose Mervyn is disappointed 
 by Wei beck s absence from home, and not re 
 turning even at the hour when the servants usu 
 ally retired. Mervyn alone sits up for him, but 
 having retired from the parlour where he had 
 left a light, on his return he finds that it had 
 been taken away, although he knew the street- 
 door to be locked, and the key to be hanging 
 within. He supplies himself with another light, 
 and while wavering in respect to his future con 
 duct, his curiosity is excited by the sight of the 
 lady s chamber-door, and he enters it ; he how 
 ever finds nothing extraordinary, excepting a 
 miniature picture, very much resembling him 
 self. While gratifying his ruling propensity, he 
 hears the report of a pistol, and after recovering 
 from the shock it occasions, he concludes that 
 Welbeck had by some unknown means entered 
 the house, gone to his chamber, and committed 
 suicide. 
 
 Under this impression he goes to the door of 
 W elbeck s chamber, but not gaining admittance, 
 is led to examine the room above, in which he 
 finds Welbeck gazing in mute despair on the 
 corpse of a man recently murdered. 
 
 After a preliminary scene, Welbeck discloses 
 
CHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN. Ill 
 
 his story to Mervyu, which is the history of 
 weakness, wickedness, hypocrisy, and sensuality, 
 leading to every enormity and consequent mi 
 sery. Clemenza Lodi, the lady heretofore de 
 scribed, was one of the victims of his villany, thrown 
 into his po\ver by the death of her brother, whose 
 property, left with Welbeck for the sister s 
 use, is applied to his own purposes and her 
 destruction. This property was not inexhausti 
 ble, and with the usual improvidence of guilt, it 
 was soon dissipated so far as to admonish Wel 
 beck that the end was near. He now joins with 
 Thetford in a mercantile project which takes the 
 remainder, besides making him reponsible for 
 a large amount of credit obtained by his notes. 
 At the same time that he hears from Thetford 
 that this vessel and cargo are lost, and he conse 
 quently reduced to beggary, he hears of the ar 
 rival of a man whose sister he had seduced, and 
 who seeks for an interview with him. They 
 meet accidentally at the door of Welbeck, and 
 the injured man is the corpse which lies weltering 
 in blood on the floor of Welbeck s study. 
 
 Welbeck requests of Mervyn to assist him in 
 burying the remains of Watson, whose death he 
 deplores ; and then to accompany him across 
 the Delaware. The incidents appertaining to 
 the interment of the bodv, and the embarkation 
 
112 MEMOIRS OF 
 
 on the river, are related in a style of eloquence 
 and force, rarely met with. When in the mid 
 dle of the river, Welbeck plunges in and sinks 
 from the wondering youth, who loosing his hold 
 of his oar, is left to the mercy of the stream. 
 He swims to the shore with a pocket-book which 
 Welbeck had given him, as the property of 
 Watson, and having reached the city, he ex 
 amines its contents by the light of a lamp. He 
 finds three fifty-dollar bills and an open letter 
 directed to Watson s wife. He incloses the 
 money in the letter, drops it in the post-of 
 fice, and then pursues his way to Wei beck s, for 
 the purpose of resuming his rustic dress, and 
 flying from the now detested city. 
 
 When in Welbeck s house and ready to de 
 part, his curiosity prompts him to seek a manu 
 script volume, which Welbeck had mentioned 
 to him as belonging to the elder Lodi, and, sa 
 tisfying his scruples as to the propriety of taking 
 this book, he seizes and bears it off, reaching the 
 country west of Schuylkill without accident. 
 
 Here Mervyn pauses in his tale ; and here 
 may be said to end the first part of the novel. 
 The benevolent man who had rescued him from 
 pestilence, tells, from his knowledge, that this 
 accorded with certain facts relative to Mrs. 
 Went worth and Welbeck. That Mrs. Went- 
 
CHARLES BROCKDEX BROWN. 113 
 
 worth on sending to make some inquiries of 
 Welbeck, found the house shut up and aban 
 doned. That when the creditors of Welbeck 
 were alarmed, Mrs. Went worth seized on the 
 contents of the house for rent, but no sale 
 took place, in consequence of the breaking out 
 of the late pestilence or yellow-fever. 
 
 Mervyn is requested by his benefactor, to re 
 late that which subsequently befel him, until 
 their meeting ; and goes on to state, that on the 
 morning of quitting the city, he was received as 
 a labourer, on trial, by Mr. Hadwin, a plain, 
 benevolent, American yeoman. Had win s family 
 consisted of his wife and two daughters, with 
 servants ; and Mervyn s manners and intelli 
 gence soon rendered his situation that of a child 
 of the family. The contrast between this place, 
 these people, their manners, occupations and 
 enjoyments, and the scenes and characters lately 
 witnessed in the city, are happily noted by the 
 author, without being dwelt upon. The elder 
 daughter, it was soon discovered, had disposed 
 of her affections. Mervyn becomes enamoured 
 of the younger. W 7 hile his time passed happily 
 here, he recurred to a former thought of study 
 ing Italian by means of Lodi s book, and his 
 own knowledge of Latin (a knowledge not ac 
 counted for), and accordingly sets about the task. 
 
114 MEMOIRS OF 
 
 In the course of his study, he finds two leaves 
 cemented together, and on opening them, disco 
 vers a bank-note. Other leaves are found simi 
 larly attached, and notes found to the amount 
 of twenty thousand dollars. After some specu 
 lations suggested by the possession of this trea 
 sure, and its escape from the grasp of Welbeck, 
 he recollects that it belongs to Lodi s daughter, 
 and that it is his duty to seek her. But now all 
 other thoughts are banished by the rumour of 
 the pestilence which desolated the city, and filled 
 the country with consternation. 
 
 None suffered more from the fears, which 
 this public calamity inspired, than Susan Had- 
 win. Her betrothed had fixed himself as a 
 clerk with a merchant in the city ; though en 
 treated by letter to fly to the country, he persisted 
 in attending to his master s interests at the risk 
 of his own life. Susan continued her entreaties, 
 and her fears and anxieties threatened to pro 
 duce the most fatal effects upon her health. 
 Hadwin at length wrote, commanding Wallace, 
 who was his nephew, to come home with a 
 neigiibour, who still continued to visit the in 
 fected town with his market cart. The neighbour 
 again returned, and, to the inexpressible dismay 
 of Susan, without a companion. Wallace, who 
 had daily sought him, had on this occasion failed 
 
CHARLES BROCKDEN BROWX. 115 
 
 to come, and the distress of the Hadwins, who 
 could only account for his non-attendance by 
 supposing the worst, was extreme. 
 
 Mervyn forms the generous determination of 
 going in quest of Wallace, to bring him home, 
 if well to nurse and assist him, if sick. With 
 out communicating his intention, he makes the 
 requisite inquiries, finds that Wallace lives with 
 Thetford, and has reason to believe that he is the 
 youth, who for a trick to laugh at, enticed him 
 into ThetforcPs dwelling, and shut him up in the 
 bed-chamber. 
 
 Mervyn departs for the city, impelled by 
 the benevolent intentions he had adopted, and 
 hoping at the same time to discover the unfor 
 tunate daughter of Lodi, and restore to her the 
 notes which had so strangely fallen into his pos 
 session. As Mervyn approaches and enters the 
 city of pestilence, the narrative becomes histori 
 cal, and is a just and vivid picture of the scenes 
 of 1793, and of their influence upon the moral 
 conduct of men. 
 
 Mervyn arrives at night, and, after some ad 
 ventures, seeks the house of Thetford : he finds 
 it abandoned, yet open ; and makes his way to 
 a chamber, in which was a light : he there finds 
 a man in the last agonies ; and, while examining 
 some tokens of pillage, is knocked down and 
 
 i2 
 
116 MEMOIRS OF 
 
 deprived of sense. He narrowly escapes being 
 buried while thus stunned : and, on the entrance 
 of one of those benevolent beings, who at that 
 time exposed themselves to every danger for 
 the purposes of humanity, he learns, among 
 other circumstances, that Thetford s family had 
 removed from this house some weeks ago. He 
 is induced to remain until morning, where he is, 
 by the representations of the benevolent Quaker, 
 who relates to him the story of Maravegli, the 
 person whose death he had arrived to witness, 
 which is nearly the history of the unfortunate 
 
 Scandella. 
 \ 
 
 On the return of day, Mervyn goes to Thet- 
 
 ford s house, and finds that Thetford and his 
 family had been cut off the last night ; previ 
 ously to which, Thetford had, among other acts 
 of inhumanity generated by fear, sent Wallace 
 to certain death at the hospital. 
 
 The friendly person who communicates this 
 intelligence, offers Mervyn food, and the oppor 
 tunity of repose. After breakfast he is left alone, 
 and while he is meditating a search in Thet- 
 ford s house, for papers and books belonging to 
 Wallace, Hadwin arrives, having come at the 
 risk of his life, owing to the criminal secrecy of 
 Mervyn, to learn something of Wallace, and 
 soothe the agonies of Susan. 
 
CHARLES BROCKDEX BROWN. 117 
 
 Sensible of the danger to which Hadwin was 
 exposed, Mervyn hastily tells him, that Wallace 
 is dead, and prevails upon him to return to his 
 family. 
 
 Mervyn again enters the house of Thetford, 
 with a determination to secure the property of 
 Wallace for his friends, and, while prosecuting 
 this design, Wallace himself, having escaped all 
 the horrors of disease and the hospital, pale, ex 
 hausted and emaciated, enters. After an expla 
 nation, Mervyn, though oppressed by the dis 
 ease, which had now fastened on him, goes in 
 pursuit of a vehicle to convey Wallace to the 
 Hadwins ; this being fruitless, he prevails upon 
 the young man to attempt to gain the country, 
 by the exertion of his remaining strength, and 
 after various distresses, a stranger, whose route 
 lay pastHadwin s door, is prevailed upon to give 
 W r allace a place in his carriage. 
 
 Mervyn once more alone, and sinking under 
 the effects of disease, endeavours to return to the 
 house of the benevolent Quaker, but sinks ex 
 hausted upon the steps of a house which he re 
 cognizes to be Welbeck s. The fear of being 
 conveyed to the hospital, the horrors of which 
 had been detailed by Wallace, gives him strength 
 to climb the wall and gain the bathing-house, 
 where copious draughts of water give him some 
 relief from his tortures. 
 
118 MEMOIRS OF 
 
 Unexpectedly he espies the shutters of a lower 
 window of the house open, and availing himself 
 of the circumstance, he enters and gains posses 
 sion of the chamber and bed of Welbeck. 
 
 While ruminating upon the incidents which 
 had lately befallen, he thinks of the treasure he 
 possesses, and determines that it ought to be ap 
 plied to the relief of the poor of the suffering 
 city. The mode of securing this application, he 
 concludes, will be to inclose it, and direct it to 
 some eminent citizen, with directions for its 
 application. He resolves to execute this plan 
 while he has yet strength, and rising, proceeds 
 to Welbeck s study. As he attempts to enter, 
 he hears some one bolt the door within, and 
 thus know^s that the place is pre-occupied. 
 
 His entreaties to be admitted, are at first 
 answered by sobs and groans, and at length by 
 threats uttered in a strange voice, which however 
 pronounces his name and bids him begone. 
 
 Here is introduced an episodical incident, 
 altogether useless, and such a blot upon the story 
 as could only have arisen from the author s 
 writing, without revision, and forgetting in some 
 measure that part of his work already consigned 
 to the printer. 
 
 The occupant of the study, however, proves 
 to be Welbeck, who not possessing resolution 
 enough to effect his purposed suicide, had reach- 
 
CHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN. 119 
 
 ed the Jersey shore, and had been humanely 
 sheltered and nursed through a fever which suc 
 ceeded the attempt upon his life. Here it had 
 occurred to him, that Lodi, in speaking of the 
 sale of his father s West-Indian property, men 
 tioned that the sum obtained for it was forty 
 thousand dollars. Half only of this sum had been 
 discovered by Welbeck. How had the remain 
 der been appropriated ? He remembered that 
 he had in his youth been in the habit of deposit 
 ing bank-bills between the leaves of a book, in 
 which he occasionally wrote extracts from clas 
 sical authors ; he thought of Lodi s manuscript, 
 leaves of which he recollected as adhering toge 
 ther ; the thought that this volume might con 
 tain the remaining twenty thousand dollars, 
 animated him to new existence and exertion, 
 and for the purpose of determining this moment 
 ous question, he had braved every danger, and 
 the result had been that he had now discovered 
 that the book containing the supposed treasure 
 was missing. 
 
 The scene which follows, may be termed the 
 denouement of the drama of Arthur Mervyn. 
 In it the authormay be supposed to have exerted 
 his powers to the utmost. As I hope that this 
 analysis of the story will induce the reader of 
 this volume to become the reader of the romance, 
 
1*20 MEMOIRS OF 
 
 I will not abridge a scene which is intended to 
 excite to the climax of interest. It will be suf 
 ficient to mention, that Mervyn avows the pos 
 session of the treasure, and resists the menaces 
 and artifices used by Welbeck to regain it. In 
 the contest, the notes are burned to ashes. 
 
 The rage of Welbeck on this catastrophe is 
 diverted from Mervyn, by the entrance of people 
 into the house; he flies, and Mervyn, fearing the 
 agents of the police, who would convey him to 
 the dreaded hospital, seeks refuge in a recess 
 which screens him from pursuit, and at night, in 
 making an effort to reach the house of Medli- 
 cote, the benevolent Quaker, he was found and 
 rescued from death by the person to whom he 
 recounts his story. 
 
 The faults which deform this interesting and 
 eloquent narrative, are altogether owing to haste, 
 both in composing and publishing. The work 
 was sent to the printer before the writer had 
 fully determined its plot. But for this, we should 
 not meet with such obvious errors, as making 
 Mervyn perfectly resemble both Lodi and Cla- 
 vering, without any necessity for his resembling 
 either ; exciting an interest in Mrs. Wentworth, 
 and leaving her and her story, like Butler s bear 
 and fiddle ; keeping Welbeck s servants quietly 
 asleep in the house, while pistols are discharged. 
 
CHARLES BKOCKUEN BUOVVN. 121 
 
 murder committed, the dead body buried, &c. 
 when they could have been so easily removed ; 
 not to mention the impropriety of crowding so 
 many incidents into the short space of five days. 
 Dramatists are supposed to be bound by time, 
 and circumscribed in the scene of their action ; 
 not so novelists, and therefore probability should 
 not be violated, when no advantage can be gain 
 ed by it. These are, however, venial faults, 
 and the beauties of Arthur Mervyn are splendid. 
 But in proportion to the talents displayed by the 
 author, is our regret that he did not do as much 
 and as well as he proved himself capable of 
 doing.* 
 
 Edgar Huntley, Mr. Brown s fourth romance, 
 rapidly followed Arthur Mervyn. In this work, 
 the author has chosen for a cause by which to 
 produce effects at once stupendous and mysteri 
 ous, that disease which is called somnambulism. 
 The wonderful effects of this hitherto not suffi 
 ciently explained malady, have been so frequently 
 observed and commented upon, that its use as a 
 foundation for fiction will not subject the author 
 to a criticism similar to that which objected to 
 the self-combustion and ventriloquism of Wie- 
 land. Edgar Huntley unites, to events founded 
 on somnambulism, " incidents of Indian hos- 
 
 * A London edition of Arthur Mervyn, containing both 
 the first and second parts, was published in 3 vols. in 1803. 
 
122 MEMOIRS OF 
 
 tility, and the perils of the western wilder 
 ness." 
 
 The hero tells his own story. He addresses 
 it to the sister of his friend Waldegrave, who 
 had been mysteriously murdered under the 
 boughs of an elm, in the midst of a private 
 road, on the verge of Nor walk, a wild and ro 
 mantic tract of country, in one of the western 
 counties of Pennsylvania. 
 
 Edgar relates, that journeying on foot with 
 intent to reach the house of his uncle, overtaken 
 by night, and ruminating on the fate of Walde 
 grave, he approached the fatal elm, and descried 
 through the gloom, a man, naked from the 
 waist upward, digging beneath the tree. His 
 imagination represented in this man, the mur 
 derer of his friend ; but upon hearing the sobs 
 of anguish, which burst from him, his rage is 
 changed to pity and sympathy. The etranger 
 sat down in the pit he had dug, and uttered the 
 most heart-rending moans ; then suddenly start 
 ing up, began to fill the pit with the earth he 
 had thrown up. On being addressed, he gazed 
 at the quarter from whence the voice came, 
 without appearing to see any object, and then 
 continued to fill the pit. Having finished his 
 work, he departed, and Edgar, recognizing in 
 this man, the conduct of a sleep-walker, pro 
 ceeds on his way to his uncle s. 
 
CHARLES BROCKDEN BltOWN. 123 
 
 In thinking upon the late occurrence, Edgar 
 is led to believe, that the sleep-walker is the 
 murderer of Waldegrave. Although he did not 
 recognize the features of the man, he is led by 
 circumstances to believe him to be a labourer, 
 called Clithero, an emigrant from Ireland, now 
 belonging to the family of Inglefield, a neigh 
 bouring yeoman. 
 
 Edgar, as well as Arthur, is possessed of un 
 bounded curiosity. His maxim is " curiosity, 
 like virtue, is its own reward.-" Like virtue too, 
 it appeai-s to be a foe to inactivity. Edgar, the 
 next night, as soon as the family had retired to 
 rest, betakes him to the elm tree, and there 
 again sees the sorrowful somnambulator. When 
 the perturbed spirit leaves the elm, contrary to 
 Huntley s expeclations, instead of taking the 
 road to Inglefield s, he takes an opposite direc 
 tion, and Edgar following, is led through bogs 
 and briers, down steeps and over precipices, 
 amidst the desert wilds of Norwalk, until his 
 conductor, plunging into a cavern, disappears. At 
 the mouth of this cave, Edgar watches until 
 morn, and then returns unsatisfied home. 
 
 On a third night, Edgar succeeds so far as to 
 trace the sleep-walker to an out-house of Ingle- 
 field s, and thus to confirm his conjecture that 
 this was no other than Clithero. 
 
124 MEMOIRS OF 
 
 Edgar determines to question the sleep-walker, 
 of whom several circumstances are eloquently re 
 lated, tending to raise the interest of the reader 
 in Clithero to a great height, before the design 
 of Edgar is put in action. This interview is 
 finely narrated, and we perceive in the unhappy 
 Clithero, something allied to insanity, which 
 adds to the sympathy already created for him. 
 He breaks from Edgar, after promising that he 
 shall hereafter know his story. 
 
 Some time after, the sufferer unburthens his 
 heart, after complaining that the misguided curio 
 sity of Edgar had destroyed him. A native of 
 Ireland, the son of a farmer, he had been edu 
 cated with, and made a companion to, the son of 
 the lady of the manor, and in due time attended 
 him on his travels. The attendant proved more 
 virtuous than his lord, and his admonitions be 
 coming troublesome, he was sent home, though 
 with all justice done to his character. He be 
 comes a member of the lady s family, as her 
 steward, and has nearer and better opportunities 
 of appreciating her admirable qualities and con 
 duct. 
 
 Mrs. Lorimer had a twin brother, as like her in 
 person as he was opposite in every mental or 
 moral feature. Wiatte was the object of his 
 sister s love, who, in this alone, deviated from her 
 
CHARLES BROCKDEX BROWX. 125 
 
 uniform rectitude. He was a monster of depra 
 vity, who sought her misery, and had been the 
 occasion of preventing her from marrying a man 
 worthy of her choice, who had thereby been 
 banished from his native land. 
 
 The misdeeds of Wiatte, at length procured 
 the sentence of transportation to be passed upon 
 him, but it was said that in the passage he was 
 engaged in a mutiny and killed. 
 
 Mrs. Lorimer sought out an orphan daugh 
 ter of this misloved brother, and adopted her 
 as the intended wife of her son. Clithero 
 saw and loved Clarice. Young Lorimer and 
 Clarice saw each other with indifference, but 
 Clarice felt her affections interested for Clithero ; 
 who thinking that honour forbade his aspiring 
 to his lady s neice, resolves to depart from the 
 scene of danger. In order to put this scheme 
 into practice, he has an interview with Mrs. 
 Lorimer, the consequence of which is her assur 
 ing him of the affections of Clarice, and giving 
 her cheerful consent to the union. 
 
 The reader is led to this climax, in the hap 
 piness of Clithero, by a narrative of peculiar in 
 terest and felicity, and the expected nuptials are 
 only delayed by ordinary occurrences, when the 
 former favoured lover of Mrs. Lorimer, Sarse- 
 field, makes his appearance again on the stage. 
 
126 MEMOIRS OF 
 
 This worthy man had been buffeted about by 
 fortune, in various quarters of the world, and 
 among other situations, had taught at the vil 
 lage school of Edgar s native place, and been his 
 beloved preceptor. An intimacy takes place be 
 tween Sarsefield and Clithero, and the former 
 appears to be re-assuming his early influence 
 over Mrs. Lorimer, when the monster Wiatte, 
 though supposed long since dead, returns. Here 
 appears the fiend destined to blast the happiness 
 of Mrs. Lorimer and Sarsefield, of Clarice and 
 Clithero, and as such the latter views him. 
 Anxiety deprives Clithero of his usual sleep, and 
 produces a predisposition to mental derange 
 ment. In this state he is attacked by Wiatte, 
 and not knowing his assailant, he accidentally 
 kills him. When he discovers that it is the 
 brother of his patroness, and the father of Clarice 
 whom he has killed, his mind, predisposed to in 
 sanity, is overpowered, and he is hurried on to 
 a series of acts in rapid succession, which ter 
 minate in the death of Mrs. Lorimer, and the 
 overthrow of all his happiness. 
 
 Clithero, having finished his tale, which is 
 told with the vehement eloquence of madness, 
 avows a determination of self-murder, and 
 plunges into the thicket of the deserts of Nor- 
 walk. 
 
CHARLES BROCKDEN KROWN. 127 
 
 Several days pass, and Clithero does not re 
 turn. Edgar determines to seek for him or his 
 remains, in the wilds of Norwalk, which are de 
 scribed as possessing the extreme of rugged- 
 ness, and caverns of such subterranean magni 
 tude as to have baffled all conjecture of the extent. 
 
 That cavern to which he had formerly follow 
 ed Clithero, was of this description, and Edgar 
 undertakes to explore its recesses. The author 
 has here anew field for descriptive eloquence, 
 and after leading his hero and reader through 
 the dangers of the dark, emerges on the summit 
 of a mountain. Descriptions of perils amidst 
 alpine precipices succeed, which can only be ap 
 preciated by the reader of the whole work, and 
 which terminate in the discovery of Clithero, 
 seated apparently out of the reach of human 
 means, and in all the majestic misery of mad 
 ness produced by conscious guilt. This second 
 Cardenio soon vanishes, and Edgar returns after 
 herculean labours to his home and his bed, not 
 to sleep but to ruminate upon the fate of the 
 sleep-walker. 
 
 The next day the restless and indefatigable 
 Huntley, resumes his pursuit of the wretch who 
 had been driven from the society of men, by his 
 suspicions and curiosity. He reaches again the 
 spot from whence he had discovered Clithero, and 
 
128 MEMOIRS OF 
 
 having, in prosecution of a plan formed the pre 
 ceding day, felled a tree across the chasm which 
 then separated them, he proceeds in his adven 
 turous search, and again discovers the maniac. 
 Remorse had ceased with consciousness, and he 
 slept. After much debate, Edgar humanely de 
 cides not to awaken him, but to leave food by 
 his side and return with the satisfaction of having 
 gained access to his retreat, and, as he hopes, the 
 means of alleviating his w^oes, if not of restoring 
 him to health and peace. 
 
 Edgar receives a message, requesting him to 
 pass the next night at the house of Inglefield, and 
 in compliance, passes in the evening by the 
 fatal elm. The sight of this tree and certain in 
 dications that the earth had been recently 
 removed, suggested ideas that the maniac in 
 his sleep, might have buried in this spot 
 something connected with the history of Mrs. 
 Lorimer or Clarice. This was sufficient for the 
 restless curiosity of our hero, and having formed 
 his resolution to return from the house of Ingle- 
 field to the elm, instead of going to bed, he ac 
 cordingly sits awaiting the proper time for the 
 enterprize, when his curiosity receives a new 
 impulse and leads his limbs in another direction. 
 
 In the chamber appropriated to the guest, 
 stood a box, which, as I nglefi eld s housekeeper 
 
CHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN. 129 
 
 had told Huntley, was the property and work 
 manship of Clithero. This box was, in its con 
 struction, eminently calculated to excite curio 
 sity, as it was immovably closed without discover 
 able lock or key-hole. The desire to examine 
 this box was irresistible, and having noted its 
 uncommon structure on the outside, the desire to 
 scrutinize within was still more irresistible. 
 
 Notwithstanding the consciousness of doing 
 wrong, the box is opened by means of accidental 
 ly discovering a secret spring, but nothing results 
 from this success except that all Huntley s inge 
 nuity cannot shut it again as before. 
 
 The project of digging under the elm, is re 
 sumed, and executed. Here another box is found, 
 and borne off to Inglefield s, but as Edgar ap 
 proaches the house, he sees a man issue thence, 
 whom he distinguishes as Clithero. On enter 
 ing the apartment he had so lately occupied, he 
 discovers the box, which had been violated by 
 his lawless curiosity, dashed into fragments on 
 the hearth. On examining his prize, he finds a 
 manuscript volume in the hand-writing of Mrs. 
 Lorimer, connected with the history of herself 
 and her brother. 
 
 On the next day, the persevering Huntley 
 again proceeds to the desert haunts of the sleep 
 walker. A storm of wind and rain cannot damp 
 
 K 
 
130 MEMOIRS OF 
 
 the ardour of his curiosity, and new adventures 
 and new descriptions of this solitary region, un 
 der the influence of tempests and torrents, amply 
 repay the reader for accompanying him. His 
 escape from a panther is narrated in a manner 
 pre-eminently entitled to praise. 
 
 After the perils and hair-breadth escapes of this 
 day, Edgar returns to his uncle s, and the next 
 night is partly passed in sleep. He awakes, how 
 ever, before morning ; and his ever-restless spirit 
 prompts him to seek a certain pacquet of letters 
 left by Waldegrave, which, though deposited by 
 himself in a private cabinet in his chamber, and 
 under lock and key, is not to be found. 
 
 Every effort to regain this pacquet is in vain : 
 and, with his senses bewildered by the circum 
 stance, he throws himself on his bed, only to 
 revolve again and again the circumstances of 
 this inexplicable robbery. 
 
 He is aroused by his uncle, who comes to in 
 quire into the cause of his being up during the 
 time of sleep, and w r hy he had gone up stairs 
 into the long room or garret. The question 
 puzzles Huntley, who asserts that he has not been 
 out of his chamber : and the uncle as positively 
 asserts, that he, or some one else, had been walk 
 ing to and fro in the upper story. This unknown 
 visitant is connected by Edgar, with the loss of 
 
CHARLES BROGKDEN BROWN. 131 
 
 Waldegrave s letters ; and his mind becomes 
 hourly more perplexed by these incidents, and 
 his eager concern for the fate of Clithero. 
 
 An episode, here introduced, relieves the reader 
 from pursuing a continued narrative of uncom 
 monly high-wrought incidents, and inculcates a 
 pure lesson of morality : but, as it is an episode, 
 I shall omit an analysis of it. 
 
 The reader, perhaps, has suspected, from the 
 adventures of the last-mentioned night, the loss 
 of the pacquet and the unknown visitant of the 
 long-room, that restlessness and anxiety had pro 
 duced in Edgar the disease of somnambulism. 
 The continuation of the narrative confirms this 
 conjecture. He goes to sleep, as usual, in his 
 chamber, under the roof of his uncle ; and awakes 
 to consciousness, surrounded by utter darkness, 
 stretched on the craggy surface of a rock, with 
 limbs benumbed by cold, and aching with 
 bruises one of the most forlorn outcasts of 
 human misery. This stupendous incident is 
 finely imagined, and adequately narrated. By- 
 degrees, the unfortunate nocturnal wanderer 
 gains a full sense of his forlorn condition, though 
 without suspicion of the cause which had pro 
 duced such disastrous effects. He had fallen 
 through an aperture of the rock into one of the 
 caverns of Nor walk ; and appears to have only 
 
132 MEMOIRS OF 
 
 escaped death in one form, to meet it in another 
 more horrible. To escape from the torments 
 of hunger, he contemplates self-murder. Under 
 this accumulated misery, however, the love of 
 life prevails : and, armed with an Indian toma 
 hawk, which accident had placed in his hand, 
 he gropes his darksome way ; until a rencontre 
 with a second panther gives him a bloody ban 
 quet, and saves him from death in the form then 
 most dreaded. The effects of this unusual food, 
 are pain and thirst in the most tormenting degree : 
 but his strength is exerted to extricate himself 
 from prison ; and at length his steps are directed, 
 by the sound of water, to a distant light, and 
 new and, if possible, more perilous adventures. 
 
 He arrives at an aperture of his rocky prison, 
 from which he descries, sleeping by a fire, four 
 brawny savages of the wilderness, armed for 
 war. The sound of the water-fall came from 
 beyond them ; and his progress to this source 
 of relief to his torment is, of course, totally 
 impeded. The parents of Edgar had been 
 murdered by Indians ; and with their images, 
 the strongest terrors and antipathies had ever 
 been associated. A project of escape from the 
 sleeping foe is frustrated, i y discovering that a 
 fifth warrior watched with ins back t j Ldgar 
 and the fire, and his face towards the mouth of 
 
CHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN. 133 
 
 the cave. The centinel, however, rises, and goes 
 out. The sound of low moanings directs the 
 eyes of Huntley to a girl, whom the savages had 
 borne off from her murdered relatives, and who 
 lay bound on the earth, while they refreshed 
 their limbs after the fatigues of desolation and 
 murder. The desire of rescuing this innocent, 
 added to the intolerable torments of thirst, urge 
 the youth to attempt a passage past the sleepers. 
 He attracts her attention, and ensures her silence. 
 He seizes a musket and hatchet belonging to 
 the centinel, and issues from the cave. The 
 vaccillation of his thoughts the extremity of his 
 perils are described with the pen of a master. 
 He encounters and despatches the wakeful savage, 
 without alarming his comrades ; and, having 
 satiated his thirst and renewed his strength, he 
 generously returns, and accomplishes the rescue 
 of the helpless captive. After the difficulties of 
 making their way through a wilderness, they 
 arrive at a log- hut, which, though deserted, af 
 fords them shelter and refreshment. Having 
 
 o 
 
 now leisure to observe the gun he had brought 
 off, he finds it a double-barrelled fusee belono*- 
 
 o 
 
 ing to himself, and left at his uncle s. Impres 
 sed with the conviction that his uncle and sisters 
 had been murdered by the savages he had left in 
 the cave, he wishes only for revenge and death ; 
 and soon has an opportunity to try his arms by 
 
134 MEMOIRS OF 
 
 the approach of three of the enemy, whom he 
 discovers, by the moon-light, at some distance 
 from the hut. 
 
 By an incident most happily imagined and 
 described, Edgar is placed in such a situation as 
 to command a view of the savages as they enter, 
 without being seen by them, and after witnessing 
 their surprise and exultation on regaining the 
 captive girl, he is enabled to choose a spot which 
 will enable him to shoot at least two of the foe, 
 as they shall come forth from the hut. 
 
 The shrieks of the girl arrest his attention, and 
 he sees an Indian drag her by the hair from the 
 hut, and prepare to end her existence. Edgar s 
 ball arrests the blow, and lays the barbarian 
 dead at the feet of his intended victim. Another 
 comes forth, but to share his comrade s fate. By 
 seizing the loaded musket of the first slain 
 savage, Edgar is enabled, by a happy incident, to 
 despatch the third of his enemies; but being 
 slightly wounded, bleeding and exhausted, his 
 forlorn condition and that of the girl, are scarcely 
 capable of aggravation, when they are found 
 by a party of the armed yeomanry of the neigh 
 bourhood, w r ho are in pursuit of the marauders. 
 
 On their approach, HuntJey, through fatigue 
 and loss of blood, faints. His situation causes 
 him to be left as dead, by the friends who carry 
 off the girl, and Edgar is reserved for further 
 
CHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN. 135 
 
 perils and adventures, and to make his way back 
 to the dwelling of his uncle, from whence he had 
 been led by circumstances so marvellous, and to 
 himself, as yet, unaccountable. 
 
 He has again to rely upon his fire-arms for 
 protection, arid again to shed human blood, and 
 witness the agonies of violent death. Bewildered, 
 in his attempts to regain the road leading 
 homewards, he is lost and benighted, and finding 
 that he is pursued by armed men, whom in the 
 darkness he supposes to be savages, he plunges 
 into a river, and being by that action mistaken 
 by the pursuers, his friends, for an Indian, he is 
 exposed to their efforts for his destruction. 
 
 Escaping from this perilous situation, and 
 
 pursuing his way, he encounters the vestiges of 
 
 Indian warfare desolated houses, scalped and 
 
 mangled corpses of females, some of those many 
 
 horrors which are always the consequence of the 
 
 cruel and merciless hostility of those savages, 
 
 whom the inhuman policy of European nations 
 
 has so often armed with the rifle, the tomahawk 
 
 and the scalping knife, against the inhabitants of 
 
 the United States against the only civilized 
 
 people, who have endeavoured to wrest from the 
 
 savage his hatchet, and place in his hand the 
 
 instruments of agriculture. 
 
 As Huntley approaches his home, he is dis 
 tracted by reports which lead him to believe 
 
136 MEMOIRS OF 
 
 that his sisters and the family of his uncle, have 
 been victims to violence and murder. He enters 
 a house in the neighbourhood, and has an un 
 expected interview with Sarsefield. 
 
 He learns from his former preceptor that his 
 uncle isdead, but that his sistersarein safety. That 
 the family mansion had not been visited, but his 
 uncle had fallen in conflict with the enemy, and 
 thus had the double-barrelled fusee of Edgar 
 passed into savage hands. Sarsefield had been 
 one of the pursuers of the marauding band, and 
 without knowing him, seen Edgar at the time of 
 his fainting at the door of the hut. Subsequent 
 circumstances had suggested, that the forlorn 
 and wounded youth was Edgar Huntley, and a 
 search had been instituted for his relief by the 
 friends who had endeavoured through mistake 
 to destroy him in the river. 
 
 I have by no means mentioned all the inci 
 dents, which the fertile invention of the author 
 has introduced into this most interesting narra 
 tive. I would willingly induce the reader to 
 seek a book, full of moral instruction arid fasci 
 nating amusement. 
 
 Sarsefield, having married the lamented Mrs. 
 Lorimer, whom Clithero supposed dead, has 
 brought her to America, and receives from 
 Huntley the news of Clithero s situation, and a 
 recapitulation of his story. Sarsefield will not 
 
CHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN* 137 
 
 listen to any extenuation of what be supposes to 
 be guilt in Clithero, and while still engaged in 
 conversation with Edgar, the unhappy maniac is 
 brought to the house by a party who had been 
 in pursuit of the Indians. He was mangled by 
 their weapons but not dead. He has strength to 
 enter into a conversation with Edgar, in which 
 the effects of his conduct towards him is detailed? 
 and some interesting explanations given. 
 
 Sarsefield is convinced by Edgar, that Clithero s 
 former conduct was the effect of insanity, and 
 not of guilt, and leaves Pennsylvania to prose 
 cute a journey into Virginia, which had brought 
 him from New York, where he had left his wife. 
 
 Clithero s wounds are cured, and before he 
 had been informed that he had not caused the 
 death of his patroness, he disappears. 
 
 At this period the narrative of Huntley ceases, 
 and the denouement of the romance is found in 
 a series of letters, which conclude the volumes. 
 
 The first is from Huntley to Sarsefield, telling 
 him that Clithero is apprised that his patroness 
 is alive, and has set out for New York, " with a 
 mysterious intention to visit her," and calling 
 upon Sarsefield, if possible, to prevent the in 
 terview. 
 
 The second letter explains the means by which 
 Clithero obtained information of Mrs. Sarse- 
 
138 MEMOIRS OF 
 
 field s being alive, and by apprising the reader 
 that Clithero is still a maniac, prepares him 
 for the catastrophe. 
 
 The third and last letter is from Sarsefield to 
 Huntley, and relates the consequences of his let 
 ters upon Mrs. Sarsefield, and upon Clithero. 
 The first is materially injured in her health ; 
 the second, being secured as a madman, commits 
 suicide. 
 
 Perhaps another denouement might have been 
 more satisfactory. Perhaps the author may be 
 accused of slighting his novel, near its conclu 
 sion. If he is guilty, he is not the first man of 
 great talents, who has been convicted of the charge. 
 
 Of the beauties of Edgar Huntley, or of the 
 opinion which I entertain of its merits, the 
 reader may judge by the analysis I have given. 
 Its defects, like those of Arthur Mervyn (first 
 part) arise from haste in composition, and from 
 crowding the incidents into an unnecessarily 
 short period. 
 
 In the year 1800, appeared the second part of 
 Arthur Mervyn. The author s first intention 
 appears to be that of creating and detailing a se 
 ries of complicated difficulties, flowing from 
 Mervyn s connection with the depraved villain 
 Welbeck ; but the reader is soon convinced that 
 
CHARLES BROCKUEM BROWN. 139 
 
 the work has no plan, and is of course subject 
 to contradictory passages, and to every species of 
 fault which a man of Mr. Brown s talents could 
 be guilty of. 
 
 It is no apology to the purchaser or reader of 
 a book, that the author is occupied at the same 
 time with several distinct works, some proceed 
 ing in composition only, some both in compo 
 sition and printing, some just begun and others 
 nearly finished. We may admire the versatility 
 and industry of the author, but we must lament 
 the loss of time and reputation such a mode of 
 writing and publishing must occasion to him, 
 and the loss of amusement and instruction to his 
 readers. 
 
 Many of the faults of the second part of Ar 
 thur Mervyn appear to be purely gratuitous. 
 We are at a loss to assign any motive for the au- 
 thor sintroducingsuch passages or incidents. The 
 want of plan at the beginning, and the constant 
 change of plan which is apparent in the prosecu 
 tion of the work, are causes of the most obvious 
 faults. Another cause of failure in this novel, 
 is the frequent attempts at humour, a quality of 
 which Mr. Brown had no portion in himself, or 
 any adequate conception in others. Witness 
 Mrs. Althorp s account of Arthur s behaviour in 
 his father s family, and his occupation of knitting 
 
140 MEMOIRS OF 
 
 stocking s. Both as a continuation of a preceding 
 work, and as a work of itself, the reader is sub 
 jected to continual disappointments. He cannot 
 but remember the mysterious something, which 
 the hero discovers in the cock-loft of Welbeck s 
 house, in the first part, and on which the great 
 est stress is laid as an instrument to raise 
 curiosity ; but in the second part there is no al 
 lusion to the incident. He will find both in the 
 first and second parts, that Eliza Hadwin is the 
 most worthy, and artless, and interesting creature 
 of the author s creation, but in the conclusion 
 she is abandoned both by hero and author, in a 
 manner as unexpected as disgusting. 
 
 With all these faults, the second part of Arthur 
 Mervyn contains passages eminently beautiful, 
 and, in common with others of Mr. Brown s 
 writings, passages perfectly descriptive of him 
 self. Of this latter class it will answer a bio 
 graphical purpose to quote one or two. 
 
 P. 58. He makes Mervyn say, " If men be 
 chiefly distinguished from each other by the 
 modes in which attention is employed, either on 
 external and sensible objects, or merely on 
 abstract ideas and the creatures of reflection, I 
 may justly claim to be enrolled in the second 
 class. My existence is a series of thoughts, 
 rather than of motions. Ratiocination and de- 
 
CHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN. 141 
 
 d action leave my senses unemployed. The ful 
 ness of my fancy renders my eye vacant and 
 inactive. Sensations do not precede and sug 
 gest, but follow and are secondary to the acts of 
 my mind." 
 
 P. 162. Mervyn, after describing 1 his com 
 panions in a stage coach, viz. a Creole French 
 man, two negroes and a monkey, proceeds thus: 
 " my thought was busy in a thousand ways. I 
 sometimes gazed at the faces of my four com 
 panions and endeavoured to discern the differ 
 ences and samenesses between them. I took an 
 exact account of the features, proportions, looks, 
 and gestures of the monkey, the Congolese, and 
 the creole Gaul. I compared them together and 
 examined them apart. I looked at them in a 
 thousand different points of view, and pursued, 
 untired and unsatiated, those trains of reflections 
 which began at each change of tone, feature and 
 attitude. 
 
 " I remarked the country as it successively 
 arose before me, and found endless employment 
 in examining the shape and substance of the 
 fence, the barn and the cottage, the aspect of 
 earth and of Heaven." 
 
 It is thus that, perhaps, every man who writes 
 books, especially works of imagination, de 
 scribes himself, his habits, his modes of thinking, 
 
142 MEMOIRS OF 
 
 and sometimes his person. How pleasing it 
 would be if we could point to the passages, 
 which indicated such particulars of those emi 
 nent writers who have delighted and instructed 
 us in youth, and continue to be the companions 
 and counsellors of our way through life. 
 
 In 1801, Mr. Brown published his novel of 
 Clara Howard.* This work is of a character 
 very different from those which preceded it from 
 the same pen. It has a regular plan. It is 
 satisfactorily concluded. Its incidents are more 
 within the scope of probability. Its difficulties 
 arise from the conflicting passions of persons 
 eminently moral and delicate. It has no pas 
 sages so highly wrought and eloquent, neither 
 has it such glaring defects as those which I have 
 lamented as appertaining to the former works. Its 
 form is likewise different, it being epistolary. 
 
 The story is briefly this. The parents of 
 Mary Wilmot, a German merchant and an 
 English lady, are driven by circumstances of 
 aggravated misfortune, occasioned by compli 
 cated guilt and honour, to that asylum of Euro 
 pean crimes, misfortunes, or enterprise, America. 
 The parents die and leave Mary, who had been 
 
 * This novel has been republished in England under the 
 name of Philip Stanley, which appellation is given to the 
 personage here called Hartley. 
 
CHARLES BKOCKDEN 1MOWN. 143 
 
 educated to the indulgences of fortune, dependent 
 upon her needle for the support of herself and 
 her brother, then a child. 
 
 Edward Hartley, the hero of the tale, was a 
 country lad, left with two orphan sisters, to the 
 protection of an uncle. Happily for him there 
 resided in the village an English gentleman, by 
 name Howard, who having dissipated the greater 
 part of his inheritance in youthful follies, and 
 rejected the love of an uncommonly endowed 
 woman, flies repentant to our shores on receiving 
 a letter from her, announcing her marriage to his 
 cousin, and admonishing him of the folly of his 
 pursuits. 
 
 Mr. Howard is a recluse. Hartley becomes a 
 favourite with him and owes his mental improve 
 ment to his conversation, books and instructions. 
 Suddenly, however, Mr. Howard departs for Eu 
 rope. Edward is put apprentice to a watch 
 maker and becomes acquainted with young Wil- 
 mot, and through him with Mary. 
 
 Wilmot is at this period seventeen, and usher 
 to a school ; having preferred " honourable po 
 verty, a studious life, and the dignity of imparting 
 knowledge to others," to " the desk, bar, and 
 pulpit ;" a preference, says the author, which 
 " no doubt, partly arose from youthful timidity 
 and self-diffidence, and asre might have insensi- 
 
144 MEMOIRS OF 
 
 bly changed his views." Hartley is about 
 Wilmot s age, but Mary much older, and 
 neither blessed nor cursed by the charms of 
 beauty. 
 
 Hartley s esteem for Mary Wilmot increases 
 through a long intimacy of unbounded confi 
 dence, but it is esteem without passion. On the 
 contrary, Mary becomes enamoured of her young 
 friend. In this state of affairs the brother is ac 
 cidentally drowned ; Mary becomes more parti 
 cularly the charge of Edward ; and to their 
 mutual surprise, on examiningintothe brother s 
 affairs, he is found to be credited in the bank 
 
 of P for five thousand dollars, and the 
 
 credit of two years standing. 
 
 This inexplicable circumstance causes, among 
 other effects, the determination of Edward and 
 Mary to become man and wife, if no claimant 
 appears in six months from the time of the 
 agreement. 
 
 Mary in the mean time retires from Philadel 
 phia to a village, and lives frugally as a boarder 
 upon a part of this money ; but before the ex 
 piration of the six months, an old acquaintance 
 of Wilmot s returns from the perils of foreign 
 voyages, and in searching for Wilmot, en 
 counters Hartley, and tells him that he had re 
 mitted a bill of exchange to Wilraot for five 
 
CHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN. 145 
 
 thousand dollars to be kept in trust for him until 
 his return. 
 
 Morton s story, the dates and the sum, leave 
 no doubt in Hartley s mind ; and he writes to 
 Mary an explanatory and introductory letter, 
 which he gives to Morton. While musing on 
 this reverse, Mr. Howard arrives at Edward s 
 native village in pursuit of him, having returned 
 to America and brought with him as his wife, 
 his cousin s widow, with her daughter. He has 
 determined to make the fortunes of his young- 
 friend by his patronage, and a marriage with his 
 wife s daughter, Clara Howard. 
 
 I will here notice, that Mr. Brown has made 
 use of similar incidents and characters in both 
 his novels of Edgar Huntley and Clara Howard. 
 The brother of Huntley s mistress is precisely 
 the brother of Mary Wilmot; he receives and 
 deposits money, dies, his sister inherits, a claim 
 ant appears, and the claim is allowed. The friend 
 and instructor of Huntley is an English emi 
 grant, who returns home, marries a former mis 
 tress who had had an intermediate husband, and 
 returns again to America. If an inference should 
 be drawn from all this, that Mr. Brown thought 
 English emigrants the only competent instruc 
 tors of American youth, how wide of the fact 
 
146 MEMOIRS OF 
 
 both as to his belief, and in respect to truth 
 would be the conclusion. 
 
 Mr. Howard pursues his way to Virginia, pro 
 mising on his return to take Edward with him 
 to New York. Edward does not explain to 
 Howard his situation in regard to Mary Wilmot, 
 but writes to her all the circumstance of this 
 rencontre and of Howard s intentions respect 
 ing him. 
 
 Edward s reflections upon the prospects which 
 now open upon him of an elevation from a vile 
 to a noble rank in society, by a marriage with 
 Clara Howard, are filled with useful truths to an 
 American. I will extract the following passage 
 on the state of society in England and America, 
 and the debasing prejudices with w 7 hich the 
 natives of this country have been poisoned by 
 the remnants of the English colonial tyranny, 
 and by English books. 
 
 " There is somewhat in the advantages of 
 birth and rank in the habit of viewing objects 
 through the medium of books, that gives a sacred 
 obscurity, a mysterious elevation, to human 
 beings. I had been familiar with the names of 
 nobility and royalty, but the things themselves 
 had ever been shrouded in an awe-creating dark 
 ness. Their distance had likewise produced an 
 
CHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN. 147 
 
 interval, which I imagined impossible for me to 
 overpass. They were objects to be viewed, like 
 the divinity, from afar. The only sentiments 
 which they could excite, were reverence and 
 wonder. That I should ever pass the mound 
 which separated my residence, and my condition, 
 from theirs, was utterly incredible. 
 
 " The ideas annexed to the term peasant, are 
 wholly inapplicable to the tillers of ground in 
 America ; but our notions are the offspring 
 more of the books we read, than of any other 
 of our external circumstances. Our books are 
 almost wholly the productions of Europe, and 
 the prejudices which infect us, are derived chiefly 
 from this source. These prejudices may be 
 somewhat rectified by age, and by converse with 
 the world, but they flourish in full vigour in 
 youthful minds, reared in seclusion and privacy, 
 and undisciplined by intercourse with various 
 classes of mankind. In me, they possessed an 
 unusual degree of strength. My words were se 
 lected and defined according to foreign usages, 
 and my notions of dignity were modelled on a 
 scale, which the Revolution has completely taken 
 away. I could never forget that my condition 
 was that of a peasant, and in spite of reflection, 
 I was the slave of those sentiments of self-con 
 tempt and humiliation, which pertain to that 
 
 L 2 
 
148 MEMOIRS OF 
 
 condition elsewhere, though chimerical and vi 
 sionary on the western side of the Atlantic." 
 ,/ In America there-i^jio-peasantry. The tillers 
 of the earth are the owners of the soil. We 
 have, strictly speaking, neither peasant nor 
 farmer : our workers on the soil are freeholders 
 are yeomen. This is one of the proud dis 
 tinctions between this country and Europe. 
 
 In one portion of our country the remains of 
 the English slave-trade exist and there pea 
 sants exist. Those who till the earth are slaves as 
 in Russia ; and are, unfortunately for themselves 
 and humanity, distinguished by their skins and 
 their features from other men. They are a little 
 more (and more avowedly) slaves than the pea 
 santry of Ireland ; and still a little more than 
 the peasantry of England. But, with the ex 
 ception of the slave-holding states, as we have 
 no nobility but from worth, so we have no vil 
 lainy but from misdeed. We have neither lord 
 nor peasant, except in the south ; where the 
 planter partakes of European nobility, and the 
 African slave of European peasantry. 
 
 Bound to Mary Wilmot by the ties of honour, 
 though not of love, and finding the prospect of 
 marriage indefinitely removed by the claims of 
 Morton, Hartley obeys the injunctions received 
 from Howard, and goes to New York, to join 
 
CHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN. 149 
 
 Mrs. Howard and Clara, but first calls at the 
 residence of Mary Wilmot. She had fled in 
 company with a man, and left no traces whither. 
 
 A young man of the name of Sedley had of 
 fered marriage to Mary before she knew Hartley. 
 He was worthy, but she did not love him, and 
 rejected his addresses. Sedley had persevered, 
 and had introduced his sister, Mrs. Valentine, to 
 her acquaintance. Sedley and his sister are 
 rich ; and Hartley now finds that Mary had 
 gone off with them. He proceeds to New York, 
 and joins the Howards, 
 
 Clara Howard is every thing that can inspire 
 love, and Edward becomes enamoured. Months 
 pass away in the blissful occupation of gaining 
 her affections. At length, by accident, he meets 
 Morton, who informs him that he had not seen 
 Mary Wilmot, had not received the five thou 
 sand dollars, and should not apply for it. 
 
 Uneasiness respecting the fate of Mary in 
 trudes to destroy the felicity which Edward en 
 joys in Clara s love ; and he explains to her 
 his situation and engagements, and does ample 
 justice to Mary Wilmot s worth and attachment 
 to him. 
 
 Clara immediately rejects all thoughts of union 
 with Hartley, considering the claims of Mary as 
 an insuperable bar. She resists his reasoning, 
 
150 MEMOIRS OF 
 
 and insists upon his going in pursuit of Miss 
 Wilmot. He complies : and, visiting his uncle, 
 finds a letter from Mary, which had been for 
 gotten by the good folks, and lain for months in 
 a drawer. In this letter she renounces her pre 
 tensions to him in favour of the youth, beauty, 
 virtues, and fortune of Clara Howard. She dis 
 plays her determination of retiring to some re 
 treat, where he shall not be able to find her. In 
 this letter is found an order for the five thousand 
 dollars. 
 
 Clara, by letter, persists in her resolution of 
 sacrificing her love to the merits of Mary : and 
 Edward s pride being piqued by her determina 
 tion, and her mode of expressing it, he sets off 
 from Philadelphia, with a view of burying him 
 self in the western states ; but is stopped by a 
 fever, produced by plunging into the Schuylkill 
 to save a drowning fellow-traveller. 
 
 Clara s heroism vanishes at the news of Ed 
 ward s disastrous situation ; and she is willing 
 to give up her scruples on Mary s account, pro 
 vided she can bring back Edward safe to her 
 arms. Circumstances lead to inquiries respect 
 ing Mary s parents ; and she proves to be a re 
 lative of Mrs. Howard. The story of the parents 
 forms an interesting episode. 
 
 In the mean time, an explanation takes place 
 
CHARLES BROCKDEX BROWN. 151 
 
 between Mary Wilmot and Mrs. Valentine, 
 Sedley s sister, by which Mary finds, among 
 other proofs of Sedley s disinterested love, that 
 he had sent the five thousand dollars to young 
 Wilmot, in the hope of being the unknown 
 benefactor of the brother and sister. Mary 
 yields finally to Sedley s perseverance and love, 
 and by that means the scruples of Clara, a second 
 time raised, are dissipated, all difficulties remov 
 ed, and the novel ends, like a good-natured 
 novel, in the happiness of all parties. 
 
 The ingenuity of the reader is left to solve the 
 difficulty of Morton s claim upon Sedley s gift of 
 five thousand dollars. The author gives him no 
 clue. We must suppose that Morton s bill of 
 exchange never reached Wilmot: and for the 
 coincidence in date and amount, we must resort 
 to that experience of extraordinary coincidences 
 which authentic record affords us. 
 
 Clara Howard was the last of the novels written 
 by Mr. Brown during his residence in New 
 York, and the last but one which he published. 
 Before I notice Jane Talbot, his last work of this 
 species, I will proceed to mention some circum 
 stances of a biographical nature connected with 
 his return to his native city as a place of perma 
 nent residence, and that change in his situation 
 
]52 MEMOIRS OF 
 
 and mode of life which arose from his becoming 
 a husband and a father. 
 
 In the month of April, 1799, Mr. Brown 
 published the first number of " The Monthly 
 Magazine and American Review." This work 
 was continued with great industry and ability, 
 until the end of the year 1800. Mr. Brown 
 wrote incessantly for his magazine, if we may 
 judge by the quantity he published of his origi 
 nal composition in it, and yet were we to judge 
 by the number and magnitude of his other 
 publications during the same period, we might 
 suppose that the periodical work received but a 
 small part of his attention. The fact is, that the 
 rapidity of his composition can scarcely be 
 paralleled . 
 
 In June 1799, Mr. Brown made an excursion 
 into Connecticut. He thus journalises while at 
 Middletown. 
 
 " I expected to write but little during my ab 
 sence from New York ; little more at least than 
 letters. To relate all the adventures that shall 
 befall me, and to record all the observations I 
 shall make, will require far more time, and cost 
 more labour than my indolence will permit. I 
 have indeed a scheme in view for preserving the 
 impressions which this journey shall make, in a 
 
CHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN. 153 
 
 way that may serve a public and private purpose. 
 Connecticut has never been described, and 
 surely merits a description. 
 
 " I had many reasons for desiring to accom 
 pany my friend in this excursion . Some of them 
 I shall not mention, nor weigh in critical scales 
 their propriety. The recreations of the country, 
 the interesting spectacle of New England man 
 ners, the review of scenes intimately connected 
 with the existence of E. H. S. and of my dearest 
 friends among the living, were surely of sufficient 
 weight. 
 
 " After many delays, we set out from New 
 York, at ten o clock on Friday morning. The 
 weather was for the most part clear and serene. 
 I had a vigilant eye for passing objects, roads, 
 dwellings, and passengers. My curiosity was 
 awakened by the intention I had formed of de 
 scribing what I saw. In this respect, my mind 
 has undergone a sudden and memorable revolu 
 tion. Instead of being as I used to be, sluggish, 
 torpid arid inattentive, my eye was watchful and 
 my mind busy in arranging and comparing 
 objects. 
 
 " On Saturday we reached Middletown. It 
 was evening, and a bright sky, a smooth road 
 and healthful state of my frame, allowed me to 
 take in all the pleasure which the circumstances 
 
154 MEMOIRS OF 
 
 of the time and place were calculated to afford. 
 Never did I receive equal delight from a rural 
 prospect. Yet how much a matter of association 
 and moral sensibility is the sensation flowing 
 from the survey of the grandeur of nature. Had 
 I not had some previous acquaintance with this 
 scene, through the medium of actual observation 
 and books, my sensations would have been wide 
 ly different and much less lively and exuberant. 
 Had I not anticipated intercourse with those 
 whose society is dear to me, rny feelings would 
 have been comparatively mean and insignificant." 
 
 While at Middletown, Charles passed his time 
 in the delightful intercourse he had anticipated. 
 He thus describes one of the pleasant excursions 
 which he made in the society of his friends in 
 the neighbourhood of that charming village. 
 
 " Yesterday was spent beyond the river. A 
 minute account of this excursion would be useful. 
 Not an incident, however trifling, but would serve 
 to illustrate manners and gratify the curiosity. 
 There is a method of narration, which would 
 make interesting, the most common and familiar 
 theme. 
 
 " Mrs. J. her sister, and Miss were the 
 
 females. D A I and myself, ac- 
 
CHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN. 155 
 
 com pan led them. The fear of bad roads, rep 
 tiles, and water, mars the pleasure of many, in 
 excursions like this. I never met with women so 
 totally exempt from these terrors as were our 
 companions. The river was twice crossed once 
 after night, and in a blustering atmosphere in a 
 crazy boat crowded with carriages and horses- 
 The road was in some parts of it precipitous and 
 dangerous, and was traversed during our return 
 in the dark. I was a stranger to the way, had 
 bad eyes, and drove with precipitation ; yet 
 
 Miss , my companion in a chaise, betrayed 
 
 not the slightest apprehension or concern. We 
 ascended a hill which, from the abundance of its 
 rattlesnakes, is known by the name of Rattle 
 snake hill ; we clambered over rocks and pits, 
 but the name of snake seemed to affect the fe 
 males as little as that of butterfly." 
 
 After mentioning a visit to Job s pool, the 
 company s dining in a meadow, the perils and 
 fatigues ofcl a inhering a mountain, and the ex 
 tensive view of Connecticut and its beautiful 
 river of the same name " with its turns and dales" 
 enjoyed from the top, Charles concludes his ac 
 count of the day with the following characteris 
 tic reflections. 
 
 " This day was full of incidents, and produc 
 tive of much fatigue ; yet I remember it with 
 
156 MEMOIRS OF 
 
 powerful and pleasurable emotion. To what 
 cause is this to be ascribed ? Does it flow from its 
 social circumstances ? 
 
 " What a wretched possession is solitude. In 
 telligence and sympathy beaming from eye to 
 eye, constitute all the happiness of man. Nature 
 owes all her charms to her alliance with images 
 flowing from society/ 
 
 In the summer of 1800, Mr. Joseph Brown, 
 Charles s eldest brother, whose usual residence 
 was in North Carolina, visited Philadelphia, and 
 passed some time at Princetown, New Jersey. 
 Charles went thither to meet his brother, and on 
 the way passed some agreeable days with a circle 
 of friends at New Brunswick. 
 
 He mentions that his brother was anxious for 
 him to go to Carolina, " but, says he, " I am 
 reluctant to comply. I know not why, scarcely. 
 Seldom less happy than at present. Seldom has 
 my prospect been a gloomier one. Yet it may 
 shine when least expected." 
 
 On a former occasion Mr. Brown had thus ex 
 pressed himself, upon a topic of great importance 
 to human happiness. " My conceptions of the 
 delights and benefits connected with love and 
 and marriage, are exquisite. They have swayed 
 most of my thoughts, and many of my actions, 
 since I arrived at an age of reflection and matu- 
 
CHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN. 157 
 
 rity. They have given birth to the sentiment 
 of love, with regard to several women. Mutual 
 circumstances have frustrated the natural opera 
 tions of that sentiment in several instances. At 
 present I am free. None of those with whom I 
 recently associated, have any claims upon me, 
 nor have I any upon them." But about the 
 time that he rejected his brother s solicitations 
 to visit Carolina, or soon after, he conceived an 
 attachment to the lady who afterwards became 
 the source of his chief happiness. 
 
 In the summer of 1801, Charles was pleasant 
 ly occupied for some weeks in travelling with an 
 amiable and intelligent companion through parts 
 of the states of New York, Massachusetts and 
 Connecticut. He has left us the following ac 
 count of his voyage up the Hudson. 
 
 July 7, 1801. 
 
 " Very suddenly conceived the design of 
 voyaging up the Hudson river, as far as Albany. 
 Had heard much of the grandeur of its shores, 
 but never had gone above ten miles from New 
 York. My friend C. having some leisure, was 
 willing to adventure for ten days or a fortnight, 
 and I having still more, and being greatly in 
 want of air and exercise, agreed to accompany him. 
 We found a most spacious and well -furnished 
 
158 MEMOIRS OF 
 
 vessel, Captain R , in which we embarked 
 
 at sun-set this day. The wind propitious and the 
 air wonderfully bland. 
 
 " We bade adieu to our friends B , J , 
 
 and D . I took my post at the stern, and 
 
 found much employment for my feelings, in 
 marking through the dusk, the receding city 
 and the glimmering lights ; first of quays and 
 avenues, and afterwards of farms and villages. 
 It is just three years since my visit to New York, 
 in 1798, an interval replete with events, vari 
 ous and momentous ; some of them humiliating 
 and disastrous, but, on the whole, leading me to 
 my present situation in which 1 have reason for 
 congratulation . 
 
 July 8, 1801. 
 
 " 1 write this seated in the cabin, from the 
 windows of which we have a view of wooded 
 slopes, rocky promontories and waving summits. 
 Our attention has been, for some time, fixed 
 upon Stony Point, a memorable post in the late 
 war, a spot familiar to my ears since my infancy, 
 but which I have now seen for the first time. 
 It is a rocky and rugged mass advancing into the 
 river, the sides of which are covered with dwarf 
 cedars, and the summit conspicuous still with 
 some remains of fortification ; a general solitude 
 
CHARLES BROCKDHN BROWN. 159 
 
 and vacancy around it, and a white cow grazing 
 within the ruinous walls, produce a pleasing 
 effect on my imagination. A craggy eminence, 
 crowned with the ruins of a fortress, is an inte 
 resting spectacle every where, but a very rare one 
 in America. I much wished to go ashore and 
 ascend this hill, but it was not convenient. 
 
 " What are called the highlands of the North 
 river, are a mountainous district, through which 
 the rivers flow for some miles. I had heard 
 much of the stupendous and alpine magnificence 
 of the scenery. We entered it this morning, 
 with a mild breeze and serene sky, and the pro 
 spect hitherto has been soft and beautiful. 
 Nothing abrupt, rugged or gigantic. Farms and 
 cultivated fields seldom appear. Six or eight 
 vessels like our own, have been constantly in 
 sight, and greatly enliven the scene. 
 
 " We are now at anchor: have just dined. 
 My companions are gone to sleep. The utmost 
 stillness prevails. Nothing to be heard but the 
 buzzing of flies near at hand, and the cawing of 
 distant crows. We lie surrounded on all hands 
 by loftier ridges than I ever before saw bordered 
 by water. 
 
 " We have formed various conjectures as to 
 the height of the summits. The captain s state 
 ments of five and six hundred feet are extrava- 
 
160 MEMOIRS OF 
 
 0-ant. Three hundred would be nearer the truth . 
 
 o 
 
 Few or none of them are absolute precipices, 
 but most of them are steep, and not to be scaled 
 without difficulty. 
 
 " I have gazed at the passing scene from Stony 
 Point to West Point, with great eagerness, and 
 till my eye was weary and pained. How shall 
 I describe them ? I cannot particularize the sub 
 stance of the rock, or the kind of tree, save oaks 
 and cedars. I am as little versed in the pic 
 turesque. I can only describe their influence 
 
 on me. 
 
 * 
 
 July 10. 
 
 " My friend is a very diligent observer, and 
 frequently betakes himself to the pen. Heavy 
 brows and languid blood have made me indolent, 
 and I have done nothing but look about me, or 
 muse for the last two days. 
 
 " On Thursday afternoon with a brisk south 
 ward gale and a serene sky, we left the high 
 lands. At the spot where the mountains recede 
 from the river, the river expands into a kind of 
 lake, about two miles wide and ten miles long. 
 The entrance is formed by cliffs, lofty, steep and 
 gloomy with woods, while the borders of the 
 lake itself are easy slopes, checquered with culti 
 vated fields, farms, and villages. 
 
CHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN. 161 
 
 Cl The highlands, from the height and boldness 
 of the promontories, and ruggedness of the rocks, 
 and the fantastic shape they assume, fully answer 
 the expectations which my friends had excited. 
 But the voyage over the lake exceeded whatever 
 my fancy had pictured of delightful. Three popu 
 lous villages, Peekskill, New Windsor, and New- 
 burg, and innumerable farms decorate its borders. 
 
 " Yesterday we moved but slowly, the wind 
 becoming adverse. At noon, we drew into a 
 wharf, at Red-hook, and remained there till 
 evening. My friend and I seized the opportunity 
 of wandering.^ The river bank is lofty, and 
 w r ooded as usual, but no wise remarkable. 
 
 " Some hours before, a waving and bluish line 
 in the horizon, reminded us of the Kaats-kill 
 mountains. These are seen very advantageously 
 from Red-hook, distant about twenty miles, and 
 appear of stupendous height. Their elevation 
 has been ascertained, but I do not recollect what 
 it is. 
 
 ; < We roamed along the shore and among the 
 bushes, highly pleased with the exercise, and 
 concluded our rambles with a bathing in the 
 river. In leaving the sloop, I left most of my 
 sluggish feelings behind me, and walked enough 
 to make the night s repose acceptable and sound. 
 
 " With the tide to favour us we left Red-hook 
 
 M 
 
162 MEMOIRS OF 
 
 at eight o clock, but were obliged to anchor 
 again before morning. At six o clock my friend 
 and I accompanied the captain ashore, in search 
 of milk and blackberries. I have since seated 
 myself on deck, watching the shore, as the 
 breeze carried us slowly along. My friend is 
 busy with his spy-glass, reconnoitering the rocks 
 and hay- stacks, and surveying the wharfs and 
 store-houses of Lunenburg and Hudson, villages 
 we have just passed. I have observed but little 
 besides a steep bank, roughened by rocks and 
 bushes, occasionally yielding to slopes of a 
 parched and yellowish soil, with poor cottages 
 sparingly scattered, and now and then a small 
 garden or field of corn. A fellow-passenger 
 left us at Hudson, one only remaining, a Mr. 
 
 H , of Albany, a well-behaved man, whose 
 
 attention is swallowed up by Mrs. Bennet s 
 " Beggar Girl," 
 
 " The sloop s crew consists of captain, mate, 
 a man and a boy as cook ; all orderly, peaceable 
 obliging persons. The cabin being perfectly 
 clean and comfortable, and provisions plentiful 
 and good, we have no reason to regret the delays 
 occasioned by adverse winds, and by calms. I 
 have some vacant moments which a book might 
 amuse. The captain s whole stock consists of 
 a book of navigation, Dilworth s Arithmetic, 
 
CHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN. 163 
 
 and Goldsmith s Citizen of the World. I have 
 looked into the last, but it does not please me. 
 The fiction is ill -supported, the style smooth and 
 elegant, but the sentiments and observations far 
 from judicious or profound. 
 
 " The mate has been telling me his adventures. 
 A very crude and brief tale it was, but accept 
 able and pleasing to me. A voyage round the 
 globe is a very trivial adventure now-a-days. 
 This man has been twice to Nootka, thence to 
 Canton, and thence to Europe and home. He 
 performed one whaling voyage to Greenland, 
 and was fifteen months a seaman in a British 
 seventy -four. His South Sea voyage occupied 
 eighteen months, during- which there was neither 
 sickness nor death among the crew." 
 
 Here Mr. Brown s intended journal of his 
 journey breaks off abruptly ; but in a form be 
 tween the epistolary and journalising, he con 
 tinued it, and I will make some extracts. After 
 a few words respecting Albany, he the next day 
 dates from 
 
 Lebanon, July 13, 1801. 
 
 " An hour ago we arrived at this delightful 
 spot. Delightful it is in every view. The 
 scenery around is sweetly picturesque, swelling 
 
 M 2 
 
164 MEMOIRS OF 
 
 slopes, luxuriant fertility and the wild music of 
 birds, combine to delight our senses while 
 abroad, while the apartments are neat, rustic, and 
 perfectly commodious. Our room looks out 
 upon the neighbouring vallies at the most charm 
 ing point of view. Methinks I shall leave this 
 spot with regret. To-morrow we propose to 
 leave it. 
 
 " We know not yet what they call the springs 
 or baths, and have seen none of the company 
 at this house. I suppose we shall presently be 
 introduced to them at dinner, and employ the 
 afternoon in wandering abroad. 
 
 " Our ride hither being over a tolerably smooth 
 road, and through a country that has many indi 
 cations of being newly settled, such as log huts, 
 trunks of trees piled on each other for fences, 
 men ploughing among the undecayed stumps of 
 trees, and corn growing luxuriantly among tall 
 oaks, which fire and the girdling axe had robbed 
 of their leafy honours, has been very pleasing. 
 In proportion as we approached Lebanon, the 
 slopes become longer, more beautiful and more 
 cultivated, and now, having reached our jour 
 ney s end, we find ourselves within view of al 
 most every thing that can cheer the heart of 
 man. From the table where I sit, I have a 
 glimpse of a sloping side of a secondary ridge 
 
CHARLES BROCKDEX BROWN. 165 
 
 of the green mountains, at the foot of which 
 Lebanon is situated. 
 
 Tuesday. 
 
 " The company here are a few invalids. Be 
 sides these there are three girls and a young man 
 from South Carolina. The youth has a most 
 unfavourable aspect, but is nevertheless good- 
 natured and intelligent. The ladies are shy, 
 and have nothing particularly attractive. 
 
 " Yesterday afternoon C. and I. visited the 
 Shakers 5 village. This appears to be the para 
 dise of health and tranquillity. Our request to 
 see their garden was complied with, but re 
 luctantly. An old man accompanied us through 
 it, w r ho was easily prevailed upon to give us some 
 account of his creed. The Shakers who occupy 
 this village, are only a branch of the society. 
 Their chief tenet, you know, is the sinfulness of 
 marriage ; and the arguments and quotations of 
 this apostle were all directed to this point. They 
 were strange reasonings and whimsical quota 
 tions, but delivered with the utmost confidence in 
 their truth. 
 
 " I have often regretted that I had not skill in 
 taking portraits. The countenance of our guide, 
 and that of an aged sister who brought us water, 
 were worth preserving. 
 
106 MEMOIRS OF 
 
 Thursday, Northampton. 
 
 " We left Lebanon on Tuesday afternoon and 
 traversed a very mountainous and beautiful coun 
 try to Pittsfield. Here we found some scope for 
 curiosity, and very agreeable accommodations. 
 Yesterday brought us to this place, where we 
 find every mark of comfort and opulence. We 
 know nobody, and can therefore seek employ 
 ment and amusement only in ourselves, in the 
 fields, and the outsides of houses. We might have 
 had letters introducing us at every considerable 
 town in the course of this journey, but propo 
 sing to fly along rapidly, we omitted to apply 
 for them. I think we erred, as a friend, for even 
 an half-hour, is of some value. 
 
 " We talk with those who chance to be our 
 companions in the stage and at the inn, and gain 
 from them what they know or choose to tell, 
 which of course is but little. 
 
 Thursday night, Hartford. 
 
 " On entering this town recollections of past 
 visits to this place occurred with some force, and 
 sunk me into not unpleasant meditation. I have 
 been here twice, eight years and two years ago, 
 at the same season as at present, but in very 
 different circumstances. 
 
CHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN. 167 
 
 New Haven, July 18, Saturday evening. 
 
 " C. was quickly weary of the dusty and dull 
 town of Hartford, and after traversing the most 
 part, agreed to hire a coach ee to take us to Mid- 
 dletown before dinner. First, however, we 
 obeyed the invitation of a sign, and w r ent into a 
 stable to see a moose deer. This creature is a 
 native of the northern regions of America, and 
 was remarkable in this instance, chiefly, for the 
 proofs of docility he gave in obeying the keeper s 
 
 At Middletown, Charles enjoyed the society 
 of friends whom he esteemed, and in whose 
 company he had passed many happy hours. 
 The next stage of the travellers was New Haven. 
 
 Monday morning. 
 
 " We have spent almost two days here (New 
 Haven) and, though absolute strangers to every 
 one we meet, have been very much at our ease. 
 We find company in each other of which we 
 have not hitherto been weary. Yesterday in the 
 morning w r e went to church, and heard Dr. 
 Dwight preach an ingenious sermon to prove 
 the reality of good and bad angels or genii : a 
 very agreeable doctrine, in which the fancy is 
 
168 MEMOIRS OF 
 
 more disposed to acquiesce than the under 
 standing. 
 
 " In the afternoon we employed ourselves 
 very agreeably in scaling a rock in the neigh 
 bourhood, called the East Rock. It terminates 
 abruptly one of the ridges of mountains that 
 range from north to south through Connecticut. 
 It is a very bold and very lofty precipice, and 
 allowed our eye to range over a great extent of 
 sea and land. We lingered on the brow of this 
 hill, and wandered at the foot of it till evening, 
 and returned highly pleased with the grand and 
 romantic scenery we had met with. 
 
 " Having nothing else to do, we have tra 
 versed this town in all directions, and indulged 
 ourselves in speculating upon all we saw. We 
 have met with several particulars worthy of re 
 mark : and my friend is at this moment busy in 
 recording his observations. 
 
 " No situation at an inn could be more agree 
 able than that which we enjoy here. The family 
 are quiet and orderly, and their lodging and 
 provisions excellent. We experience no inter 
 ruption or intrusion at our meals, or in our 
 slumbers." 
 
 Mr. Brown had now made Philadelphia the 
 place of his permanent residence. He was hap- 
 
CHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN. 169 
 
 pily situated, as an inmate with the family of one 
 of his beloved brothers ; and his parents resided 
 at a little distance in the same neighbourhood. 
 But his heart was still at New York ; for there 
 resided the lady to whom he looked for future 
 worldly happiness. 
 
 Miss E. Linn was the daughter of Dr. Wil 
 liam Linn, a minister of the presbyterian church, 
 and settled at New York. John Blair Linn, his 
 son, likewise a minister of the same church, was 
 at this time settled in Philadelphia : and, pro 
 bably owing to the attachment of Charles to his 
 sister, an intimacy was ripened into a permanent 
 arid warm friendship between Brown and the 
 young divine. But journies to New York were 
 now looked forward to as the chief good as 
 the wells of sweet water, and palm-shade in the 
 barren desert of life. 
 
 On the first of October, 1803, Mr. Brown 
 gave to the world a new periodical work, entitled 
 the Literary Magazine and American Register. 
 This work was undertaken at the suggestion, 
 and at the risk of Mr. John Conrad, who made 
 a very liberal arrangement with Mr. Brown as 
 the editor. This work was continued five years, 
 and is replete with the effusions of erudition, 
 taste, and genius. 
 
 The editor s address on the publication of the 
 
170 MEMOIRS OF 
 
 first number, is so characteristic, and so intrin 
 sically excellent, that I will here present it to 
 the reader. 
 
 " It is usual for one who presents the public 
 with a periodical work like the present, to intro 
 duce himself to the notice of his readers by 
 some sort of preface or address. I take up the 
 pen in conformity to this custom, but am quite 
 at a loss for topics suitable to so interesting an 
 occasion. I cannot expatiate on the variety of 
 my knowledge the brilliancy of my wit the 
 versatility of my talents. To none of these do 
 I lay any claim : and, though this variety, bril 
 liancy, arid solidity, are necessary ingredients in 
 a work of this kind, I trust merely to the zeal 
 and liberality of my friends to supply me with 
 them . I have them not myself ; but doubt not 
 of the good offices of those who possess them : 
 and shall think myself entitled to no small praise, 
 if I am able to collect into one focal spot the 
 rays of a great number of luminaries. They 
 also may be very unequal to each other in lustre ; 
 and some of them may be little better than 
 twinkling and feeble stars, of the hundredth 
 magnitude : but what is wanting in individual 
 splendour, will be made up by the union of all 
 their beams into one. My province shall be to 
 
CHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN. 171 
 
 hold the mirror up, so as to assemble all their 
 influence within its verge, and reflect them on 
 the public in such a manner as to warm and 
 enlighten. 
 
 " As I possess nothing but zeal, I can promise 
 to exert nothing else : but my consolation is, 
 that, aided by that powerful spirit, many have 
 accomplished things much more arduous than 
 that which I propose to myself. 
 
 " Many are the works of this kind which 
 have risen and fallen in America, and many of 
 them have enjoyed but a brief existence. This 
 circumstance has always, at first sight, given me 
 some uneasiness ; but when I come more soberly 
 to meditate upon it, my courage revives, and I 
 discover no reason for my doubts. Many works 
 have actually been reared and sustained by the 
 curiosity and favour of the public. They have 
 ultimately declined or fallen, it is true : but why ? 
 from no abatement of the public curiosity ; but 
 from causes for which publishers or editors only 
 are accountable. Those who managed the pub 
 lication, have commonly either changed their 
 principles, remitted their zeal, or voluntarily re 
 linquished their trade ; or, last of all, and like 
 other men, have died. Such works have flou 
 rished for a time ; and they ceased to flourish, by 
 the fault or misfortune of the proprietors. The 
 
172 MEMOIRS OF 
 
 public is always eager to encourage one who 
 devotes himself to their rational amusement : 
 and when he ceases to demand or to deserve 
 their favour, they feel more regret than anger in 
 withdrawing it. 
 
 " The world, by which I mean the few hun 
 dred persons who concern themselves about this 
 work, will naturally inquire who it is who thus 
 addreses them. This is somewhat more than 
 a point of idle curiosity/ my reader will say ; 
 for, from my knowledge of the man must I in 
 fer how far he will be able or willing to fulfil 
 his promises. Besides, it is of great importance 
 to know, whether his sentiments on certain sub 
 jects be agreeable or not to my own. In politics, 
 for example, he may be a malcontent : in reli 
 gion, a heretic. He may be an ardent advocate 
 for all that I abhor, or he may be a celebrated 
 champion of my favourite opinions. It is evi 
 dent that these particulars must dictate the treat 
 ment you receive from me, and make me either 
 your friend or enemy, your patron or your per 
 secutor. Besides, I am anxious for some per 
 sonal knowledge of you, that I may judge of 
 your literary merits. You may, possibty, be one 
 of those, who come hither from the old world to 
 seek your fortune ; who have handled the pen as 
 others handled the awl or the needle : that is, for 
 
CHARLES BKOCKDEN BROWN. 173 
 
 the sake of a livelihood ; and who, therefore, are 
 willing to work on any kind of cloth or leather, 
 and to any model that may be in demand. You 
 may, in the course of your trade, have accommo 
 dated yourself to twenty different fashions, and 
 have served twenty classes of customers ; have 
 copied at one time a Parisian, at another a 
 London fashion : and have truckled to the hu 
 mours, now of a precise enthusiast, and now of 
 a smart freethinker. 
 
 " ^Tis of no manner of importance what creed 
 you may publicly profess on this occasion, or on 
 what side, religious or political, you may de 
 clare yourself enlisted. To judge of the value 
 or sincerity of these professions ; to form some 
 notion how far you will faithfully or skilfully 
 perform your part, I must know your character. 
 By that knowledge I shall regulate myself with 
 more certainty than by any anonymous decla 
 ration you may think proper to make/ 
 
 " I bow to the reasonableness of these obser 
 vations, and shall therefore take no pains to con 
 ceal my name. Any body may know it who 
 chooses to ask me or my publisher. I shall not, 
 however, put it at the bottom of this address. 
 My diffidence, as my friends would call it, and 
 my discretion, as my enemies (if I have any), 
 would term it, hinders me from calling out my 
 
174 MEMOIRS OF 
 
 name in a crowd. It has heretofore hindered 
 me from making my appearance there, when 
 impelled by the strongest of human considera 
 tions, and produces, at this time, an insuperable 
 aversion to naming myself to my readers. The 
 mere act of calling out my own name, on this oc 
 casion, is of no moment, since an author or edi 
 tor who takes no pains to conceal himself, can 
 not fail of being known to as many as desire to 
 know him. And whether my notoriety make 
 for me or against me, I shall use no means to 
 prevent it. 
 
 " I am far from wishing, however, that my 
 readers should judge of my exertions by my 
 former ones. I have written much, but take 
 much blame to myself for something which I 
 have written, and take no praise for any thing. 
 I should enjoy a larger share of my own respect, 
 at the present moment if nothing had ever flow 
 ed from my pen, the production of which could 
 be traced to me. A variety of causes induce me 
 to form such a wish, but I am principally in 
 fluenced by the consideration that time can 
 scarcely fail of enlarging and refining the powers 
 of a man ; while the world is sure to judge of his 
 capacities and principles at fifty, from what he 
 has written at fifteen. 
 
 " Meanwhile, I deem it reasonable to explain 
 
CHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN. 175 
 
 the motives of the present publication, and must 
 rely for credit on the good -nature of my readers. 
 The project is not a mercenary one. Nobody 
 relies for a subsistence on its success, nor does 
 the editor put any thing but his reputation at 
 stake. At the same time, he cannot but be de 
 sirous of an ample subscription, not merely be 
 cause pecuniary profit is acceptable, but because 
 this is the best proof which he can receive that 
 his endeavours to amuse and instruct have not 
 been unsuccessful. 
 
 " Useful information and rational amusement 
 being his objects, he will not scruple to collect 
 materials from all quarters. He will ransack 
 
 V "v x 
 
 the newest foreign publications, and extract from 
 them whatever can serve his purpose. He will 
 not forget that a work, which solicits the atten 
 tion of many readers, must build its claim on the 
 variety as well as copiousness of its contents. " 
 
 "As to domestic publications, besides ex 
 tracting from them any thing serviceable to the 
 public, he will give a critical account of them, 
 and in this respect, make his work an American 
 Review, in which the history of our native lite 
 rature shall be carefully detailed. 
 
 " He will pay particular attention to the his-\ 
 tory of passing events. He will carefully com-j 
 pile the news, foreign and domestic, of the cur- 1 
 
176 MEMOIRS OF 
 
 rent month, and give, in a concise and systema 
 tic order, that intelligence which the common 
 newspapers communicate in a vague and indis 
 criminate way. His work shall likewise be a 
 repository of all those signal incidents in private 
 life, which mark the character of the age, and 
 excite the liveliest curiosity. 
 
 " This is an imperfect sketch of his work, 
 and to accomplish these ends, he is secure of 
 the liberal aid of many most respectable persons 
 in this city, and New York. He regrets the 
 necessity he is under of concealing these names, 
 since they would furnish the public with irre 
 sistible inducements to read, what, when they 
 had read, they would find sufficiently recom 
 mended by its own merits. 
 
 " In an age like this, when the foundations of 
 religion and morality have been so boldly at 
 tacked, it seems necessary, in announcing a 
 work of this nature, to be particularly explicit as 
 to the path which the editor means to pursue. 
 He, therefore, avows himself to be, without equi 
 vocation or reserve, the ardent friend and the 
 t- willing champion of the Christian religion. 
 Christian piety he reveres as the highest excel 
 lence of human beings, and the amplest reward 
 .he can seek, for his labour, is the consciousness 
 of having, in some degree, however inconsider- 
 
CHARLES BROCKDEtf BROWN. 177 
 
 able, contributed to recommend the practice of 
 religious duties. 
 
 " As, in the conduct of this work, a supreme 
 regard will be paid to the interests of religion 
 and morality, he will scrupulously guard against 
 all that dishonours or impairs that principle. 
 Every thing that savours of indelicacy or licen 
 tiousness will be rigorously proscribed. His 
 poetical pieces may be dull, but they shall, at 
 least, be free from voluptuousness or sensuality, 
 and his prose, whether seconded or not, by 
 genius or knowledge, shall scrupulously aim 
 at the promotion of public and private virtue. 
 
 " As a political annalist, he will speculate 
 freely on foreign transactions ; but, in his detail 
 of domestic events, he will confine himself, as 
 strictly as possible, to the limits of a mere histo 
 rian. There is nothing for which he has a 
 deeper abhorrence than the intemperance of 
 party, and his fundamental rule shall be to ex 
 clude from his pages all personal altercation 
 and abuse. 
 
 " He will conclude by reminding the public, 
 that there is not, at present, any other monthly 
 publication in America ; and that a plan of this 
 kind, if well conducted, cannot fail of being 
 highly conducive to amusement and instruction. 
 There are many, therefore, it is hoped, who, 
 when such an herald as this knocks at their 
 
 N 
 
178 MEMOIRS OF 
 
 door, will open it without reluctance, and ad 
 mit a visitant who calls only once a month ; who 
 talks upon every topic ; whose company may 
 be dismissed or resumed, and who may be made 
 to prate or to hold his tongue, at pleasure. A 
 companion he will be, possessing one compa 
 nionable property, in the highest degree, that is 
 to saj^, a desire to please." 
 
 In the same year, 1803, Mr. Brown produced 
 the first of three political pamphlets, which he 
 at different periods gave to the world. It is en 
 titled, " 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 : including a translation of a memo 
 rial on the war of St. Domingo, and cession of 
 the Mississippi to France, drawn up by a French 
 counsellor of state. " 
 
 The supposed French counsellor of state (for 
 the author merely assumes that character, the 
 better to elucidate the truths he wishes to incul 
 cate) occupies the greater portion of the book. 
 He enumerates " all the disadvantages of the 
 war of St. Domingo, and the benefits of the ces 
 sion of Louisiana ;" and displays, most forcibly, 
 the conduct incumbent upon France, as mistress 
 of Louisiana, to pursue for her own interests. 
 
 In doing this, the author displays the impor- 
 
 
CHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN. 179 
 
 tance of Louisiana to any nation possessing it ; 
 and the reader sees its immense consequence to 
 the United States, and the evils which would 
 result to them, if that great country and its ines 
 timable river were in the occupation of one of 
 the great powers of Europe. 
 
 When speaking of the evils to be dreaded 
 from the introduction of an active European 
 power into Louisiana, it was this expanded and 
 real patriotism which caused Mr. Brown to 
 exclaim 
 
 " No man can look upon these evils with in 
 difference. Yet no wise man will think a re 
 newal of all the devastations of our last war, too 
 great a price to give for the expulsion of fo 
 reigners from this land ; for securing to our own 
 posterity the possession of this continent. 
 
 " We have a right to the possession. The 
 interests of the human j*ace demand from us the 
 exercise of this right. These interests demand 
 that the reign of peace and concord should be 
 diffused as widely, and prolonged as much, 
 as possible. By unity of manners, laws, and 
 government, is concord preserved ; and this 
 unity will be maintained, with as little danger 
 of interruption as the nature of human affairs will 
 permit, by the gradual extension of our own 
 settlements, by erecting new communities as 
 
 N 2 
 
180 MEMOIRS OF 
 
 fast as the increase of these settlements requires 
 it, and by sheltering them all under the pacific 
 wing of a federal government." 
 
 He thus describes the " terrible evil" of the 
 neighbourhood of an European nation to us. 
 " All on fire to extend their own power ; fresh 
 from pernicious conquests; equipped with all 
 the engines of war and violence ; measuring their 
 own success by the ruin of their neighbours ; 
 eager to divert, into channels of their own, the 
 trade and revenue which have hitherto been 
 ours ; raising an insuperable mound to our future 
 progress ; spreading among us, with fatal dili 
 gence, the seeds of faction and rebellion." 
 " What more fatal wound," he exclaims, " could 
 befall the future population, happiness, and con 
 cord of this new world ?" 
 
 In the year 1804, Mr. Brown published in 
 England, his last novel, " Jane Talbot." This 
 work has little of the excellence of his previous 
 romances. It is deficient in interest. The author, 
 it is true, is seen in it, and it is therefore worthy 
 of perusal, but I shall decline entering into an 
 analysis of it, after having gone so largely into 
 the merits of his previous romances. 
 
 In August of this year died John Blair Linn, 
 D. D. the beloved brother of the lady to whom 
 
CHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN. 181 
 
 Mr. Brown had devoted his affections. Mr, 
 Linn had been called to the first presbyterian 
 church in Philadelphia, in 1799, and had, of 
 course, resided in that city until the time of his 
 death. Miss Elizabeth Linn, with whom Mr. 
 Brown had become acquainted at New York, 
 occasionally resided with her brother. 
 
 The marriage of Mr. Brown to Miss Linn 
 took place in November 1804; and he thence 
 forward became a fixed inhabitant of his native 
 city, enjoying in an uncommon degree that 
 domestic happiness which had always appeared 
 to him as the consummation of human felicity, 
 and for which he was so eminently formed. 
 
 In 1805, on occasion of the publication of 
 " Valerian, a Narrative Poem," by Dr. Lino, 
 Mr. Brown wrote " A Sketch of the Life and 
 Character of John Blair Linn," which has been 
 justly admired as a very fine example of biogra 
 phical composition. 
 
 It was not long after, that Mr. Brown con 
 ceived the design of a work new to our country, 
 and of great utility both in a literary and political 
 point of view. This was an Annual Register. 
 Mr.Conrad undertook the publication. It was en 
 titled the " American Register," and the first vo 
 lume issued from the press of the Palmers in 1806. 
 
 The death of Mr. Brown alone prevented the 
 
182 MEMOIRS OF 
 
 universal circulation of a work so extensively 
 useful, and conducted with such brilliant talents 
 and profound knowledge. That felicity of style, 
 at which Mr. Brown had so long aimed, and 
 which he had so fully attained ; that thorough 
 knowledge of history, ancient and modern ; that 
 intimate acquaintance with geography, which 
 his early and constant passion for that science 
 had given him ; and his general habits of study 
 and investigation qualified him for the historical 
 part of such an undertaking beyond most men. 
 
 Five volumes of the American Register were 
 published before the lamented death of C. B. 
 Brown . Besides annals of Europe and America, 
 this work contained an abstract of laws and public 
 acts, a review of literature, a chronicle of memo 
 rable occurrences, foreign and domestic scientific 
 intelligence, American and foreign state-papers, 
 and miscellaneous articles. 
 
 From the regions of poetry and romance ; from 
 visionary schemes of Utopian systems of govern 
 ment and manners, Mr. Brown, like many 
 others, became a sober recorder of things as they 
 are ; but he never dismissed from his heart the 
 sincere desire of ameliorating the condition of 
 mankind, or admitted into his political views 
 or speculations, that inveterate bitterness, that 
 illiberal and indiscriminate censure of opponents, 
 
CHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN. 183 
 
 the result of selfishness and disappointment, which 
 so generally characterises our political writers. 
 As Mr. Brown s motives were pure, so his views 
 of political men, measures and events, were un 
 clouded, and his errors are, alone, errors of 
 judgment. 
 
 Mr. Brown s second political pamphlet is en 
 titled, " The British Treaty," and is dedicated 
 " to those members of Congress who have the 
 sense to perceive, and spirit to pursue, the true 
 interests of their country." 
 
 The third political pamphlet of Mr. Brown 
 was not published until the year 1809, and is en 
 titled " an Address to the Congress of the United 
 States, on the utility and justice of restrictions 
 upon Foreign Commerce, with reflections on 
 Foreign Trade in general, and the future pros 
 pects of America." 
 
 In this work, as in the Register, Mr. Brown 
 is very happy in stating the arguments for and 
 against political opinions arid measures. This 
 felicity proceeded from the acuteness of his per 
 ceptions and the clearness of his mind from all 
 foreign or party bias. 
 
 After dwelling sometime on the subject of the 
 Chinese empire, he predicts that North America 
 will afford a similar example of internal wealth 
 and population in the coming age. 
 
184 MEMOIRS OF 
 
 " Our actual territory," he says, " has about 
 the same area. It lies in the same beneficent 
 climate. It is almost equally compact. The 
 surface is far more level and fertile. It is occu 
 pied by one language, one people, one mode 
 of general government, one system of salutary 
 laws. Its population is small at present, but our 
 progress to a more than Chinese abundance of 
 produce and people, is no contingent event ; it 
 is one of those future appearances, of which the 
 certainty is just as great as of any thing past. 
 Barring deluges almost general, and pestilences 
 that extinguish mankind, or the untimely de 
 struction of the globe itself, this, and indeed a 
 great deal more than this, must happen, because 
 the present limits of our territory are not im 
 mutable. They must stretch with our wants. 
 The South Sea only can bound us on one side ; 
 the Mexican Gulph on the other ; the polar ices 
 on the third ; but time, instead of diminishing 
 our intercourse and dissolving our connection 
 with foreigners, will only augmentand strengthen 
 them. The other states of the western hemi 
 sphere, we shall, of course, approach more nearly; 
 and mix with them more intimately. The gaps 
 of unpeopled waste which now sever them and 
 us will disappear. Our limits will touch. As 
 to the nations of Europe, as they conquered and. 
 
CHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN. 185 
 
 peopled this hemisphere, they are destined to 
 conquer and possess and people what remains to 
 be peopled of the eastern world. Hence our 
 mere local proximity will continually increase. 
 Our commercial intercourse will make rapid ad 
 vances, but its particular relations or conditions 
 must change. It will assume new forms ; and 
 while its actual extent will increase, its extent, 
 relatively to our numbers, may possibly, with 
 regard to Europe at least, be diminished. 
 
 " These may appear, to some minds wholly 
 occupied with the passing scene, as silly and un 
 seasonable dreams. Yet those who meditate on 
 the present state of things, and find no comfort, 
 may thank him who snatches them away to the 
 future." 
 
 This was the last publication of Charles 
 Brockden Brown, and evinces such a vigour of in 
 tellect, and an accumulation of knowledge, com 
 bined with such rare patriotism, and true bene 
 volence, as seldom fall to the lot of one man. 
 
 Mr. Brown left unfinished a system of geo 
 graphy, general and particular, which would 
 have been an invaluable present to the public, 
 and a source of emolument for his bereaved 
 family. Enough of this work is completed to 
 make it a very valuable addition to the author s 
 
186 MEMOIRS OF 
 
 favourite science ; and measures have been 
 adopted for its publication. 
 
 Of his tranlations from the French, it is need 
 less to speak. To give an English dress to the 
 crude and often unfounded opinions of Volney 
 respecting this country, was neither congenial 
 with the talents nor feelings of Brown. 
 
 Consumption, to which he appeared to have 
 a constitutional tendency, had now made such 
 fearful inroads upon his frame, as seriously 
 alarmed his friends. His sedentary inclinations 
 and habits, had assisted the insiduous approaches 
 of this disease, and though for more than two 
 years before his death he had occasionally ex 
 pectorated blood, he quieted his own alarms and 
 those of his friends, by persuading himself and 
 them, that it did not come from the lungs. His 
 friends frequently, and for a long time, urged 
 him to take a sea voyage, and by change of cli 
 mate and employment, check if not repulse the 
 enemy, whose ravages they beheld with increased 
 anxiety ; but his reluctance to leave his home, 
 for a time so long as is necessary to visit Europe, 
 was so great, that he could not be prevailed 
 upon. At length, like many other victims to 
 this disease, he determined, when too late, on a 
 voyage in pursuit of health. It was resolved 
 
CHARLES BROCKOEN BROWN. 187 
 
 that, in the spring of 1810, he should visit his 
 brother James, who resides in England ; but he 
 lived not to see that spring. 
 
 In the summer of 1809, he left home for a 
 short time to procure some relief from disease, 
 and to visit his friends in New Jersey and New 
 York. The following, written on the banks of 
 the Hudson, conveys more than any thing his 
 biographer can say : 
 
 Hobocken, Friday afternoon. 
 
 " My dearest Mary Instead of wandering 
 about, and viewing more nearly a place that 
 affords very pleasing landscapes, here am I, 
 hovering over the images of wife, children, and 
 sisters. I want to write to you and home, and 
 though unable to procure paper enough to form 
 a letter, I cannot help saying something, even 
 on this scrap. 
 
 " I am mortified to think how incurious and 
 inactive a mind has fallen to my lot. I left 
 home with reluctance. If I had not brought a 
 beloved part of my home along with me, I 
 should probably have not left it at all. At a 
 distance from home, my enjoyments my affec 
 tions are beside you. If swayed by mere in 
 clination, I should not be out of your company 
 a quarter of an hour, between my parting and 
 
188 MEMOIRS OF 
 
 returning hour : but I have some mercy on you 
 and Susan : and a due conviction of my want of 
 power to beguile your vacant hour with amuse 
 ment, or improve it by instruction. Even if I 
 were ever so well, and if my spirits did not con 
 tinually hover on the brink of dejection, my talk 
 could only make you yawn as things are, my 
 company can only tend to create a gap indeed. 
 
 46 When have I known that lightness and vivacity 
 of mind which the divine flow of health, even in 
 calamity, produces in some men? and would 
 produce in me, no doubt: at least, when not 
 soured by misfortune ? Never : scarcely ever : 
 not longer than an half-hour at a time, since I 
 have called myself man : and not a moment 
 since I left you on Wednesday morning. I then 
 rose with such an head-ache as was likely to 
 maintain its post for the rest of the week ; and 
 this circumstance deprived me of any prospect 
 of enjoyment from my journey, while, at the 
 same time, it determined me to go, because this 
 would have made me a companion to you ten 
 times duller than common, and absolutely un 
 fitted me for any New York company. 
 
 " I crossed the river, without any particular 
 views, at ten o clock. I made inquiries about 
 Amboy, but found no stage that was going that 
 way for many hours, and none that was going 
 
CHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN. 189 
 
 nearer than eight miles : and eight miles, in this 
 burning atmosphere, was too much to walk ; I 
 could have found my way thither, indeed, by 
 other means, but there was none going from the 
 Hook immediately in that direction, while there 
 was a stage just then starting for Belville. To 
 Belville, accordingly I went in two or three 
 hours. Tis a pleasant village on the Passaic, 
 where I staid till next morning. Chance gave 
 me, for companion, a well-disposed, well-in 
 formed Virginian, who has been acquainted 
 with Ogilvie these fifteen years, with his wife 
 and her family, and especially with Mrs. Ellis, 
 of whom you recollect O. told us much. A 
 great deal, in fine, of most of those whom that 
 oddity mentioned to us. 
 
 " Finding Passaic Falls to be only nine 
 miles form Belville, I went thither, on Thursday. 
 The weather was insupportably hot, and the 
 fatigue of even those short walks which curiosity 
 required, added to my inharmonious feelings, 
 contributed to make the journey rather unpro 
 fitable. Glittering water-falls are but dim, and 
 hanging rocks hardly more interesting than a 
 sand-moor, when viewed with misty eyes and 
 aching brows. 
 
 " The afternoon was stormy, and the night 
 and following morning cold. This morning I 
 
190 MEMOIRS OF 
 
 was set down at Bergen, and came hither to 
 Hobocken, where I have a full view of New 
 York, and can indulge my fancy in what is 
 going forward there, with more facility than 
 twenty miles further off. How have you em 
 ployed yourself since Wednesday ? perhaps you 
 are gone to Haarlem, and may stay till Monday. 
 If so, I shall be disappointed : yet glad too, for 
 my Mary s affectionate heart will be mortified 
 at my precipitate return. And yet, there is no 
 spot more salubrious than Greenwich within 
 fifty miles of New York ; and the leathern wings 
 of a stage-coach do not carry healing under 
 them. 
 
 " Till here, I could not find books, which 
 have, with me, great efficacy in beguiling body 
 of its pains, and thoughts of their melancholy, 
 in relieving head and heart of their aches. 
 
 " Are there any letters lying for me from 
 home ? What may not have happened there in 
 three long days ! Death funeral interment, 
 have room enough in that time. A thousand 
 mishaps may take place within the compass of 
 three long summer days. I ana strongly tempted 
 to cross immediately, and would, if I could re- 
 cross before night : for I am ashamed to present 
 my self before you, before the week is fairly gone. 
 In a few hours I might receive letters and meet 
 
CHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN. 191 
 
 you both. I am afraid, when the next horn 
 sounds, I shall find the temptation irresistible." 
 
 On the 10th of November, 1809, he was at 
 tacked by a violent pain in his side, for which 
 he was bled, and retired to his chamber to be 
 nursed, as he thought, for a few days. From 
 this time to the twenty-second of February, he 
 was confined to his room ; his sufferings were 
 then relieved by death. During this long- con 
 finement, he scarcely ever enjoyed ease, and 
 sometimes suffered greatly, yet he never uttered 
 a murmur or impatient exclamation, and scarce 
 ly a complaint. 
 
 Such is the testimony of one who witnessed, 
 with the tenderest anxiety, his protracted suf 
 ferings, his beloved companion, his nurse, his 
 wife. 
 
 From the same source the following particu 
 lars of the illness and death of this lamented man 
 is derived. 
 
 " He always felt for others more than for him 
 self, and the evidences of sorrow in those around 
 him, which could not at all times be suppressed, 
 appeared to affect him more than his own suf 
 ferings. Whenever he spoke of the probability 
 of a fatal termination to his disease, it was in an 
 indirect and covered manner, as " you must 
 do so and so when I am absent ;" or " when I 
 
192 MEMOIRS OF 
 
 am asleep. " He surrendered not up one faculty 
 of his soul but with his last breath. He saw 
 death in every step of his approach, and viewed 
 him as a messenger that brought with him no 
 terrors. He frequently expressed his resigna 
 tion ; but his resignation was not produced by 
 apathy or pain, for while he bowed with sub. 
 mission to the Divine will, he felt, with the 
 keenest sensibility, his separation from those who 
 made this world but too dear to him. Towards 
 the last, he spoke of death without disguise, and 
 appeared to wish to prepare his friends for the 
 event, which he felt to be approaching. A few 
 days previous to his change, sitting up in the 
 bed, he fixed his eyes on the sky, and desired 
 not to be spoken to until he first spoke. In this 
 position, and with a serene countenance, he con 
 tinued for some minutes, and then said to his 
 wife, " When I desired you not to speak to me, 
 I had the most transporting and sublime feel 
 ings I ever experienced. I wanted to enjoy 
 them, and know how long they would last ;" 
 concluding with requesting her to remember 
 the circumstance. 
 
 On the morning of the 19th of February, 
 1810, it was observed that a change for the 
 worse had taken place. He thought himself 
 dying, and desired to see all his family, and 
 
CHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN. 193 
 
 spoke to each in the tenderest and most affec 
 tionate manner. He, however, remained in this 
 dying- state until the 22d, frequently conversing, 
 with his friends, in perfect possession of his 
 faculties to the last. 
 
 Thus at the age of thirty-nine, died Charles 
 Brockden Brown, taken from the world at a time 
 when the mass of knowledge which he had ac 
 quired hy unwearied but desultory reading, and 
 by acute and accurate observation, being pre 
 served by a strong memory and marshalled by an 
 uncommonly vigorous understanding, was fitted, 
 with the aid of his perseverance and zeal in the 
 cause of virtue, to have conferred the most im" 
 portant benefits upon his fellow men. 
 
 His loss to his immediate relatives may be 
 imagined by those who have read the preceding 
 pages ; a just notion of it cannot be conveyed by 
 his biographer in a summary view of his charac 
 ter. He had ever been an object of the most 
 ardent affection to his own family, and became 
 equally dear to the relatives of his wife. Her 
 sisters were adopted as his own, and on the loss 
 of their father, he became a father to them. 
 Ever ready to interest himself for the unfortunate, 
 to advise the unwary, to assist and encourage 
 all ; how peculiarly dear must such a man hav e 
 been to those who were peculiarly dear to him ! 
 
 o 
 
194 MEMOIRS OF . B. BROWN. 
 
 Though attached to the seclusion of the closet ; 
 though he would for hours be absorbed in archi 
 tectural studies, measuring proportions with his 
 compasses, and drawing plans of Grecian tem 
 ples or Gothic cathedrals, monasteries or castles ; 
 though addicted to every kind of abstraction, 
 and attached by habit to reverie ; he would break 
 off with the utmost ease from these favourite oc 
 cupations of his mind, and enter into conversa 
 tion on any topic with a fluency and copiousness 
 which approached to the truest eloquence. He 
 was never dictatorial or intrusive ; and although 
 pleased when holding discourse, and conscious 
 of superior colloquial talents, he was among men 
 of the world, or loud and long talkers, generally 
 silent, though not perhaps a listener. Though 
 not imposing in personal appearance, and with 
 great simplicity of manners, he was winning in 
 his address, and made friends of both sexes where- 
 ever he felt that the object was worthy. It 
 is not an eulogium of Mr. Brown, but memoirs 
 of his life, and some account of his writings, 
 that I have wished to present to the reader: 
 and if the impression of his character made by the 
 foregoing pages, is not that of a man of uncom - 
 mon acquirements, superior talents, amiable 
 manners, and exalted virtues, it is owing to want 
 of skill in his biographer. 
 
LETTERS 
 
 FROM CHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN 
 
 TO HIS FRIENDS. 
 
 o 2 
 
LETTERS FROM C. B. BROWN. 
 
 TO W. DUNLAP. 
 
 Philadelphia, Nov. 28, 1794. 
 MY DEAR FRIEND, 
 
 How many weeks have elapsed since you left 
 us, and since you requested me to write to you 
 some comments both upon your performance 
 and the representation of it. Better late than 
 never, is an excellent adage ; and when men have 
 delayed the performance of their duty, instead of 
 prolonging the breach by elaborate apologies, 
 they had much better apply themselves forthwith 
 to the discharge of it, that being the best repa 
 ration that can possibly be made for past neg 
 lect. 
 
 But what, my friend, shall I say upon this in 
 teresting subject ? You yourself were present at 
 the performance of the piece ; you know how 
 little the theatrical people are entitled to enco 
 miums ; what, therefore, could justify your friends 
 
198 MEMOIRS or 
 
 here, in publishing their sentiments upon the act 
 ing: the public could judge of the intrinsic 
 merits of the tragedy only as it was performed. 
 How defective must their judgment therefore 
 be, since their knowledge must be so imperfect. 
 
 My imagination is too undisciplined by expe 
 rience to make me relish theatrical representa 
 tions. 1 cannot sufficiently abstract my attention 
 from accompanying circumstances and surround 
 ing objects. Custom, or a differently constituted 
 fancy, enables others to distinguish and separate 
 with ease the dramatic and theatrical. 
 
 (\lv sufferings during that evening were such 
 as to make me unalterably determine never 
 to be an author. That, indeed, Mas before* 
 scarcely possible ; but if every other circumstance 
 were favourable, the dread of being torn and 
 mangled by the play-house gentry, either of the 
 stage or pit, Mould sufficiently damp my ardour. 
 
 You cannot expect that I should say anything 
 about the play itself. I ndistinguishing enco 
 miums must be as disagreeable to you to hear 
 as fruitless in me to utter. Mot having the piece 
 before me, 1 can recollect only the general im 
 pression ; that indeed Mould give just occasion 
 for panegyric, which, however delightful it 
 Mould IK? to me to bestow, Mould perhaps be 
 unplensiug to the delicacy of my friend. Parti- 
 
CHARLES BROCKDEX BROWN. 199 
 
 cular animadversions would require me to re 
 collect particular lines and passages, for which 
 purpose I confess my memory is not sufficiently 
 tenacious. 
 
 I suppose you proceed, with your wonted 
 celerity, in the career of composition. Has epic 
 poetry been entirely neglected? and has no pro 
 gress been made in the song which you have 
 consecrated to the fame of Aristomenes ? 
 
 It used to be a favourite maxim with me, that 
 the genius of a poet should be sacred to the glory 
 of his country ; how far this rule can be reduced 
 to practice by an American bard ; how far he 
 can prudently observe it, and what success has 
 crowned the efforts of those, who, in their com 
 positions, have shown that they have not been 
 unmindful of it, is perhaps not worth the in 
 quiry. 
 
 National song s, strains which have a peculiar 
 relation to the political or religious transactions 
 of the poet s country, seem to be the most pre 
 cious morsels, which do not require a dissatisfy 
 ing brevity, nor preclude the most exalted flights 
 of genius : for in this class I rank the Iliad and 
 jEneid, and Orlando (the last is a truly national 
 song, since the streets of every Italian city have 
 re-echoed with it for this hundred years or two) 
 as well as Chevy Chase, or the song of Roland. 
 
 Does it not appear to you, that to give poetry 
 
200 MEMOIRS OF 
 
 a popular currency and universal reputation, a 
 particular cast of manners and state of civilization 
 is necessary ? I have sometimes thought so ; but 
 perhaps it is an error, and the want of popular 
 poems argues only the demerit of those who have 
 already written, or some defect in their works, 
 which unfits them for every taste or under 
 standing. 
 
 Remember me affectionately to your family, 
 and I will write speedily to Elihu. Tell him, 
 he must not be offended by my long silence. 
 Yours, affectionately, 
 
 C. B. B. 
 
 TO A. BROWN. 
 
 New York, December 20, 1798. 
 MY DEAR BROTHER, 
 
 What excuse to make for my long silence, I 
 know not, unless the simple truth be sufficient 
 for the purpose. Some time since, I bargained 
 with the publisher of Wielarid for a new per 
 formance, part of which only was written : and 
 the publication commencing immediately, I was 
 obliged to apply with the utmost diligence to 
 the pen, in order to keep pace with the press. 
 Absorbed in this employment, I was scarcely 
 conscious of the lapse of time ; and, when the 
 
CHARLES UROCKDEN BROWN". 201 
 
 days s task was finished, felt myself thoroughly 
 weary and unfit for a continuance of the same 
 employment in any new shape. 
 
 I call my book Ormond ; or, The Secret Wit 
 ness. I hope to finish the writing and the pub 
 lication together, before new-year s-day, when I 
 shall have a breathing spell. 
 
 Together with your letter, I received one from 
 M., proposing the publication of Mervyn, on 
 the terms, and in the manner, mentioned by you. 
 I wrote him an immediate answer, assenting, 
 perhaps, too hastily, to the publication ; and pro 
 mising, when my present engagements were 
 fulfilled, to finish the Adventures of Arthur Mer 
 vyn. He has not noticed the receipt ; and I am 
 half-inclined to suspect that it has miscarried, 
 from the few words subjoined by you for my 
 use, to your letter to Z. 
 
 Proposals have been issued here for the pub 
 lication of a Monthly Magazine, of which I am 
 to be the editor, and whose profits are to belong 
 to me. The uncommon zeal of my friends here 
 promises success to this project. If it answer 
 expectation, it will commence in February or 
 March. This scheme, if it answer in any tole 
 rable manner, will be very profitable. 
 
 Yours, &c. 
 
 C. B. B. 
 
202 MEMOIRS OF 
 
 TO A. BROWN. 
 
 Extract of a Letter, dated New York, Jan. 1,1799. 
 DEAR BROTHER, 
 
 I have neither wife nor children, who look up 
 to me for food : and, in spite of all refinements, 
 conjugal and paternal cares can never be fully 
 transferred to one who has neither offspring nor 
 spouse. 
 
 However this be, I will not determine. The 
 lessons of fortitude, perhaps, are more easy to be 
 taught than to be practised : but this does not 
 diminish their value. This you will admit ; 
 but will probably add that there is only vanity 
 or folly in inculcating a lesson which the cha 
 racter or circumstances of the scholar disable 
 him from learning. 
 
 As to me, the surface of my life would be 
 thought, by most observers, tolerably smooth. 
 I rise at eight ; am seated by a comfortable fire ; 
 breakfast plenteously and in quiet, and with a 
 companion who is a model of all the social and 
 domestic virtues. All personal and household 
 services are performed for me, without the 
 trouble of superintendence and direction. The 
 writing occupation is pursued, with every advan 
 tageous circumstance of silence, solitude, pure 
 air, cleanliness, and warmth. 
 
CHARLES BROCKDEN KROWN. 203 
 
 When my voluntary and variable task is 
 finished, I may go into the society of those from 
 whom I derive most benefit and pleasure. That 
 I am blind to the benefits of this condition must 
 not be supposed. That mere external ease, and 
 temporary accommodation, are sufficient to afford 
 a reasonable being happiness, must not be 
 imagined. To forbear remembrance of the past, 
 or foresight of the future or to confine our view 
 to so small a part of our condition as consists in 
 food, raiment and repose, is no argument of 
 wisdom. These incidents have small place in 
 the thoughts of a rational man : but I will not 
 carry you, at present, beyond these ; or enter into 
 all these subtilties of sensation and reflection, 
 which, in spite of wealth, w r ould make me sad 
 and, in spite of poverty, would make me cheerful. 
 
 It is time to end this letter. To write it, was 
 the first employment of the new year, and will 
 be the sole employment of the kind that will take 
 place on this day. It is an holy-day, and, as 
 such, it shall be passed away. Absurd enough, 
 you will say, to make idleness a medium of 
 amusement or an auxiliary to sanctity. 
 
 On this day, all the world is busied in visit 
 ing, and congratulation and feasting. I believe 
 I shall, in this instance, act, in some degree, like 
 all the world. 
 
 Adieu, C. B. B. 
 
204 MEMOIRS or 
 
 TO JAMES BROWN. 
 
 New York, July 26, 1799. 
 DEAR BROTHER, 
 
 I am not sure that the present disposition of 
 my thoughts and feelings is the most favourable 
 for writing to you ; I have no momentous intel 
 ligence ; no tidings of personal, domestic, or 
 professional revolutions to communicate, yet this 
 appears to be at present the most easy and agree 
 able employment, and whether I have much or 
 little to say, to hear from me will doubtless give 
 you pleasure. 
 
 The heat here has lately been excessive, and I 
 have suffered much exhaustion of my strength 
 on this account. My alacrity of spirits and men 
 tal vigour have partaken of this kind of decay. 
 1 have had much pen- work to perform, and much 
 still remains to be performed, and though I have 
 applied myself to my tasks with diligence, it has 
 not been with all the desirable cheerfulness. I 
 am likewise influenced by the general dejection 
 and inquietude which at this moment over 
 spreads the city, in consequence of the indubi 
 table re-appearance of pestilence among us. 
 
 Several cases, adjacent to each other, and 
 near the quay in which Pine-street terminates, 
 whose symptoms are undoubted, have appeared 
 
CHARLES BROCK DEN BROWN. 205 
 
 within the last three days. The nature of this 
 disease is plain, and my medical friend Miller 
 assures me that our destiny, for this summer, is 
 fixed. He believes that business will be at an 
 end in the course of two or three weeks, and that 
 in that time, it will behove those to consult their 
 safety by flight, who are able to do it. 
 
 My sensations, in this state of things, are so dif 
 ferent from my sensations last summer, that I 
 look back with astonishment. I do not wonder 
 that I then remained in the city, but that my mind 
 retained its tranquillity in the midst of perils the 
 most imminent ; that I could muse and write 
 cheerfully in spite of the groans of the dying and 
 the rumbling of hearses, and in spite of a thou 
 sand tokens of indisposition in my own frame, 
 is now almost incredible. I perceive that this 
 tranquillity and courage is utterly beyond my 
 reach at present. I rejoice that there will be no 
 domestic or social ties making me desert the 
 city with reluctance. Those friends who then 
 were as hardy as myself are already alarmed, and 
 all those whose safety is particularly dear to me, 
 will vanish from this scene as well as myself. 
 
 You may expect to be minutely and speedily 
 acquainted with the state of things among us, and 
 of my situation and views. 
 
 I ought long since to have written to the C/s 
 and P. s. Remember me aflfectionatelvto them. 
 
206 MEMOIRS OF 
 
 You may shew them this letter when you meet 
 with them. 
 
 I am afraid that M. has projected the printing 
 of Huntley on too large a scale, though perhaps 
 he is the best qualified to judge. 
 
 Whither I shall go when pestilence comes, I 
 am not certain. I shall probably, how r ever, ac 
 company J. up the North river to Albany, and 
 perhaps to Niagara : all, however, is as as yet 
 uncertain. 
 
 Farewell, 
 
 C. B. B. 
 
 TO JAMES BROWN. 
 
 New York, Feb. 15, 1799. 
 DEAR BROTHER, 
 
 I know not why I suffered your last letter to 
 remain so long unanswered . Its hints respecting 
 the catastrophe of Arthur Mervyn, were worthy 
 of particular attention. Had I seen reason to 
 approve of the alteration which you recommend, 
 I should have written more speedily. Arthur is 
 intended as an hero whose virtue, in order to be 
 productive of benefit to others, and felicity to 
 himself, stands in no need of riches. You may 
 remember that he originally appears, in a penny- 
 less condition. He is afterwards in possession 
 of some thousand dollars. To maintain consist- 
 
CHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN. 207 
 
 ency and congruity, it was necessary that this 
 sum should be lost. You must judge whether 
 the mode of destroying- the notes, is not consist 
 ent with his previous character, and with proba 
 bility : to excite and baffle curiosity, without 
 shocking- belief, is the end to be contemplated. 
 1 have endeavoured to wind up the reader s pas 
 sions to the highest pitch, and to make the ca 
 tastrophe, in the highest degree, unexpected and 
 momentous. 
 
 Twenty thousand dollars are a large sum ; but 
 remember, the belief of their being forged re 
 duces the value to nothing, while their power to 
 do mischief is proportionably increased. 
 
 I have purposely left an opening for the pub 
 lication of a second part or sequel. The destiny 
 of Wallace and of Mr. Had win is not mentioned 
 in the present work. I intended that Mr. Had- 
 win, on returning to his family, should be seized 
 with the fatal disease. That the task of nursing 
 him, while struggling with the malady, and of 
 interring him when dead, should, by the fears of 
 their neighbours, be assigned to his daughters. 
 Wallace, by his unseasonable journey, is thrown 
 into a relapse, and dies upon the road. Mervyn, 
 preparing to leave the city, is accidentally de 
 tained, and his fortitude and virtue subjected 
 to severer trials than any hitherto related. 
 
208 MEMOIRS OF 
 
 The character of Wallace is discovered to have 
 been essentially defective. Marriage with this 
 youth is proved to be highly dangerous to the 
 happiness of Susan. To prevent this union, 
 and to ascertain the condition of this family, he 
 speeds, at length, after the removal of various 
 impediments, to Had win s residence, where he 
 discovers the catastrophe of Wallace and his 
 uncle, and, by his presence and succour, relieves 
 the two helpless females from their sorrows and 
 their fears. Marriage with the youngest, and the 
 death of the elder by a consumption and grief, 
 leave him in possession of competence, and the 
 rewards of virtue. This scheme, as you see, re 
 quired the destruction of the bills. 
 
 I have committed a very gross error, which 
 possibly the state of publication will permit you 
 to rectify. On leaving the house, formerly Thet- 
 ford s, Arthur is made to assert that one in fif 
 teen of the whole population, dies daily. One 
 in five hundred is nearer the truth, but I wish 
 you would expunge the sentence. 
 
 How does the publication proceed ? I shall 
 not be at all surprised if M. obtains fewer sub 
 scribers than he expected, or goes forward more 
 slowly than he promised. In a case like this, 
 self-delusion is impossible to be avoided. 
 
 Instead of industriously employing the last 
 
CHARLES BROCKDEN BROWX. 209 
 
 fortnig n t ? it has been whiled away in desultory 
 reading. I am fettered by suspense with regard 
 to the projected Magazine. The practicability 
 of that scheme will be ascertained in a few days. 
 
 My social hours and schemes are in their 
 customary state. I heard from our sister to-day, 
 but she does not mention whether you have 
 been at Prince-town, or when you expect to pay 
 her a visit. 
 
 Up till eleven, and a-bed till eight, plying the 
 quill or the book, and conversing with male or 
 female friends, constitutes the customary series 
 of my amusements and employments. I add 
 somewhat, though not so much as I might if I 
 were so inclined, to the number of my friends. 
 I find to be the writer of Wieland and Ormond 
 is a greater recommendation than I ever imagined 
 it would be. 
 
 I hoped, ere now, to have sent you the latter 
 work, but opportunities have escaped me. 
 
 In expectation of hearing from you shortly, 
 and with fraternal remembrances to Armit and 
 his, I must bid you farewell. 
 
 C. B. B. 
 
210 MEMOIRS OF 
 
 TO JAMES BROWN. 
 
 New York, April 1800. 
 DEAR BROTHER, 
 
 I received your letter and the volumes by 
 Mr. D. but not till several days after he received 
 them from you, in consequence of a stop which 
 he made at Woodbridge and Perth Amboy. It 
 is a source of some regret that M. is so reluctant 
 and dilatory in the fulfilment of his promises, 
 but allowances must be made for his indigence 
 on one hand, and his sanguine and promiseful 
 disposition on the other. 
 
 Yesterday the due number of copies of No. 
 HL of the Magazine was put on board the 
 stage for your city, where I hope they have sea 
 sonably arrived. This once the printers have 
 been tolerably punctual, and, hereafter, I have 
 reason to think that they will be regular and 
 exact in their publication. I know how much 
 depends upon punctuality and regularity, and 
 nothing shall be wanting on my part. 
 
 I gave you, I thought, a good reason for the 
 temporary suspension of Calvert. It will, in the 
 ensuing number, be resumed, and I hope not 
 again checked in its course, till its course be 
 finished. 
 
 Your remarks upon the gloominess and out- 
 
CHARLES BHOCKDEN BROWN. 211 
 
 of-nature incidents of Huntley, if they be not 
 just in their full extent, are, doubtless, such as 
 most readers will make, which alone is a suffi 
 cient reason for dropping* the doleful tone and 
 assuming a cheerful one ; or at least substituting 
 moral causes and daily incidents in place of the 
 prodigious or the singular. I shall not fall 
 hereafter into that strain. Book-making, as you 
 observe, is the dullest of all trades, and the ut 
 most that any American can look for, in his 
 native country, is to be re-imbursed his unavoid 
 able expenses. 
 
 I know not whether the advantageous publi 
 cation of Mervyn (the sequel of it) can be 
 brought about in this city, but shall have it done 
 in the way you mention. The saleability of my 
 works will much depend upon their popularity 
 in England, whither Caritat has carried a con 
 siderable number of Wieland, Ormond and 
 Mervyri. 
 
 Adieu, 
 
 C. B. B. 
 
 TO R. P. 
 
 Philadelphia, Sept. 1, 1800. 
 MY FRIEND, 
 
 I hoped to have met thee in this city, yet that 
 hope was cherished only for my own sake, since 
 
 p 2 
 
212 MEMOIRS OF 
 
 to wish thee in any other place than in the coun 
 try, would be wishing thee loss of pleasure and 
 of health. Yet this is a maxim to which I have 
 been accustomed to pay no attention ; since, 
 without any other guide than inclination, I have 
 changed the residence of one city for that of 
 another much inferior to it in every circum 
 stance of salubrity and scenery. 
 
 Place, indeed, is of little, or rather of no im 
 portance, in my estimation. What does this in 
 difference argue ? In the way in which I am 
 employed, or in the places in which my lot has 
 been cast, my health has been nearly independent 
 of influences merely local. Equally well or ill 
 am I, in town or country, or might, I be, if I 
 chose to mingle with my labour practicable 
 exercise. As to the pleasure of pure airs and 
 brilliant prospects, ten minutes walk from my 
 dwelling in New York, always sufficed to place 
 me on a spot, fanned by the purest breezes, and 
 embellished with the widest and most splendid 
 scene that our country can any where exhibit ; 
 a scene whose variety, in consequence of 
 Heaven s every varying face, is inexhaustible, 
 and which I, every time, contemplated with more 
 pleasure than the last. 
 
 What then were the recommendations of a 
 change ? 1 had no engagements that detained 
 
CHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN. 213 
 
 me in New York, and so I came hither, not to 
 see different scenes, to hreat he different airs, but 
 merely to see a different set of faces. I staid in 
 Jersey, at Newark, Brunswick, and Prince-town, 
 half a week, and now have I corne back to my 
 ancient neighbourhood. 
 
 All the inanimate objects in this city, are uni 
 form, monotonous and dull. I have been sur 
 prised at the little power they have over my 
 imagination : at the sameness that every where 
 reigns. A nine months absence has cast upon 
 surrounding objects not a gleam of novelty. 
 All the old impressions seem to exist with their 
 pristine freshness in my memory. Under this 
 sun I discover nothing- new, but this sameness 
 pleases not. More irksome, more deadening to 
 my fancy is this city, on its own account, than 
 ever. I am puzzled to guess how it happens, 
 but it is of little moment to inquire, since walls 
 and pavements were never any thing to me, or, 
 at least, were next to nothing : social and in 
 tellectual pleasures being every thing. 
 
 The C/s are gone to Lancaster or thereaway. 
 I saw them at New York with a pleasure not 
 easily described. Thou hast not heard the history 
 of their journey thither, and their stay there. 
 To me, in its relation to me, it was extremely 
 interesting, and I think of it with verv livelvfcelr- 
 
214 MEMOIRS OF 
 
 ings. Such incidents as that do riot happen 
 every day to me. 
 
 Thy T. gives me reason to expect a meeting 
 with thee, ere I depart. That will not be within 
 a fortnight, and then I can say to thee a thousand 
 things, which my pen cannot say at all, or can 
 not say so well : yet I feel an irresistible inclina 
 tion to take up the pen, and to inform thee that 
 I am once more in Second and Front Streets. 
 
 The last time I saw thee, I was far from giving 
 that satisfaction which a friend might claim. I 
 was unreasonably reserved, and while it appeared 
 that something lay heavy on my heart, my lips 
 were inviolably closed. I saw a letter to my 
 sister in which thou accountest for my silence in a 
 way not very flattering to me, but away which I 
 do not know how to prove erroneous. Errone 
 ous it surely was, but how to convince thee of 
 thy error, otherwise than by candid explanations, 
 is the difficulty. 
 
 And why not practise candour? What lay 
 heavy then, time has made light. What troubled 
 me then, molests me now but little. Such is the 
 variable fleeting nature of this thing called 
 thought. One idea, in spite of every effort to 
 retain it, will gradually loose its hold, and though 
 it still occasionally come in sight, and flit about 
 us, it stings and vexes us no longer. Thus it is, 
 
CHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN. 215 
 
 with that idea which I brought with me from 
 New Jersey, last November, and which spread a 
 cloud over me. It is gone, yet not totally. It 
 revisits me now and then, but holds no formid 
 able place in my thoughts. When I see thee, I 
 will tell thee what it was ; I think I will. It is 
 a phantastic apprehension that withholds me. 
 If I do not see thee, it will do to be written. 
 
 Possibly I may write to thee again before I see 
 thee. I need not say how acceptable will be a 
 few lines from thee to thy friend, 
 
 C. B. B. 
 
 TO ANTHONY BLEEKER, ESQ. 
 
 Philadelphia, October 31, 1801. 
 DEAR FRIEND, 
 
 I need not say with how much pleasure I read 
 your letter from Morristown. I wish I could 
 give you, in return, an effusion equally indica 
 tive of a lively fancy and a good heart, but the 
 utmost that I can do, is to thank you for the 
 favour, and entreat a repetition of such letters. 
 
 I suppose you have returned, by this time, to 
 the purlieus of Water-street, and are once more 
 seated at your table, with the " Attorney s Vade 
 Mecum" on one side, and the " Muses Pocket 
 Companion" on the other. I never yet saw you 
 
216 MEMOIRS OF 
 
 seated at this table, without some poetical or 
 literary solace within your reach ; some conduc 
 tor to the flowery elysium of the poets, in the 
 midst of the austere guides and crabbed imple 
 ments of the law. In this respect, it is rare to 
 meet with one that resembles you ; who retains 
 the pure taste of a literary devotee, without dis 
 relish and aversion for naked science and mere 
 business. 
 
 Pray, how do you come on in your study of 
 French ? have you wound yourself into the vitals 
 of the language, and are you familiarised to that 
 labyrinth of exceptions and anomalies which 
 gave you so much trouble when I was with you. 
 A man must have the patience of more than one 
 Job to untwist and unknot such a tangled maze. 
 It was a task to which my perseverance never 
 was equal ; yet how many men are there whom 
 the mere pride of the accomplishment has in 
 duced not only to acquire the reading of the 
 language, but the ability to write it, and not only 
 that of writing, but of talking it; and for this 
 purpose, have devoted innumerable hours to 
 books, whose whole merit lay in their being 
 written, and to men whose sole commendation 
 consisted in their speaking in French. I sus 
 pected you would fail in your pursuit from the 
 unexpected obstacles with which you had to en 
 counter. I suppose there is always, in every pursuit* 
 
CHARLES BROCKUKN BROWN. 217 
 
 a point that may be termed the critical spot ; a 
 point where difficulties multiply, as it were, on 
 a sudden, and where the patience or the penetra 
 tion is put to the hardest test ; and this being- 
 past, as ships pass a sand-bar in a river, you sud 
 denly glide into still, deep water. Have you, my 
 friend, passed the crisis ? 
 
 Since you were here, C. has been here. I saw 
 him for an hour, and heard many particulars of 
 his newspaper scheme. I have not heard of the 
 commencement of the publication. Can you 
 tell me in what state it is? I should like to be put 
 down as a subscriber for the country newspaper ; 
 w ill you do me the favour to tell him so ? 
 
 I suppose you will be among the number of 
 occasional contributors sometimes as politician, 
 arid not seldom as a poet. C. s republic, if I 
 remember right, does not banish the poets. 
 Even bad verses are pleasing to the readers of 
 bad taste : and though good verses are as rare 
 in newspapers as swallows in winter, yet they 
 sometimes are met with, and delight us in pro 
 portion to their rarity. Bad verses are no 
 more disreputable to a newspaper, than bad 
 English to a foreigner-; because they are natu 
 rally expected : but poetry, very middling in a 
 collection of elegant extracts, is super-excellent 
 here, and surprises us, like just expression from 
 a chimney-sweeper. 
 
218 MEMOIRS OF 
 
 I am anxious to know whether our friend J. 
 is returned ; but I shall ascertain it by writing 
 to him by this opportunity. This goes by M., 
 who is preparing to carry home with him a wife. 
 How strangely that word sounds in relation to 
 M., whom I have been so long accustomed to 
 consider as the single man. That is a destiny 
 which, I hope, will come to us all. I should be 
 very sorry to be left farthest behind in the race 
 towards the matrimonial goal : but my sorrow 
 will, I believe, be unmixed with envy. There is 
 no event, I think, if happening under tolerably 
 auspicious circumstances, on which we may more 
 reasonably congratulate our friends. 
 
 You see that, notwithstanding my expecta 
 tions of a southward journey, I am still here. 
 Here I expect to be during the winter, unless I 
 should find, or make, occasion for a week s 
 jaunt to New York ; which I sincerely hope to 
 find or make. Meanwhile, believe me your 
 
 affectionate 
 
 C. B. B. 
 
 TO MISS . 
 
 Philadelphia, August 18, 1802. 
 MY DEAR R. 
 
 Well, I hope your Sunday s journey was not 
 very disagreeable. A coach, crowded with eleven 
 
CHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN. 219 
 
 persons, carrying you fifty miles over rugged 
 roads, on a sultry day in August, to a place you 
 never saw before with no friendly and tenderly- 
 remembered face to shine a welcome on you 
 how dare I even hope that your journey was a 
 pleasant one ? 
 
 You went aw ay without me, my friend ; but 
 you did not leave my fancy behind you. Every 
 now and then, during that day, I figured your 
 situation to myself; and when I awoke next 
 morning, one of the first things that occurred 
 (nay, I am not sure that it was not absolutely the 
 very first), was that you were safely arrived at 
 your journey s end. 
 
 And how does my friend like her new situa 
 tion ? By this time you have begun to be ac 
 quainted with the men, women, and trees, that 
 surround you. You have looked, several times, 
 out of your chamber-window on a meadow that 
 lies before it, with the hobbled horse that grazes 
 in it, and the blackberry bushes that border it. 
 You have made more than one visit to the 
 bushes, and regaled very sumptuously on these 
 blackberries. You have grown quite familiar 
 with the stout slices of brown bread, that make 
 their appearance duly at morning and evening ; 
 and have not only banqueted on milk, but, 
 milk-maid like, have provided the banquet with 
 
220 MEMOIRS OF 
 
 your own hands. The pure airs and sweet 
 smells of your new abode, inspire you with a 
 thousand agreeable reveries. Health and cheer 
 fulness have taken possession of you ; and time 
 flies so swiftly, that you look back, and are 
 astonished, that a couple of weeks not a couple 
 of days, have flown away since your arrival at 
 the manor. 
 
 Am I a true seer, my friend ? Sometimes, I 
 must confess, the picture which rises before me, 
 when I think of you, is not quite so captivating*. 
 Instead of sound repose, I, now and then, behold 
 nothing but unquiet dreams and tedious watch- 
 ings. Instead of sprightly thoughts, and the 
 keen appetite that can feast even at a farmer s 
 table, I see nothing but repinings and disgusts 
 a mind continually musing on the past an eye 
 constantly intent on the absent. The scene be 
 fore you is dull and tiresome. The stumblings 
 of an hobbled horse have no power to delight 
 you. Even blackberries display their delicious 
 clusters in vain : you walk among them, merely 
 because you can take no path which is not beset 
 with them ; and you pluck them, as you go, for 
 want of thought. 
 
 You will pardon the friendly zeal that is 
 anxious to know which of these pictures is the 
 true one. I beg you to write to me immediately, 
 
CHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN. 221 
 
 and tell me, exactly, how you feel, whom you 
 see, and what you are doing whether the 
 pleasing prospect which I set before you, in our 
 last conversation, has been realized : if it has 
 not, I shall not be very much surprised but I 
 shall be very sorry. 
 
 The scene here is very dismal. There is 
 scarcely a soul to be seen in quarters that used 
 to be thronged : yet there seems no reason for 
 those to be alarmed who still remain in the city. 
 I expect to be gone into Jersey next week, 
 merely because the total suspension of business 
 will leave me nothing to do here. 
 
 Do not forget your promise to write to me. 
 Remember that, with a generous mind, to be 
 stow pleasure is to receive it and that a letter 
 from you, written as fully and as candidly as my 
 affectionate regard for you deserves, will afford 
 uncommon pleasure to your true friend, 
 
 C. B. B. 
 
 TO MISS 
 
 Philadelphia, October 9, 1802. 
 
 So, my good R., your brother tells me that 
 
 you reached home in safety, and in due season. 
 
 I suppose the tediousness of the way was some- 
 
222 MEMOIRS OF 
 
 what beguiled by the agreeable conversation of 
 Mr. E. I should like to have been in his place. 
 The pleasure of accompanying you, together 
 with the pleasures I might hope for on my arri 
 val, and the more agreeable hope of accompany 
 ing one of your family back to Philadelphia, 
 would have rendered it, by far, the most plea 
 sing journey I have ever taken : but fate inter 
 posed, and said " nay." 
 
 You will not tell me, I fear, the motive of your 
 hasty journey, but will you not, at least, tell me 
 whether the mystery, whatever it be, has found 
 a satisfactory explanation ? Whether, in this 
 change of scene, and under the paternal roof, you 
 are as happy as you hoped or expected to be ? 
 Does the angel " consideration" always stand at 
 your elbow, and give you the friendly twitch 
 whenever you are going to say or do a wrong 
 thing ? What a privilege would it be to enjoy 
 the constant admonitions of some such friend as 
 this. How much unhappiness would it enable 
 you, my good friend, particularly, to escape. 
 
 Caution, forbearance, a constant curb upon 
 the thoughts and the tongue are necessary to the 
 happiness of every human being : especially of 
 the young, and of those who have naturally a 
 warm and impetuous temper; and is not R. 
 somewhat distinguished by such a temper? and 
 
CHARLES BKOCKDEN IfiROWN. 223 
 
 is she not at present in a situation where her 
 own happiness and that of others very much de 
 pend upon her circumspection ? 
 
 What infinitely greater merit is there in that 
 meekness and forbearance which is the fruit of 
 forethought and consideration, than that which is 
 the gift of our mothers ; which governs us natu 
 rally ; and not so much from the exercise, as from 
 the absence, of a strenuous mind. And this merit, 
 R. may be yours. Nature has given you irritable 
 feelings, it is true, but she has given you, like 
 wise, an excellent understanding, and thus 
 enabled you to tern per and control those feelings, 
 and thus secure to yourself greater merit as well 
 as greater happiness than can possibly fall to 
 the share of the naturally, insipidly, unreflect 
 ingly meek. 
 
 But what a preachment is here ! I am afraid 
 it will disgust you. I wish you happy, but, alas ! 
 have it not in my power to make you so. Cold, 
 inanimated, starch precepts, never pointed out, 
 or facilitated the road to any body. I am not near 
 enough, nor if I were, have I authority enough 
 with you, to play successfully the part of that 
 elbow monitor I have spoken of above. 
 
 I rely on your promise to write to me : write 
 me not a short letter, and treat me, I beseech 
 you, without reserve. Tell me all that particu- 
 
224 MEMOIRS OF 
 
 larly concerns you, as to one who makes your 
 interest his own, and who, while he is your true 
 friend, cannot but be a disinterested one. 
 
 I shall greatly be disappointed if you forget or 
 neglect to write me ; and still more so if you treat 
 me not with that confidence to which my regard 
 for you entitles me. 
 
 You can enclose any thing for me, in your 
 sister s letters, if she will permit ; or, if that mode 
 be inconvenient, you can address to me, by post, 
 as you have already done. 
 
 Adieu, God and his angel Prudence, be with 
 you, my friend. 
 
 C. B. B. 
 
 TO MISS . 
 
 Philadelphia, Jan. 18, 1803- 
 MY DEAR R. 
 
 Little did either of us dream, when I last con 
 versed with you, under the shade of the hospital 
 sycamores, that, in less than a quarter of a year, 
 all obstacles to your felicity would be removed. 
 In all my reasonings with myself, on the folly of 
 despair, I consider your history as a new argu 
 ment on the courageous side of the question. 1 
 suppose you now congratulate yourself on the 
 
CHARLES BROCKDEN BROWX. 225 
 
 event, whatever it was, which hastened your re 
 turn to New York. I remember it distressed 
 you much, at one time, and yoa seemed to have 
 no omens of the consequences which you now 
 see have flowed from it. Had not some urgent 
 motive compelled you to return when you did, 
 you would probably have been here still, and 
 things would have continued in the same state 
 in which they then were. 
 
 Your sister tells me that your day is fixed. 
 You and Mr. gratify me highly by express 
 ing a wish for my company on that occasion, 
 but that pleasure my present situation denies me. 
 Yet I do not mean that it shall pass over me as a 
 common day. It shall be a solitary festival, and 
 the joy of my friend shall be my joy. It is every 
 one s interest to improve this source of happi 
 ness, since it is the purest source : I mean the 
 happiness arising to us from the happiness of 
 others whom we love. But I cannot boast of 
 that benign temper which bestows this sort of 
 happiness on us. At least, a small portion of it 
 has fallen to my share. Small as is my portion, 
 however, it will make me a sincere partaker of 
 the happiness preparing for you. 
 
 I paused here for some minutes. A thousand 
 fancies enter my head at this moment, connected 
 with you, but I will not put them on paper. If 
 
226 MEMOIRS OF 
 
 I did, you would think me a most impertinent 
 and unseasonable monitor. What business have 
 fears, and cautions and doubts, and admonitions, 
 to intrude themselves at such a time as this ? 
 and I, \\hattitlehasexperience given me to pre 
 scribe to others ? whence should I have gained 
 
 CT 
 
 such a knowledge of your character, and that of 
 your chosen youth, as would qualify me for a 
 counsellor to either of you? We know that ma 
 trimonial happiness depends upon a system of 
 mutual observances and deferences ; in yielding 
 and forbearing : in curbing our own humours 
 and conforming to those of our friend : in allow 
 ing for incurable foibles in him, and in demand 
 ing no allowance for any of our own foibles. 
 
 Experience will teach you these, and many 
 other unpalatable truths. Nothing but expe 
 rience will. How earnestly ought your friends 
 to wish that experience, when it comes, may con 
 tribute to your happiness, and not your misery : 
 that, when you come to discover which road 
 leads to happiness, you may be able to pursue 
 it, and not be of that unhappy number in whom 
 the clearest convictions have no power to change 
 the habits, or control the temper. 
 
 Excuse this sober strain, R. In your joyous 
 fancy, at this moment, gaiety and confidence 
 keep up a perpetual dance. To yon, futurity 
 
CHARLES BROCK UtiN BROWN. 227 
 
 teems only with bright and golden views. Per 
 haps Heaven will be particularly kind to you, 
 and permit the spell to remain unbroken for 
 many, many years. It will, if there be any effi 
 cacy in the prayers of 
 
 Your true friend, 
 
 C. B. B. 
 
 I hope I shall not lose my correspondent at 
 the same time you lose your name. Tell Mr. 
 
 that in gaining you, he must not rob me. 
 
 Give him my kindest regards and congratulations. 
 I shall hope to hear from your own hand, when 
 the 5th of February has gone by, that you are 
 as happy as I wish you to be. 
 
 TO THE REV. DR. J. B. LINN. 
 
 Philadelphia, July 4, 1804. 
 MY DEAR FRIEND, 
 
 Mrs. L. gives me the pleasure of hearing that 
 you are safely arrived in New York, and that 
 your journey has somewhat benefited your 
 health. I hope you will return among us, quite 
 a renovated being. I heard with some regret 
 that you had relinquished the plan of crossing 
 the country to Albany, because the way would 
 
 Q 2 
 
228 MEMOIRS OP 
 
 be new to you, and because delightful Lebanon 
 lay in the track, whose charming vales and sa 
 lubrious springs, could not fail of proving a be 
 nign restorative to your drooping spirits and 
 shattered frame. 
 
 I wrote to you at Boston, in the hope of your 
 remaining there a day or two longer than your 
 letter from that place mentioned. At all events, 
 I knew you would leave word with your friends 
 there to take up your letters and send them after 
 you. Your silence, however, makes me appre 
 hensive that you either omitted that precaution, 
 or that your Boston friends have been remiss ; 
 and I am the more uneasy on this account, be 
 cause my friendship for you gave you good rea 
 son to expect that token of my remembrance. 
 
 You were very fortunate in leaving Philadel 
 phia when you did. I hardly know how your 
 constitution could have borne up against such 
 an unexampled series of wet, gloomy and tem 
 pestuous skies, as we have been tormented with 
 ever since your departure. Even if the eve- 
 dripping clouds extended as far eastward as 
 Connecticut and Massachusetts, the variety and 
 novelty of the scenes around you would some 
 what divert, or disarm their evil influence. 
 
 I am highly pleased to hear that you have 
 kept something like a journal in your absence. 
 
CHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN. 229 
 
 I long to see it. I wish you, would transmit it 
 to me immediately by post, and give me leave 
 to make immediate use of it in the Magazine 
 now in the press. At any rate, send it to me, 
 and through me your family can receive it. I 
 hope you have not been sparing of the pen or of 
 your time ; you must have had abundant occa 
 sions for remark, and I persuade myself they 
 did not pass by you wholly unimproved. 
 
 As to myself and matters here, they have 
 been pretty uniform. The P. s (our printers) 
 are as punctual, careful, and obliging as possible. 
 The number for June you will probably meet 
 with in New York before your return. I am 
 afraid it will not greatly please you. You will 
 find but a single communication in it (Valverdi) 
 all the rest original prose, I [have been obliged 
 to supply myself, for which I am sorry, for the 
 sake of the credit of the work, as well as of my 
 own ease. The manuscript of Carwin is ex 
 hausted, and it was impossible to piece the 
 thread, and continue it in due season for that 
 number. It goes on, however, in the present, 
 (for July) the whole original department of 
 which I have been obliged to spin out of my 
 own brain ; you will probably find it, of conse 
 quence, very dull. The pieces I have already 
 prepared are not few. 
 
230 MEMOIRS OF 
 
 As to my own particular condition and feel 
 ings, I cannot rejoice your heart by any very 
 agreeable intelligence. I have had less to boast 
 of on the score of health than for some consi 
 derable time backward, and the world of busi 
 ness has been darkened by unusual vexations, 
 disappointments, and embarrassments. I, how 
 ever, endeavour to make the most of the small 
 portion of good that falls to my lot, to think only 
 on the brightest parts of the present scene, arid 
 send out hope to explore the future. My morn 
 ings, till three o clock, are passed in Front 
 Street, and for the rest of the day I feel little 
 appetite for any thing but indolence and recrea 
 tion. 
 
 I have received a letter full of respect and 
 compliment, from Kentucky. The writer is a 
 man who has acquired no small credit with the 
 readers of his party, by two publications, an in 
 vective against Adams, and an eulogy of Jeffer 
 son. He desires their republication in the 
 Magazine, but I mean to write him a private 
 letter, excusing myself, as I can, on the score of 
 our political neutrality. 
 
 When you next take up the pen do not for 
 get me. Remember, also, the journal. Give 
 my affectionate regards to S. M. and R. ; in all 
 whose concerns, as well as in vours, there is 
 
CHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN. 231 
 
 no one living has a deeper interest than your 
 
 affectionate 
 
 C. B. B 
 
 TO W. DUNLAP. 
 
 Philadelphia, 1805. 
 MY DEAR FRIEND, 
 
 When I recognised your hand in the super 
 scription of your letter, I opened it with pleasing 
 expectations of an intended visit from you. 
 Little did I imagine the kind of information it 
 contained ; and yet, after a little reflection, my 
 surprise in a great measure abated. The diffi 
 culty in which men of business have been lately 
 involved, could hardly fail of affecting you in 
 the midst of your unprosperous establishment 
 more severely than most others. Your letter is, 
 as usual, too brief for my wishes. I wish you 
 had dwelt a little more upon your prospects and 
 plans for the future. You doubtless have form 
 ed some scheme besides the literary one your 
 letter mentions. I am sorry I cannot give you 
 any satisfactory answer on the points you men 
 tion. When your letter arrived, C. was out of 
 town . I shall apply to him as soon as he returns, 
 but the application is almost superfluous, as I 
 know pretty well already th estate of his affairs, 
 
232 MEMOIRS OF 
 
 You may rely upon my seizing the earliest and 
 every opportunity of answering your wishes with 
 regard to him and any other publisher in this 
 city. Before that time, however, I hope you will 
 get into some other occupation more lucrative 
 and permanent than any thing of this kind can 
 be. I wish you to write to me pretty soon, if 
 not immediately, and tell me more of your pre 
 sent situation, and especially your prospects. 
 Though my counsel or my sympathy can be of 
 no service to you, I am exceedingly anxious to 
 know what you are about, and what you design 
 to do. As to myself, my friend, you judge 
 rightly when you think me 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 sticks 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, and such as 
 it is, it occupies not one-fourth of my time. 
 My companion is all that a husband can wish 
 for, and in short as to my own personal situa 
 tion, 1 have nothing to wish but that it may last. 
 These feelings would be thought by some, to 
 arise more from the narrowness of my desires than 
 from the abundance of my enjoyments ; so much 
 
CHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN. 233 
 
 the better if that were the case, for the more con 
 fidence might I then entertain of its duration. I 
 wish your affairs would permit you to visit Phi 
 ladelphia once more. Meanwhile let me, I be 
 seech you, hear from you. I have little doubt, 
 considering all things, that your next ten years 
 will be happier than the last have been. 
 
 C. B. B. 
 
 TO W. DUNLAP. 
 
 Philadelphia, Nov. 6, 1805. 
 MY DEAR FRIEND, 
 
 I wish, notwithstanding my neglect of your 
 last, you had favoured me with another, tell 
 ing me how you had fared, where you have 
 been, and whither you are going. 1 have been 
 looking for you hourly this fortnight past, agree 
 able to your plans and prospects, when we parted, 
 but have neither seen you nor heard from you. 
 I must, therefore, though tardily, take up my pen 
 to find you out, and provoke some information 
 from you. What excuse shall I make for not 
 keeping up the correspondence as I projected ? I 
 have none, I fear, that you will deem sufficient. 
 When I received your last, my apprehensions and 
 hopes seemed to be monopolized by one domestic 
 image. Some one says that the happiest man is 
 
234 MEMOIRS OF 
 
 still miserable, inasmuch as every human good 
 is precarious and pent with danger ; and the more 
 he values the goods in his possession, the more 
 fearful is he of the accident hy which he is liable 
 to be bereaved of them. My domestic felicities 
 were so great that I shuddered at the approach of 
 an event by which they were endangered. The 
 event, however, came, and instead of depriving 
 me of an adored wife, has added two lovely 
 children to my store. They are sons, counter 
 parts to each other, with all their members and 
 faculties complete ; and enjoying, as far as we 
 can judge, after two months trial of life and its 
 perils, the admirable constitution of their mother. 
 Do not you congratulate me on this event ? I 
 was always terribly impressed with the hard 
 ships and anxieties attending the care of infants, 
 and was at the moment appalled by the prospect 
 of a double portion of care ; but when I had 
 seen the little strangers with my own eyes, and 
 beheld the mother in perfect health and safety 
 after all her perils, my terrors were exchanged 
 for confidence : and now after two months ex 
 perience, I find, and their mother finds, that the 
 two healthy and lovely babes are a double joy, in 
 stead of being a double care. And now that I 
 have told you my chief concern, pray tell me 
 yours. Let me know what you have been 
 doing : what new prospects a few months have 
 
CHARLES BROCKDEX BROWN. 235 
 
 opened to you : whether you persist in your 
 scheme of publication, and what success has 
 hitherto attended you : particularly when may 
 we hope to see you amongst us once more. 
 
 C. B. B. 
 
 TO MISS SUSAN . 
 
 [ Philadelphia, 1806. 
 
 Odd enough, my dear S. that M. should refer 
 you to me for further entertainment. My dull, 
 cold, formal pen is fit only to write crabbed dis 
 sertations or incomprehensible anagrams, and 
 not to please a young lady. Wit and sprightli- 
 ness in letter-writing, fall, however, to the lot of 
 so few, that I have less reason to repine or be 
 mortified at the want of it myself. Mary is one 
 of those who write with an ease and spirit pro 
 per to the occasion, and the accents of a beloved 
 sister would be soothing to your ear, were they 
 much less sweet and engaging than hers are. 
 
 I must repeat, after Mary, that your letter tries 
 in vain to be cheerful and at ease, and that heart 
 of thine must be wrung with severe sorrow, 
 when your letters betray it. But where s the re 
 medy ? there are some evils that must take their 
 
236 MEMOIRS OF 
 
 course, and which are of that aggravated nature, 
 that bad as they may now be, they can only go 
 on growing worse ; and desperate indeed would 
 be the situation of those that suffer by them, if 
 we did not come gradually to bear lightly a bur 
 then when we are accustomed to it. I hope no 
 domestic engagement will prevent you from 
 making a journey in the spring. If there be 
 not, then we shall have the pleasure of a visit 
 from you. 1 cannot express the pleasure I shall 
 have in seeing assembled under the same roof, 
 and that roof our own, the three persons dearest 
 to me upon earth. 
 
 Our M. has grown quite a studious body. She 
 makes nothing of devouring two or three volumes 
 in a day. When I see her deeply absorbed in 
 a book, and straining her eyes to get through 
 another page, by the aid of a departing twilight, 
 I almost fancy it is S. herself, whom I have all 
 this while supposed to be M. Indeed the poor 
 girl has no resource, this cold, house-keeping, 
 home-staying weather, but books ; as the back 
 gammon table has long ago been destroyed by 
 the children, to whose amusement it was de 
 voted, as soon as they could use their little hands. 
 
 You ask, what makes me so busy ? I perceive 
 M. has not answered your question, so I will 
 answer it myself. I have undertaken to com- 
 
CHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN. 237 
 
 pose a great book, and have limited myself in 
 my engagements with a bookseller, to one year, 
 within which to complete it. You may easily 
 imagine what a heavy task I have imposed upon 
 myself, when I tell you that the work will require 
 six hours writing every day (Sunday s not ex- 
 cepted) for a whole twelvemonth, and that I have 
 other engagements, at the same time, upon my 
 hands. 
 
 Remember me affectionately to our father and 
 brother. My particular respects to Mr. B. and 
 Mrs. B. If Mrs. B. comes, as you say she has 
 thought of doing, to Pennsylvania, in the spring, 
 I shall have an opportunity of knowing her a 
 little better than I could do at Albany. 
 
 Your sister, in writing to you, always recol 
 lects your injunction never to talk to you about 
 her children, unless it be barely to tell you that 
 they are sick or dead. I half suspect she was 
 a little mortified at this caution, else she would 
 not have remembered it so opportunely, and 
 observed it so carefully. I do not recollect to 
 have received any caution of this kind, and should 
 not mind it if I had : it should not prevent me 
 from assuring you that they are in charming 
 health and spirits, and give as little trouble as 
 any parent can reasonably wish two infants to 
 give. They have made but little progress in 
 
238 MEMOIRS OF 
 
 speaking these two or three months, but when 
 they once begin, they will probably soon acquire 
 the faculty. Adieu, ma chere sceur. Keep up 
 your spirits, and look forward to better times. 
 There are many that make your happiness of 
 consequence to their own, but here are three that 
 love you as themselves. 
 
 C. 13. B. 
 
 TO JOHN H. PAYNE. 
 
 Philadelphia, Aug. 25, 1806. 
 MY DEAR FRIEND, 
 
 When I parted with you at Albany, I had half 
 a mind to request the favour of a letter from you 
 when you should have entered on your new 
 course of academical life ; but I was afraid your 
 short acquaintance would make the request ap 
 pear to you unreasonable. Besides, you allowed 
 me to entertain hopes of seeing 1 you in a month 
 or two, and then I flattered myself, something- 
 like friendship might be grafted on mere ac 
 quaintanceship. I accordingly looked for you 
 in Philadelphia, with no small impatience, after 
 your college vacation commenced ; but day came 
 after day, and you came not ; so I imagined 
 vour inclinations had led vou a different wav. I 
 
CHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN. 239 
 
 should have written to you; for the lively inter 
 est I feel in your welfare would have made me 
 disregard ceremony ; but unluckily I had no 
 clue to your steps. Your letter came most op 
 portunely to satisfy my curiosity, and I thank 
 you heartily for this agreeable proof of your 
 remembrance. 
 
 You do not say how long you propose to stay 
 at Ballston ; or whether you have wholly given 
 up your design of coming southward. I long 
 to see you ; but confess I have now little hopes 
 of it. The cities, at this season, are equally 
 dull and unwholesome, and your Ballston must 
 abound with every thing that can delight the 
 fancy or the senses. The next vacation, I be 
 lieve, occurs in winter: and then a journey 
 hither will reward you, perhaps, for the cold 
 and fatigue of the journey. When you come, 
 whenever that shall happen, you must do my 
 little home the favour to make it yours : you will 
 find it the abode of content ; and may enjoy the 
 spectacle, not very common, of an happy family. 
 Mrs. B. is as anxious as myself to see you : she 
 takes all your good qualities on my word, and 
 loves you by proxy. 
 
 Most sincerely do I rejoice that you find Sche- 
 nectady so agreeable. 1 tremble with apprehen 
 sion, when I think how much of the dignity and 
 
240 MEMOIRS OF 
 
 happiness of your whole life depends upon the 
 resolutions of the present moment. Were it 
 possible for a miracle to be wrought in your 
 favour and that the experience of a dozen years 
 could be obtained without living so long there 
 would be little danger that a heart, so unper- 
 verted as yours, would mislead you. The expe 
 rience of others will avail you nothing : they 
 may talk, indeed ; but till you are as old as the 
 counsellor and have seen, with your own eyes, 
 as much as he his words are mere idle sounds, 
 impertinent and unintelligible. Fancy and habit 
 are supreme over your conduct : and all your 
 friends have to trust to, is a heart naturally pure 
 and tractable ; and a taste, if I may so call it, 
 for the approbation of the wise and good. 
 
 When you write next, I hope you will have 
 both leisure and inclination. to be particular on 
 the subject of your studies. What are your books 
 and your exercises ? What progress do you 
 make ? and what difficulties or reluctances 
 stand in your way ? You see I make great de 
 mands upon you. I am afraid yon will not ad 
 mit my affection for you as a sufficient pretext 
 for making them ; and I have, as yet, no other 
 foundation on which to build my claim. 
 
 I have a great deal more to say to you ; but I 
 am afraid, judging from the brevity of yours, 
 
CHARLES BROCKUEN BROWX. 241 
 
 that you have no passion for long letters. I will, 
 therefore, stop in due season, and only add the 
 name of your true and warm friend, 
 
 C. B. B. 
 
 TO MR. J. H. PAYNE. 
 
 Philadelphia, Feb. 22, 1809. 
 MY DEAR FRIEND, 
 
 I have not forgotten you, nor ceased to feel a 
 deep interest in your welfare ; nor to make fre 
 quent inquiries about you, though our corres 
 pondence has so long been discontinued. The 
 " Boston Mirror" is a token of your remem 
 brance, which comes duly to hand, and affords 
 me some basis for conjecture, at least, as to your 
 present situation and pursuits. \\ ill you give 
 me a more full account under your own hand ? 
 A great many rumours have reached me, of the 
 truth of which I am extremely anxious for an 
 opportunity to judge. 
 
 Two years have passed away since I saw you 
 a period that seldom makes material altera 
 tions in the character, or habits, or destiny of a 
 man past thirty : but they are big with fate, at 
 that unsettled and mutable age at which they 
 have found my friend. Let me know from your 
 own pen, with that candour and sincerity which 
 
 R 
 
242 MEMOIRS OF 
 
 were shining- qualities in you, when I enjoyed 
 your personal intercourse how you fare what 
 two years have done for you ? 
 
 This is a large demand for one to make who 
 has so few claims upon your esteem arid con 
 fidence. Nothing emboldens me to make it, but 
 the earnest regard I have for you ; though you 
 may reasonably demand more solid testimonies 
 of that regard than this naked assurance of it. 
 
 Permit me, warmly to recommend to your ac 
 quaintance, my friend Mr. O. who will deliver 
 you this. He is a man, if I am not much mis 
 taken, after your own heart. His merits are 
 those on which you are accustomed to set most 
 value ; and higher merits of that kind, I suspect, 
 not even your imagination has ever hitherto set 
 before you. 
 
 I am, affectionately, yours, 
 
 C. B. B. 
 
 TO W. KEESE, ESQ. 
 
 Philadelphia, Oct. 16, 1807. 
 MY DEAR SIR, 
 
 Your agreeable letter arrived this moment, 
 and I hasten to thank you for giving us so early 
 tidings of the safety of our clear Rebecca. That 
 
CHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN. 243 
 
 the new coiner is not a girl, is, you tell us, a 
 great disappointment to you, and you have been 
 obliged to play the philosopher on the occasion ; 
 but, my good friend, one smile of the little 
 stranger, a few months hence, will perform more 
 for your consolation than all the reasonings in 
 the world. You will then bless yourself that the 
 bantling is exactly what he is. I have often 
 checked myself in forming wishes as to the sex 
 of my children, from the utter uncertainty of 
 their future destiny, be they of what sex they 
 may. Their happiness must depend upon their 
 temper ; and mine, so far as it relates to them, 
 upon the opportunity I may have of witnessing 
 their fate after they have reached maturity : and, 
 when I reflect on the innumerable chances against 
 my living to that critical time, I give all wishes 
 to the air. The chances for happiness, in either; 
 sex, seem to me nearly equal ; yet, as a man, I 
 must necesssrily regard a daughter with more \ 
 tenderness than a son, provided they are equal 
 in all other respects : an equality, however, which 
 is quite impossible. 
 
 You are going to call your son by my name, 
 a compliment that flatters me exceedingly. Yet, 
 for the sake of the little one, I heartily wish 
 Brown had a little more music and dignity in it. 
 It has ever been an irksome and unwelcome 
 
 R 2 
 
244 MEMOIRS OF C. B. BROWN. 
 
 sound to my ears, and it is with no less surprise 
 than pleasure that I now find it less worthless to 
 the ears of others than it is to my own. I have 
 sometimes been mortified in looking over the 
 catalogue of heroes, sages, and saints, to find not 
 a single Brown among them. This indeed may 
 be said of many other names, but most others 
 are of rare occurrence, while the most common 
 appellation in almost all languages is Brown. 
 It must, then, be a strange fatality which has 
 hitherto excluded it from the illustrious and 
 venerable list. Perhaps, your new comer may 
 be marked out by the powers who manage these 
 matters over our heads, as a vindicator of the 
 name. If the event be otherwise, the disgrace 
 may be saved by veiling the ill-fated syllable 
 under the convenient obscurity of an initial. 
 
 With affectionate congratulations to you both, 
 believe us ever your s, 
 
 C. B. & E. L. B. 
 
MISCELLANIES. 
 
 THE PARADISE OF WOMEN, FROM " ALCUIN. 
 DIALOGUE ON Music. 
 DIALOGUE ON PAINTING. 
 
THE PARADISE OF WOMEN. 
 
 I called last evening on Mrs. Carter. I had 
 no previous acquaintance with her. Her bro 
 ther is a man of letters, who, nevertheless, finds 
 little leisure from the engagements of a toilsome 
 profession. He scarcely spends an evening at 
 home, yet takes care to invite specially and ge 
 nerally every one who enjoys the reputation of 
 learning and probity. His sister became, on the 
 death of her husband, his housekeeper. She 
 was always at home. The guests who came in 
 search of the man, finding him abroad, lingered 
 a little, as politeness enjoined, but soon found 
 something in the features and accents of the 
 lady, that induced them to prolong their stay, 
 for their own sake : nay, without any well-de 
 fined expectation of meeting their inviter, they 
 felt themselves disposed to repeat their visit. 
 We must suppose the conversation of the lady 
 not destitute of attractions ; but an additional, 
 and, perhaps, the strongest inducement, was the 
 society of other visitants. The house became, 
 at length, a sort of rendezvous of persons of 
 
248 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 different ages and conditions, but respectable 
 for talents or virtues. A commodious apart 
 ment, excellent tea, lemonade, and ice and 
 wholesome fruits were added to the pleasures 
 of instructive society : no wonder that Mrs. 
 Carter s coterie became the resort of the liberal 
 and ingenious. 
 
 These things did not necessarily imply any 
 uncommon merit in the lady. Skill in the 
 superintendence of a tea-table, affability and 
 modesty, promptness to inquire, and docility to 
 listen, were all that were absolutely requisite in 
 the mistress of the ceremonies. Her apartment 
 was nothing, perhaps, but a Lyceum open at 
 stated hours, and to particular persons, who 
 enjoyed, gratis, the benefits of rational dis 
 course, and agreeable repasts. Some one was 
 required to serve the guests, direct the menials, 
 and maintain, with suitable vigilance, the em 
 pire of cleanliness and order. This office 
 might not be servile, merely because it was 
 voluntary. The influence of an unbribed incli 
 nation might constitute the whole difference 
 between her and a waiter at an inn, or the por 
 ter of a theatre. 
 
 Books are too often insipid. In reading, 
 the senses are inert and sluggish, or they are 
 solicited by foreign objects. To spur up the 
 
Till: I ARADISL 01 WOMEN. 249 
 
 flagging attention, or check the rapidity of its 
 flights and wildness of its excursions, are often 
 found to be impracticable. It is only on extra 
 ordinary occasions that this faculty is at once 
 sober and vigorous, active arid obedient. The 
 revolutions of our mind may be watched and 
 noted, but can seldom be explained to the satis 
 faction of the inquisitive. All that the caprice 
 of nature has left us, is to profit by the casual 
 presence of that which can, by no spell, be sum 
 moned or detained. 
 
 1 hate a lecturer. I find little or no benefit 
 in listening to a man who does not occasionally 
 call upon me for my opinion, and allow me to 
 canvass every step in his argument. I cannot, 
 with any satisfaction, survey a column, how 
 costly soever its materials, and classical its orna 
 ments, when I am convinced that its foundation 
 is sand which the next tide will wash away. I 
 equally dislike formal debate, where each man, 
 however few his ideas, is subjected to the ne 
 cessity of drawing them out to the length of a 
 speech. A single proof, or question, or hint, 
 may be all that the state of the controversy, or 
 the reflections of the speaker, suggest: but this 
 must be amplified and iterated, till the sense, 
 perhaps, is lost or enfeebled, that he may not 
 fall below the dignity of an orator. Conversa- 
 
250 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 tion, careless and unfettered, that is sometimes 
 abrupt and sententious ; sometimes fugitive and 
 brilliant ; and sometimes copious and declama 
 tory ; is a scene for which, without being much 
 accustomed to it, I entertain great affection. It 
 blends, more happily than any other method of 
 instruction, utility and pleasure. No wonder I 
 was desirous of knowing, long before the op 
 portunity was afforded me, how far these valua 
 ble purposes were accomplished by the fre 
 quenters of Mrs. Carter s Lyceum. 
 
 In the morning I had met the doctor at the 
 bed-side of a sick friend, who had strength 
 enough to introduce us to each other. At part 
 ing I received a special invitation for the evening, 
 and a general one to be in force at all other times. 
 At five o clock I shut up my little school, and 
 changed an alley in the city dark, dirty, and 
 narrow, as all alleys are for the fresh air and 
 smooth footing of the fields. I had not forgotten 
 the doctor and his Lyceum. Shall I go (said I 
 to myself) or shall I not ? " No:" said the pride of 
 poverty, and the bashfulness of inexperience. 
 I looked at my un powdered locks, my worsted 
 stockings, and my pewter buckles. 1 bethought 
 me of my embarrassed air, and my uncouth 
 gait. I pondered on the superciliousness of 
 wealth and talents, the awfulness of flowing 
 
THE PARADISE OF WOMEN. 251 
 
 muslin, the mighty task of hitting on a right 
 movement at entrance, and a right posture in sit 
 ting, and on the perplexing mysteries of tea- 
 table decorum ; but, though confused and panic- 
 struck, I was not vanquished. 
 
 I had some leisure, particularly in the even 
 ing. Could it be employed more agreeably or 
 usefully? To read, to write, to meditate; to 
 watch a declining moon, and the varying firma. 
 inent, with the emotions of poetry or piety with 
 the optics of Dr. Young, or of De la Lande 
 were delightful occupations, and all at my com 
 mand. Eight hours of the twenty-four were 
 consumed in repeating the names and scrawling 
 the forms of the alphabet, or in engraving on in 
 fantine memories that twice three make six ; the 
 rest were employed in supplying an exhausted, 
 rather than a craving stomach ; in sleep, that 
 never knew, nor desired to know, the luxury of 
 down, and the pomp of tissue ; in unravelling 
 the mazes of Dr. Waring ; or in amplifying the 
 seducing suppositions of, if I were a king/ or, 
 * if I were a lover/ Few, indeed, areas happy 
 as Alcuin. What is requisite to perfect my feli 
 city but the blessing of health, which is incom 
 patible with periodical head-aches, and the visits 
 of rheumatism ; of peace, which cannot main 
 tain its post against the hum of a school, the dis- 
 
252 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 cord of cart-wheels, and the rhetoric of a notable 
 landlady ; of competence my trade preserves 
 me from starving and nakedness, but not from 
 the discomforts of scarcity, or the disgrace of 
 shabbiness ; of money, to give me leisure; and 
 exercise, to give me health. These are all my lot 
 denies : in all other respects I am the happiest 
 of mortals. The pleasures of society, indeed, I 
 seldom taste : that is, I have few opportunities 
 of actual intercourse with that part of mankind 
 whose ideas extend beyond the occurrences of 
 the neighbourhood, or arrangements of their 
 household. Not but that, when I want company, 
 it is always at hand. My solitude is populous, 
 whenever my fancy thinks proper to people it, 
 and with the very beings that best suit my taste. 
 These beings are, perhaps, on account of my 
 slender experience, too uniform, and somewhat 
 grotesque. Like some other dealers in fiction, 1 
 find it easier to give new names to my visionary 
 friends, and vary their condition, than to intro 
 duce a genuine diversity into their characters. 
 No one can work without materials. My stock 
 is slender. There are times when I feel a moment s 
 regret that I do not enjoy the means of enlarging 
 it. But this detail, it must be owned, is a little 
 beside the purpose. I merely intended to have 
 repeated my conversation with Mrs. Carter, but 
 
THE PARADISE OF WOMEN. 253 
 
 have \vanderecl, unawares, into a dissertation on 
 my own character. I shall now return, and 
 mention that I cut short my evening excursion, 
 speeded homeward, and, after japanning anew my 
 shoes, brushing my hat, and equipping my body 
 in its best gear, proceeded to the doctor s house. 
 I shall not stop to describe the campany, or 
 to dwell on the embarrassments and awkwardness 
 always incident to an unpolished wight like me. 
 Suffice it to say, that I was in a few minutes re 
 spectfully withdrawn into a corner, and fortu 
 nately a near neighbour of the lady. ******* 
 
 A week elapsed, and I repeated my visit to 
 Mrs. Carter. She greeted me in a friendly man 
 ner. " I have often," said she, " since I saw you, 
 reflected on the subject of our former conversa 
 tion : I have meditated more deeply than com 
 mon, and I believe to more advantage. The hints 
 that you gave me, I have found useful guides." 
 
 " And I, said I, have travelled farther than 
 common, incited by a laudable desire of know 
 ledge." 
 
 " Travelled ?" 
 
 "Yes: I have visited, since I saw you, the 
 Paradise of Women ; and I assure you have 
 longed for an opportunity to communicate the 
 information that I have collected." 
 
2M MISCELLANIES. 
 
 c; Well, you now enjoy the opportunity you 
 have engaged it every clay in the week. When 
 ever you had thought proper to come, I could 
 have promised you a welcome." 
 
 " I thank you. I should have claimed your 
 welcome sooner, but only returned this evening/ 
 
 " Returned ! Whence, I pr ythee ?" 
 
 48 From the journey that I spoke of. Have I 
 not told you that I have visited the Paradise of 
 Women ? The region, indeed, is far distant ; 
 but a twinkling is sufficient for the longest of 
 my journeys." 
 
 " You are somewhat mysterious : and mystery 
 is one of the many things that abound in the 
 world, for which I have a hearty aversion." 
 
 " I cannot help it. It is plain enough to me 
 and to my good genius ; who, when 1 am anxious 
 to change the scene, and am unable to perform 
 it by the usual means, is kindly present to my 
 prayers, and saves me from three inconveniences 
 of travelling toil, delay, and expense. What 
 sort of vehicle it is that he provides for me 
 what intervals of space I have overpassed and 
 what is the situation of the inn where I repose, 
 relatively to this city, or this orb such is the 
 rapidity with which I move, that I cannot collect 
 from my own observation. I may sometimes 
 remedy my ignorance in this respect by a com- 
 
THE PARADISE OF WOMEN. 255 
 
 parison of circumstances : for example, the lan 
 guage of the people with whom I passed most of 
 the last week, \vas English : this was a strong 
 symptom of affinity. In other respects the re 
 semblance was sufficiently obscure. Methought 
 I could trace in their buildings the knowledge 
 of Greek and Roman models : but who can tell 
 that the same images and combinations may not 
 occur to minds distant and unacquainted with 
 each other, but which have been subject to the 
 same enlightened discipline ? In manners and 
 sentiments, they possessed little, in common 
 with us. Here I confess my wonder was most 
 excited. I should have been apt to suspect that 
 they were people of some other planet ; espe 
 cially as I had never met in my reading with any 
 intimations of the existence of such a people on 
 our own . But, on looking around me, the earth 
 and sky exhibited the same appearances as with 
 us. It once occurred to me, that I had passed 
 the bourne which we are all doomed to pass, and 
 had reached that spot from which, as the poet 
 assures, no traveller returns. But since I have 
 returned, I must discard that supposition. You 
 will say, perhaps, when you are acquainted with 
 particulars, that it was no more than a sick man s 
 dream, or a poet s reverie. Though I myself 
 cannot adopt this opinion (for who can discredit 
 
256 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 the testimony of his senses ?) yet it must be 
 owned that it would most naturally suggest itself 
 to another ; and therefore I shall leave you in 
 possession of it." 
 
 " So, you would persuade me," said the lady, 
 " that the journey you meant to relate, is in your 
 own opinion real ; though you are conscious that 
 its improbability will hinder others from believ 
 ing it." 
 
 " If my statement answer that end, be it so. 
 The worst judge of the nature of his own con 
 ceptions is the enthusiast. I have my portion 
 of ardour, which solitude seldom fails to kindle 
 into blaze. It has drawn vigour and activity 
 from exercise. Whether it transgresses the li 
 mits which a correct judgment prescribes, it 
 would be absurd to inquire of the enthusiast 
 himself. If the perceptions of the poet be as 
 lively as those of sense, it is a superfluous inquiry 
 whether their objects exist really, and externally. 
 This is a question which cannot be decided, 
 even with respect to those perceptions which 
 have most seeming and most congruity. We 
 have no direct proof that the ordinary objects of 
 sight and touch have a being independent of these 
 senses. When there is no ground for believing 
 that those chairs and tables have any existence 
 but in my own sensorium, it would be rash to 
 
THE PARADISE OF WOMEN. 257 
 
 affirm the reality of the objects which I met, or 
 seemed to meet with, in my late journey. I see 
 and hear, is the utmost that can be truly said at 
 any time. All that I can say is that I saw and 
 heard." 
 
 " Well," returned the lady, " that as you say, is 
 a point of small importance. Let me know 
 what you saw and heard without further cere 
 mony." 
 
 " I was witness to the transactions of a peo 
 ple, who would probably gain more of your ap 
 probation than those around you can hope for. 
 Yet this is, perhaps, to build too largely on my 
 imperfect knowledge of your sentiments : how 
 ever that be, few things offered themselves to my 
 observation, which I did not see reason to ap 
 plaud, and to wonder at, 
 
 " My curiosity embraced an ample field. It 
 did not overlook the condition of women. That 
 negligence had been equally unworthy of my 
 understanding and my heart. It was evening 
 and the moon was present when I lighted, I 
 know not how or whence, on a smooth pave 
 ment encompassed by structures that appeared 
 intended for the accommodation of those whose 
 taste led them either to studious retirement or 
 to cheerful conversation. I shall not describe 
 the first transports of my amazement, or dwell 
 
 9 
 
258 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 on the reflections that were suggested by a tran 
 sition so new and uncommon, or the means that 
 I employed to penetrate the mysteriousness that 
 hung around every object, and my various con 
 jectures as to the position of the isle, or the con 
 dition of the people among whom I had fallen. 
 I need not tell how, in wandering from this spot, 
 1 encountered many of both sexes who were em 
 ployed in awakening, by their notes, the neigh 
 bouring echoes, or absorbed in musing silence, 
 or engaged in sprightly debate ; how r one of them 
 remarking, as I suppose, the perplexity of my 
 looks, and the uncouthness of my garb, accosted 
 me and condescended to be my guide in a devious 
 tract, which conducted me from one scene of 
 enchantment to another. I need not tell how, 
 by the aid of this benevolent conductor, I passed 
 through halls whose pendent lustres exhibited 
 sometimes a groupe of musicians and dancers, 
 sometimes assemblies where state affairs were 
 the theme of sonorous rhetoric, where the claims 
 of ancient patriots and heroes to the veneration 
 of posterity were examined, and the sources of 
 memorable revolutions scrutinized, or which lis 
 tened to the rehearsals of annalist or poet, or 
 surveyed the labours of the chemist, or inspected 
 the performances of the mechanical inventor. 
 Need I expatiate on the felicity of that plan, 
 
THE PARADISE OF WOMEN. 259 
 
 which blended the umbrage of poplars with the 
 murmur of fountains, enhanced by the grace 
 fulness of architecture ?" 
 
 " Come, come/ interrupted the lady, " this 
 perhaps may be poetry, but though pleasing, it 
 had better be dispensed with. I give you leave 
 to pass over these incidents in silence : I desire 
 merely to obtain the sum of your information, 
 disembarrassed from details of the mode in 
 which you acquired it, and of the mistakes and 
 conjectures to which your ignorance subjected 
 you." 
 
 " Well," said I, " these restraints, it must be 
 owned, are a little hard, but since you are pleased 
 to impose them I must conform to your pleasure. 
 After my curiosity was sufficiently gratified by 
 what was to be seen, I retired with my guide to 
 his apartment. It was situated on a terrace 
 which overlooked a mixed scene of groves and 
 edifices, which the light of the moon that had 
 now ascended the meridian, had rendered dis 
 tinctly visible. After considerable discourse, in 
 which satisfactory answers had been given to all 
 the inquiries which I had thought proper to 
 make, I ventured to ask, c I pray thee, my good 
 friend, what is the condition of the female sex 
 among you ? In this evening s excursion I have 
 met with those, whose faces and voices seemed 
 
 s 2 
 
260 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 to bespeak them women, though as far as I could 
 discover they were distinguished by no peculiari 
 ties of manners or dress. In those assemblies to 
 which you conducted me, I did not fail to observe, 
 that whatever was the business of the hour, both 
 sexes seemed equally engaged in it. Was the 
 spectacle theatrical ? The stage was occupied 
 sometimes by men, sometimes by women, and 
 sometimes by a company of each. The tenor 
 of the drama seemed to be followed as implicitly 
 as if custom had enacted no laws upon this sub 
 ject. Their voices were mingled in the cho- 
 russes: I admired the order in which the spec 
 tators were arranged. Women were, to a cer 
 tain degree, associated with women, and men 
 with men; but it seemed as if magnificence 
 and symmetry had been consulted, rather than 
 a scrupulous decorum. Here no distinction in 
 dress w r as observable, but I suppose the occasion 
 dictated it. Was science, or poetry, or art, the 
 topic of discussion ? The two sexes mingled 
 their inquiries and opinions. The debate was 
 managed with ardour and freedom, and all pre 
 sent were admitted to a share in the controversy, 
 without particular exceptions or compliances of 
 any sort. Were shadows and recesses sought 
 fyy the studious few ? As far as their faces were 
 distinguishable, meditation had selected her 
 
THE PARADISE OF WOMEN. 261 
 
 votaries indiscriminately. I am not unaccustom 
 ed to some degree of this equality among my 
 own countrymen, but it appears to be far more 
 absolute and general among you ; pray what are 
 your customs and institutions on this head ? 
 
 " Perhaps/ replied my friend, I do not see 
 whither your question tends. What are our 
 customs respecting women ? You are doubtless- 
 apprised of the difference that subsists between 
 the sexes. That physical constitution which 
 entitles some of us to the appellation of male, 
 and others to that of female, you must know. 
 You know its consequences. With these our 
 customs and institutions have no concern ; 
 they result from the order of nature, which 
 it is our business merely to investigate. I sup 
 pose there are physiologists or anatomists in 
 your country. To them it belongs to explain 
 this circumstance of animal existence. 
 
 " The universe consists of individuals. They 
 are perishable. Provision has been made that 
 the place of those that perish should be supplied 
 by new generations. The means by which this 
 end is accomplished, are the same through every 
 tribe of animals. Between contemporary beings 
 the distinction of sex maintains ; but the end of 
 this distinction is, that since each individual 
 must perish, there may be a continual succession 
 
262 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 of individuals. If you seek to know more than 
 this, I must refer you to books which con 
 tain the speculations of the anatomist, or to the 
 hall where he publicly communicates his doc 
 trines/ 
 
 " It is evident/ answered I, c that I have not 
 made myself understood. I did not inquire 
 into the structure of the human body, but into 
 those moral or political maxims which are found 
 ed on the difference in this structure between 
 the sexes. 
 
 " Need I repeat/ said my friend, what I 
 have told you of the principles by which we are 
 governed ? I am aware that there are nations of 
 men universally infected by error, or who, at 
 least, entertain opinions different from ours. It 
 is hard to trace all the effects of a particular 
 belief, which chances to be current among a 
 whole people. I have entered into a pretty co 
 pious explanation of the rules to which we con 
 form in our intercourse with each other, but 
 still perhaps have been deficient. 
 
 " No, I cannot complain of your brevity ; per 
 haps my doubts would be solved, by reflecting 
 attentively on the information that I have already 
 received. For that, leisure is requisite ; mean 
 while, I cannot but confess my surprise, that I 
 find among you, none of those exterior differ- 
 
THE PARADISE OF WOMEN. 263 
 
 ences by which the sexes are distinguished by 
 all other nations/ 
 
 " Give me a specimen, if you please, of those 
 differences with which you have been familiar/ 
 
 " One of them/ said 1, is dress. Each sex 
 has a garb peculiar to itself. The men and ,< 
 women of our country are more different from 
 each other in this respect, than the natives of 
 remotest countries/ 
 
 " That is strange/ said my friend, why is it 
 so? 
 
 " I know not. Each one dresses as custom A 
 prescribes. He has no other criterion. If he 
 selects his garb because it is beautiful or conve 
 nient, it is beautiful and commodious in his 
 eyes merely because it is customary/ 
 
 " 6 But wherefore does custom prescribe a 
 different dress to each sex ? 
 
 " c I confess I cannot tell, but most certainly^ 
 it is so. I must likewise acknowledge, that no 
 thing in your manners more excites my sur 
 prise, than your uniformity in this particular/ 
 
 " 4 Why should it be inexplicable ? For what > 
 end do we dress ? Is it for the sake of ornament ? 
 Is it in compliance with our perceptions of the 
 beautiful ? These perceptions cannot be sup 
 posed to be the same in all. But since the stand 
 ard of beauty, whatever it be, must be one arid 
 
264 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 the same : since our notions on this head are 
 considerably affected by custom and example, 
 and since all have nearly the same opportunites 
 and materials of judgment, if beauty only were 
 regarded, the differences among us would be 
 trivial. Differences, perhaps, there would be. 
 The garb of one being would, in some degree, 
 however small, vary from that of another. But 
 what causes there are that should make all wo 
 man agree in their preference of one dress, and 
 all men in that of another, is incomprehensible; 
 no less than that the difference resulting from 
 this choice should be essential and conspicuous. 
 " But ornament obtains no regard from us 
 but in subservience to utility. We find it hard 
 to distinguish between the useful and beautiful. 
 When they appear to differ, we cannot hesitate 
 to prefer the former. To us that instrument pos 
 sesses an invincible superiority to every other 
 which is best adapted to our purpose. Convince 
 me that this garment is of more use than that, 
 and you have determined my choice. W^e may 
 afterwards inquire, which has the highest preten 
 sions to beauty ? Strange if utility and beauty 
 fail to coincide. Stranger still, if having found 
 them in any instance compatible, I sacrifice the 
 former to the latter. But the elements of beauty, 
 though perhaps they have a real existence, are 
 
THE PARADISE OF WOMEtf. 265 
 
 fleeting and inconstant. Not so those principles 
 which enable us to discover what is useful. 
 These are unform and permanent. So must be 
 the results. Among us, what is useful to one, 
 must be equally so to another. The condition of 
 all is so much alike, that a stuff which deserves 
 the preference of one, because it is obtained with 
 least labour, because its texture is most durable, 
 or more easily renewed or cleansed, is for simi 
 lar reasons preferable to all. 
 
 " But/ said 1, 4 you have various occupations. 
 One kind of stuff or one fashion is not equally 
 suitable to every employment. This must pro 
 duce a variety among you, as it does among us/ 
 
 " It does so. We find that our tools must 
 vary with our designs. If the task requires a 
 peculiar dress, we assume it. But as we take it 
 up when we enter the workshop, we, of course, 
 lay it aside when we change the scene. It is not 
 to be imagined that we wear the same garb at all 
 times. No man enters society laden with the 
 implements of his art. He does not visit the 
 council-hall or the theatre with his spade upon 
 his shoulder. As little does he think of bringing 
 thither the garb which he wore in the field. 
 There are no such peculiarities of attitude or 
 gesture among us, that the vesture that has proved 
 most convenient to one in walking or sitting, 
 
266 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 should be found unsuitable to others. Do the 
 differences of this kind, prevalent among you, 
 conform to these rules ? Since every one has his 
 stated employment, no doubt each one has a 
 dress peculiar to himself or those of his own 
 profession/ 
 
 " No. I cannot say that among us this prin 
 ciple has any extensive influence. The chief 
 difference consists in degrees of expensiveness. 
 By inspecting the garb of a passenger, we dis 
 cover not so much the trade that he pursues, as 
 the amount of his property. Few labour whose 
 wealth allows them to dispense with it. The 
 garb of each is far from varying with hours of 
 the day. He need only conform to the changes 
 of the seasons, and model his appearance by the 
 laws of ostentation, in public, and by those of 
 ease, in the intervals of solitude. These principles 
 are common to both sexes. Small is the portion 
 of morality or taste, that is displayed by either, 
 but in this, as in most other cases, the conduct 
 of the females is the least faulty. But of all in 
 fractions of decorum, we should deem the as 
 suming of the dress of one sex by the other, 
 as the most flagrant. It so rarely happens, that 
 I do not remember to have witnessed a single 
 metamorphosis, except perhaps on the stage, and 
 even there a female cannot evince a more egre- 
 
THE PARADISE OF WOMEN. 267 
 
 gious negligence of reputation than by person 
 ating a man/ 
 
 " All this/ replied my friend, ; is so strange as 
 to be almost incredible. Why beings of the 
 same nature, inhabiting the same spot, and accessi 
 ble to the same influences, should exhibit such pre 
 posterous differences, is wonderful. It is not pos 
 sible that these modes should be equally com 
 modious or graceful. Custom may account for 
 the continuance, but not for the origin, of man 
 ners/ 
 
 " The wonder that you express/ said I, is in 
 its turn a subject of surprise to me. What you now 
 say, induces me to expect that among you, wo 
 men and men are more similarly treated than 
 elsewhere. But this, to me, is so singular a spec 
 tacle, that 1 long to hear it more minutely de 
 scribed by you, and to witness it myself/ 
 
 " If you remain long enough among us you 
 will not want the opportunity. I hope you will 
 find that every one receives that portion which 
 is due to him ; and since a diversity of sex cannot 
 possibly make any essential difference in the 
 claims and duties of reasonable beings, this dif 
 ference will never be found. Bnt you call upon 
 me for descriptions. With what hues shall I 
 delineate the scene? I have exhibited as dis- 
 tinctly^as possible the equity that governs us. 
 
208 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 Its maxims are of various application. They re 
 gulate our conduct, not only to each other, but 
 to the tribes of insects and birds. Every thing 
 is to be treated as capable of happiness itself, or 
 as instrumental to the happiness of others. 3 
 " But since the sexual difference is something/ 
 said I, and since you are not guilty of the error 
 of treating different things as if they were the 
 same, doubtless, in your conduct towards each 
 other, the consideration of sex is of some weight/ 
 
 " Undoubtedly. A species of conduct is in 
 cumbent upon men and women towards each 
 other on certain occasions, that cannot take place 
 between man and man ; or between woman and 
 woman. I may properly supply rny son with a 
 razor to remove superfluous hairs from his chin ; 
 but I may with no less propriety forbear to furnish 
 my daughter with this implement, because nature 
 has denied her a beard ; but all this is so evident 
 that I cannot but indulge a smile at the formality 
 with which you state it/ 
 
 " c But/ said I, it is the nature and extent of 
 this difference of treatment that I want to know/ 
 
 " Be explicit, my good friend. Do you want 
 a physiological dissertation on this subject, or 
 not ? If you do, excuse me from performing the 
 task, I am unequal to^it/ 
 
 " No. But I will try to explain myself: What, 
 
THE PARADISE OF WOMEN. 269 
 
 for example, is the difference which takes place 
 in the education of the two sexes. 
 
 " s There is no possible ground for difference. 
 Nourishment is imparted and received in the 
 same way. Their organs of digestion and secre 
 tion are the same. There is one diet, one regi- 
 rnen, one mode and degree of exercise, best 
 adapted to unfold the powers of the human body, 
 and maintain them for the longest time in full 
 vigour. One individual may be affected by some 
 casualty or disease, so as to claim to be treated 
 in a manner different from another individual, 
 but this difference is not necessarily connected 
 with sex. Neither sex is exempt from injury, 
 contracted through their own ignorance, or that 
 of others. Doubtless the sound woman and the 
 sick man it would be madness to subject to the 
 same tasks, or the same regimen. But this is 
 no less true if both be of the same sex. Dis 
 eases, on whichsoever they fall, are curable by 
 the same means. 
 
 " Human beings, in their infancy, 5 continued 
 my friend, require the same tendance and in 
 struction : but does one sex require more or less, 
 or a different sort of tendance or instruction than 
 the other ? Certainly not. If by any fatal delu 
 sion, one sex should imagine its interest to con 
 sist in the ill-treatment of the other, time would 
 
270 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 soon detect their mistake. For how is the species 
 to be continued ? How is a woman, for example, 
 to obtain a sound body, and impart it to her off 
 spring, but, among other sources, from the per 
 fect constitution of both her parents ? But it is 
 needless to argue on a supposition so incredible 
 as that mankind can be benefited by injustice 
 and oppression. 
 
 " Would we render the limbs supple, vigorous 
 and active ? And are there two modes equally 
 efficacious of attaining this end ? Must we sup 
 pose that one sex will find this end of less value 
 than the other, or the means suitable to its attain 
 ment different ? It cannot be supposed. 
 
 " We are born with faculties that enable us to 
 impart and receive happiness. There is one 
 species of discipline better adapted than any 
 other to open and improve those faculties. This 
 mode is to be practised. All are to be furnished 
 with the means of instruction, whether these con 
 sist in the direct commerce of the senses with 
 the material universe, or in intercourse with other 
 intelligent beings. It is requisite to know the 
 reasonings, actions and opinions of others, if we 
 seek the improvement of our own understanding. 
 For this end we must see them, and talk with 
 them, if present, or if distant or dead, we must 
 consult these memorials which have been con- 
 
THE PARADISE OF WOMEN. 271 
 
 trived by themselves or others. These are simple 
 and intelligible maxims proper to regulate our 
 treatment of rational beings. The only circum 
 stance to which we are bound to attend, is, that 
 the subjects of instruction be rational. If any 
 one observe that the consideration of sex is of 
 some moment, how must his remark be under 
 stood ? Would he insinuate, that because my sex 
 is different from yours, one of us only can be 
 treated as rational, or that though reason be a *-* 
 property of both, one of us possesses less of it 
 than the other ? I am not born among a people 
 who can countenance so monstrous a doctrine. 
 
 " No two persons are entitled, in the strictest 
 sense, to the same treatment, because no two can 
 be precisely alike. All the possibilities and 
 shades of difference no human capacity can 
 estimate. Observation will point out some of 
 the more considerable sources of variety. Man 
 is a progressive being, he is wise in proportion 
 to the number of his ideas, and to the accuracy 
 with which he compares and arranges them. 
 These ideas are received through the inlets of 
 his senses. They must be successively re 
 ceived. The objects which suggest them, must 
 be present. There must be time for observation . 
 Hence the difference is, in some degree, uniform 
 between the old and the young : between those, 
 
272 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 the sphere of whose observation has been limited, 
 and those whose circle is extensive. Such causes 
 of difference as these are no less incident to one 
 sex than to the other. The career of both com 
 mences in childhood and ignorance. How far 
 and how swiftly they may proceed before their 
 steps are arrested by disease, or death, is to be 
 inferred from a knowledge of their circumstances : 
 such as betide them simply as individuals. 
 
 " It would, perhaps, be unreasonable to affirm 
 that the circumstance of sex affects in no degree 
 the train of ideas in the mind. It is not possible 
 that any circumstance, however trivial, should 
 be totally without mental influence ; but we may 
 safely affirm that this circumstance is indeed 
 trivial, and its consequences, therefore, unim 
 portant. It is inferior to most other incidents of 
 human existence, and to those which are neces 
 sarily incident to both sexes. He who resides 
 among hills, is a different mortal from him who 
 dwells on a plain. Subterranean darkness, or 
 the seclusion of a valley, suggest ideas of a kind 
 different from those that occur to us on the airy 
 verge of a promontory, and in the neighbour 
 hood of roaring waters. The influence on my 
 character which flows from my age, from the 
 number and quality of my associates, from the 
 nature of my dwelling-place, as sultry or cold 
 
THE PARA DISK OF WOMEX. 273 
 
 fertile or barren, level or diversified, the art that 
 I cultivate, the extent or frequency of my excur 
 sions cannot be of small moment. In compari 
 son with this, the qualities which are to be 
 ascribed to my sex are unworthy of being men 
 tioned. No doubt my character is in some de 
 gree tinged by it, but the tinge is inexpressibly 
 small. 
 
 " You give me leave to conclude, then/ said I, 
 4 that the same method of education is pursued v 
 with regard to both sexes ? 
 
 " Certainly/ returned my philosopher. c Men 
 possess powers that may be drawn forth and im 
 proved by exercise and discipline. Let them be 
 so, says our system. It contents itself with pre 
 scribing certain general rules to all that bear the 
 appellation of human. It permits all to refresh 
 and invigorate their frames, by frequenting the 
 purest streams and the pleasantest fields, and by 
 practising those gestures and evolutions that tend 
 to make us robust and agile. It admits the 
 young to the assemblies of their elders, and ex 
 horts the elder to instruct the young*. It multi 
 plies the avenues, and facilitates the access to 
 knowledge. Conversations, books, instruments, 
 specimens of the productions of art and nature, 
 haunts of meditation, and public halls, liberal 
 propensities and leisure, it is the genius of our 
 
 T 
 
274 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 system to create, multiply, and place within the 
 reach of all. It is far from debasing its views, 
 by distinguishing those who dwell on the shore 
 from those that inhabit the hills; the beings 
 whom a cold temperature has bleached, from 
 those that are embrowned by a hot/ 
 
 " But different persons/ said I, have different 
 employments. Skill cannot be obtained in them 
 without a regular course of instruction. Each 
 sex has, I doubt not, paths of its own, into which 
 the others must not intrude : hence must arise 
 a difference in their education/ 
 
 " Who has taught you/ replied he, that each 
 sex must have peculiar employments ? Your 
 doubts and your conjectures are equally amazing. 
 One would imagine, that among you, one sex 
 had more arms, or legs, or senses, than the other. 
 Among us, there is no such inequality : the 
 principles that direct us in the choice of occu 
 pations are common to all/ 
 
 " < Pray tell me/ said I, what these principles 
 are. 
 
 " They are abundantly obvious. There are 
 some tasks which are equally incumbent upon 
 all. These demand no more skill and strength 
 than is possessed by all. Men must provide 
 themselves, by their own efforts, with food, 
 clothing, and shelter. As long as they live to- 
 
THE PARADISE OF WOMEN. 275 
 
 gether, there is a duty obliging them to join 
 their skill and their exertions for the common 
 benefit. A certain portion of labour will supply 
 the needs of all : this portion then must be divi 
 ded among all : each one must acquire and exert 
 the skill which this portion requires. But this 
 skill and this strength are found, by experience, 
 to be moderate, and easily attained. To plant 
 maize to construct an arch to weave a gar 
 ment are no such arduous employments, but 
 that all who have emerged from the infirmity 
 and ignorance of childhood, may contribute their 
 efforts to the performance. 
 
 " But, beside occupations which are thus of 
 immediate and universal utility, there is an infi 
 nite variety of others. The most exquisite of all 
 calamities results from a yacanl^njmd^jawd, unoc 
 cupied limbs. The highest pleasure demands the 
 ceaseless activity of both. To enjoy this pleasure, 
 it is requisite to find some other occupation of our 
 time, beside those which are enjoined by the 
 physical necessities of our nature. Among these 
 there is ample room for choice. The motives 
 that may influence us in this choice, are endless. 
 I shall not undertake to enumerate them : you 
 can be at no loss to conceive them without my 
 assistance. But whether they be solitary or so 
 cial whether speech, or books, or observation, 
 x2 
 
276 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 or experiment, be the medium of instruction * 
 there can be nothing in the distinction of sex to 
 influence our determinations ; or this influence 
 is so inconsiderable, as not to be worth mention. 
 
 " What P cried I, are all obliged to partake 
 of all the labours of tilling the ground, without 
 distinction of rank and sex ? 
 
 " Certainly. There are none that fail to con 
 sume some portion of the product of the ground. 
 To exempt any from a share in the cultivation, 
 would be an inexpiable injustice, both to those 
 who are exempted, and those who are not ex 
 empted. The exercise is cheerful and whole 
 some its purpose is just and necessary. Who 
 shall dare to deny me a part in it ? But we 
 know, full well, that the task which, if divided 
 among many, is easy and salubrious, is converted 
 into painful and unwholesome drudgery, by be 
 ing confined to a sex. What phrenzy must that 
 be, which should prompt us to introduce a 
 change in this respect? I cannot even imagine 
 so great a perversion of the understanding. 
 Common madness is unequal to so monstrous a 
 conception. We must first not only cease to be 
 reasonable but cease to be men. Even that 
 supposition is insufficient : for into what class of 
 animals must we sink, before this injustice could 
 be realized ? Among beasts, there are none who 
 
THE PARADISE OF WOMEN. 277 
 
 do not owe their accommodations to their own 
 exertions. 
 
 " Food is no less requisite to one sex than to 
 the other. As the necessity of food so the 
 duty of providing it is common. But the reason 
 why I am to share in the labour, is not merely 
 because I am to share in the fruits. I am a 
 being, guided by reason and susceptible of hap 
 piness so are other men. It is, therefore, a 
 privilege that I cannot relinquish, to promote 
 and contemplate the happiness of others. After 
 the cravings of necessity are satisfied, it remains 
 for me, by a new application of my powers, to 
 enlarge the pleasures of existence. The inlets 
 to this pleasure are numberless. What can 
 prompt us to take from any the power of 
 choosing among these, or to incapacitate him 
 from choosing with judgment ? The greater the 
 number of those who are employed in adminis 
 tering to pleasure, the greater will be the pro 
 duct. Since both sexes partake of this capacity, 
 what possible reasons can there be for limiting 
 or precluding the efforts of either ? 
 
 " -What I conceive to be unjust, may yet be 
 otherwise ; but my actions will conform to my 
 opinions. If you would alter the former, you 
 must previously introduce a change into the lat 
 ter. I know the opinions of my countrymen. 
 
278 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 The tenor of their actions will conform to their 
 notions of right. Can the time ever come, will 
 the power ever arise, that shall teach them to 
 endure the oppression of injustice themselves, or 
 inflict it upon others ? No/ 
 
 " But, in my opinion/ said I, the frame of 
 women is too delicate, their limbs too minute for 
 rough and toilsome occupations. I would rather 
 confine them to employments more congenial 
 to the female elements of softness and beauty. 
 
 " You would rather, would you ? I will sup 
 pose you sincere, and inquire how you would 
 expect to obtain their consent to your scheme/ 
 
 u c The sentiments, 3 said 1, of a single indivi 
 dual, would avail nothing. But if all the males 
 should agree to prescribe their employments to 
 
 women y 
 
 " c What then ? interrupted my friend. There 
 are but two methods of effecting this end by 
 force or by persuasion. With respect to force, 
 we cannot suppose human beings capable of it, 
 for any moral purpose ; but supposing them ca 
 pable, we would scarcely resort to force, while 
 our opponents are equal in number, strength 
 and skill to ourselves. The efficacy of persua 
 sion is equally chimerical. Thatfrailty of mind 
 which should make a part of mankind willing to 
 take upon themselves a double portion of the 
 
THE PARADISE OF WOMEN. 279 
 
 labour, and to convert what is pleasurable ex 
 ercise to all, into a source of pain and misery to 
 a few But these are vain speculations ; let us 
 dismiss them from our notice/ 
 
 " Willingly, said I ; we will dismiss these 
 topics for the sake of one more important. I 
 presume then, continued I, there is such a thing 
 as marriage among you/ 
 
 " I do not understand the term/ 
 
 " I use it to express that relation which sub 
 sists between two human beings in consequence 
 of difference of sex/ 
 
 " c You puzzle me exceedingly/ returned he. 
 You question me as to the existence of that con 
 cerning which it is impossible for you to be ig 
 norant. You cannot at this age be a stranger 
 to the origin of human existence/ 
 
 When 1 had proceeded thus far in my narrative, 
 I paused. Mrs. Carter still continued to favour 
 me with her attention . On observing my silence, 
 she desired me to proceed. 
 
 Ci I presume/ said she, " your supernatural 
 conductor allowed you to finish the conversation. 
 To snatch you away just now, in the very midst 
 of your subject, would be doing you and me 
 likewise a very unacceptable office. I beseech 
 you go on with the discourse." 
 
 " It may not be proper," answered I. "This is 
 
280 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 a topic on which, strange to tell, we cannot dis 
 course in the same terms before every audience." 
 The remainder of our conversation decorum 
 would not, perhaps, forbid you to read, but it 
 prohibits you from hearing-. If you wish it, I 
 will give you the substance of the information I 
 collected on this topic in writing 1 . 
 
 " What is improper to be said in my hearing," 
 said the lady, " it should seem, was no less impro 
 per to be knowingly addressed to me by the pen." 
 < e Then, " said I, " you do not assent to my offer." 
 " Nay, I do not refuse my assent. 1 merely 
 object to the distinction, that you have raised. 
 There are many things improper to be uttered, 
 or written, or to be read, or listened to, but the 
 impropriety methinks must adhere to the senti 
 ments themselves, and not result from the con 
 dition of the author or his audience." 
 " Are these your real sentiments r" 
 " Without doubt. But they appear not to be 
 yours. However, write what you please ; I pro 
 mise you to read it, and to inform you of my 
 opinion respecting it. Your scheme, I suspect, 
 will not be what is commonly called marriage, 
 but something, in your opinion, better. This 
 footing is a dubious^one. Take care, it is diffi 
 cult to touch without overstepping the verge/ 
 " Your caution is reasonable. I believe si- 
 
THE FAKAUlSi: OF WOMEN. 281 
 
 Jence will be ilie safest. You will excuse me, 
 therefore, from taking up the pen on this occa 
 sion. The ground, you say, and I believe, is 
 perilous. It will be most prudent to avoid it." 
 
 " As you please, but remember, that though I 
 may not approve of what you write, your silence 
 I shall approve still less. If it be false, it will 
 enable me at least to know you, and I shall 
 thereby obtain an opportunity of correcting your 
 mistakes. Neither of these purposes are trivial. 
 Are you not aware that no future declaration of 
 yours will be more unfavourable than what you 
 have just said, that silence will be most safe? 
 You are afraid, no doubt, of shocking too greatly 
 my prejudices ; but you err. I am certainly 
 prepossessed in favour of the system of marriage, 
 but the strength of this prepossession will ap 
 pear only in the ardour of my compassion for 
 contrary opinions, and the eagerness of my en 
 deavours to remove them." 
 
 " You would condescend then," said I, " to 
 reason on the subject, as if it were possible that 
 marriage was an erroneous institution ; as if it 
 were possible that any one could seriously main 
 tain it to be so, without entitling himself to the 
 imputation of the lowest profligacy. Most women 
 would think that the opponent of marriage, 
 either assumed the character for the most odious 
 
282 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 and selfish purposes, and could therefore only 
 deserve to be treated as an assassin, to be detested 
 and shunned : or if he were sincere in his mon 
 strous faith, that all efforts to correct his mistakes 
 would avail nothing with respect to the patient, 
 but might endanger the physician by exposing 
 her to the illusions of sophistry or the contagion 
 of passion/ 
 
 " I am not one of these," said the lady. " The 
 lowest stupidity only can seek its safety in shut 
 ting its ears. We may call that sophistry, which 
 having previously heard, it fails to produce con 
 viction. Yet sophistry perhaps, implies not 
 merely fallacious reasoning, but a fallaciousness 
 of which the reason er himself is apprised. If 
 so, few charges ought to be made with more 
 caution. But nothing can exceed the weakness 
 that prevents us from attending to what is going 
 to be urged against our opinions, merely from 
 the persuasion that what is adverse to our pre 
 conceptions must be false. Yet there are ex 
 amples of this folly among our acquaintance. 
 You are wrong/ said I, lately, to one of these ; if 
 you will suffer me, I will convince you of your 
 error/ c You may save yourself the trouble/ she 
 answered. You may torment me with doubts ; 
 but why, when I see the truth clearly already, 
 should I risk the involving of it in obscurity ? I 
 
THE PARADISE OF WOMEN. 283 
 
 repeat, I am not of this class. Force is to be re 
 sisted bv force, or eluded bv flight: but he that 
 
 v / O 
 
 argues, whatever be his motives, should be en 
 countered with argument. He cannot commit 
 a greater error than to urge topics, the insuffi 
 ciency of which is known to himself. To de 
 monstrate this error is as worthy of truth as any 
 other province. To sophistry, in any sense of 
 the term, the proper antidote is argument. Give 
 me leave to take so much interest in your wel 
 fare, as to desire to see your errors corrected, 
 and to contribute what is in my power to that 
 end. If I know myself so well as sometimes to 
 listen to others in the hope of profiting by their 
 superior knowledge or sagacity, permit me like 
 wise to be just to myself in other respects, and to 
 believe myself capable sometimes of pointing 
 out his mistakes to another/ 
 
 " You seem," said I, " to think it certain that 
 we differ in opinion upon this topic. " 
 
 11 No. I merely suspect that we do. A class 
 of reasoners has lately arisen, who aim at the 
 deepest foundation of civil society. Their ad 
 dresses to the understanding have been urged 
 with no despicable skill. But this was insuffi 
 cient; it was necessary to subdue our incredulity, 
 as to the effects of their new maxims, by exhi 
 biting those effects in detail, and winning our 
 assent to their truth by engrossing the fancy 
 
284 MISCELLANIES 
 
 charming the affections. The journey that you have 
 lately made, I merely regard as an excursion into 
 their visionary world. 1 can trace the agreement 
 of the parts which you have unfolded, with those 
 which are yet to come ; and can pretty well con 
 jecture of what hues, and lines, and figures the 
 remainder of the picture is intended to consist." 
 
 " Then," said I, " the task that I enjoined on 
 myself is superfluous. You are apprised of all 
 that I mean to say on the topic of marriage, and 
 have already laid in an ample stock of disappro 
 bation for my service." 
 
 " I frankly confess that I expect not to approve 
 the matter of your narrative, however pleased I 
 may be with the manner. Nevertheless I wish 
 you to execute your first design, that I may be 
 able to unveil the fallacy of your opinions, and 
 rescue one whom I have no reason to disrespect, 
 from specious but fatal illusions." 
 
 " Your purpose is kind. It entitles you at 
 least to my thanks. Yet to say truth, I did not 
 at first despair of your concurrence with rne in 
 some of my opinions. I imagined that some of 
 the evils of marriage had not escaped you. I re 
 collect that during our last conversation, you 
 arraigned with great earnestness the injustice of 
 condemning women to obey the will, and depend 
 upon the bounty, of father or husband. 
 " Come, come," interrupted the lady, with ase- 
 
THE PARADISE OF WOMEN. 285 
 
 verer aspect ; " if you mean to preserve my good 
 opinion, you must tread on this ground with 
 more caution. Remember the atrociousness of 
 the charge you would insinuate. \\ hat ! because 
 a just indignation at the iniquities that are hourly 
 committed on one-half of the human species 
 rises in my heart, because I vindicate the plainest 
 dictates of justice, and am willing to rescue so 
 large a potion of human-kind, from so destruc- 
 tivea bondage a bondage, not only of the hands, 
 but of the understanding ; which divests them of 
 all those energies which distinguish man from 
 the basest animals, destroys all perception of 
 moral rectitude, and reduces its subjects to so ca 
 lamitous a state, that they adore the tyranny that 
 rears its crest over them, and kiss the hand that 
 loads them with ignominy ! When I demand an 
 equality of conditions among, beings that equally 
 partake of the same divine reason, would you 
 rashly infer that I was an enemy to the institution 
 of marriage itself? Where shall we look for hu 
 man beings who surpass all others in depravity 
 and wretchedness ? Are they not to be found in 
 the haunts of female licentiousness ? If their vice 
 admits of a darker hue, it would receive it from 
 the circumstance of their being dissolute by 
 theory ; of their modelling voluptuousness into 
 a speculative system. Yet this is" the charge you 
 
28Q MISCELLANIES. 
 
 would make against me. You would brand me as 
 an enemy to marriage, not in the sense that a 
 vestal, or widow, or chaste, but deserted maid, is 
 an enemy ; not even in that sense in which the 
 abandoned victims of poverty and temptation are 
 enemies, but in the sense of that detestable 
 philosophy which scoffs at the matrimonial in 
 stitution itself, which denies all its pretensions 
 to sanctity, which consigns us to the guidance of 
 a sensual impulse, and treats as phantastic or 
 chimerical, the sacred charities of husband, son, 
 and brother. Beware. Imputations of this kind 
 are more fatal in the consequences than you may 
 be able to conceive. They cannot be indifferent 
 to me. In drawing such inferences, you would 
 hardly be justified by the most disinterested 
 intentions." 
 
 " Such inferences,^ my dear madam, ** it is far 
 from my intention to draw. I cannot but think 
 your alarms unnecessary. If I am an enemy to 
 marriage, far be it from me to be the champion of 
 sensuality. I know the sacredness of this word 
 in the opinions of mankind ; I know how liable 
 to be misunderstood are the efforts of him who 
 should labour to explode it. But still, is it not 
 possible to define with so much perspicuity, and 
 distinguish with so much accuracy, as to preclude 
 all possibility of mistake? I believe this possible. 
 
THE PARADISE OF WOMEN. 287 
 
 I deem it easy to justify the insinuation that you 
 yourself are desirous of subverting the marriage 
 state." 
 
 " Proceed/ said the lady. " Men are at liberty 
 to annex to words what meaning they think 
 proper. What should hinder you, if you so 
 please, from saying that snow is of the deepest 
 black ? Words are arbitrary. The idea that 
 others annex to the word black, you are at liberty 
 to transfer to the word white. But in the use 
 of this privilege you must make your account in 
 not being understood, and in reversing all the 
 purposes of language. 
 
 " Well," said I, " that is yet to appear. Mean 
 while, I pray you, what are your objections to 
 the present system ?" 
 
 " My objections are weighty ones. I disap 
 prove of it, in the first place, because it renders 
 the female a slave to the man. It enjoins and 
 enforces submission on her part to the will of 
 her husband. It includes a promise of implicit 
 obedience and unalterable affection. Secondly, 
 it leaves the woman destitute of property. What 
 ever she previously possesses, belongs absolutely 
 to the man," 
 
 " This representation seems not to be a faith 
 ful one," said I. " Marriage leaves the wife with- 
 out^property, you say. How comes it, then, that 
 
288 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 she is al>le to subsist ? You will answer, perhaps, 
 that her sole dependence is placed upon the 
 bounty of her husband. But this is surely an 
 error. It is by virtue of express laws that all 
 property subsists. But the same laws sanction 
 , the title of a wife to a subsistence proportioned 
 to the estate of her husband. But if law were 
 silent, custom would enforce this claim. The 
 husband is in reality nothing but a steward. 
 He is bound to make provision for his wife, pro 
 portionately to the extent of his own revenue. 
 This is a practical truth, of which every woman 
 is sensible. It is this that renders the riches of 
 a husband a consideration of so much moment 
 in the eye of a prudent woman. To select a 
 wealthy partner is universally considered as the 
 certain means of enriching ourselves, not less 
 when the object of our choice is a husband 
 than when it is a wife." 
 
 " Notwithstanding all this," said the lady, " you 
 will not pretend to affirm that marriage renders 
 the property common ?" 
 
 46 May I not truly assert," rejoined I, " that 
 i/the wife is legally entitled to her maintenance ?" 
 
 " Yes, she is entitled to food, raiment, and shel 
 ter, if her husband can supply them. Suppose 
 a man in possession of five thousand pounds a 
 year ; from this the wife is entitled to mainte- 
 
THE PARADISE OF WOMEX. 289 
 
 nance : but how shall the remainder be adminis 
 tered ? Is not the power of the husband, over this, 
 absolute ? Cannot he reduce himself to poverty 
 to-morrow ? She may claim a certain portion of 
 what he has, but he may, at his own pleasure, 
 divest himself of all that he has. He may expend 
 it on what purposes he pleases. It is his own, 
 and, for the use of it, he is responsible to no 
 tribunal ; but in reality, this pompous claim of 
 his wife amounts, in most cases, to nothing. It 
 is the discretion of the husband that must decide, 
 as to the kind and quantity of that provision. 
 He may be niggardly or prodigal, according to 
 the suggestions of his own caprice. He may 
 hasten to ^poverty himself, or he may live, and 
 compel his partner to live, in the midst of wealth 
 as if he were labouring under extreme indigence. 
 In neither case has the wife any remedy/ 
 
 " But recollect, my good friend, the husband 
 is commonly the original proprietor. Has the 
 wife a just claim to that, which, before marriage, 
 belonged to her spouse ?" 
 
 " Certainly not. Nor is it less true that the 
 husband has no just claim to that, which, pre 
 viously to marriage, belonged to the wife. If 
 property were, in all respects, justly administer 
 ed, if patrimonies were equally divided among 
 offspring, and if the various avenues that lead to 
 
 u 
 
290 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 the possession of property were equally accessi 
 ble to both sexes, it would be found as fre 
 quently and extensively vested in one son as in 
 the other. Marriage is productive of no con 
 sequences which justify the transfer of what 
 either previously possessed to the other. The 
 idea of common property is absurd and perni 
 cious ; but even this is better than poverty and 
 dependence to which the present system subjects 
 the female. 5 
 
 " But," said I, " it is not to be forgotten that 
 the household is common. One dwelling, one 
 table, one set of servants, may justly be sustained 
 by a single fund : this fund may be managed by 
 common consent. No particle of expense may 
 accrue without the concurrence of both parties : 
 but if there be a difference of opinion, one must 
 ultimately decide. Why should not this be the 
 husband ? You will say that this would be un 
 just. I answer that, since it is necessary that 
 power should be vested in one or the other, the 
 injustice is inevitable. An opposite procedure 
 would not diminish it. If this necessary power 
 of deciding in cases of disagreement were lodged 
 in the wife, the injustice would remain." 
 
 " But a common fund and a common dwel 
 ling are superfluous. Why is marriage to con 
 demn two human beings to dwell under the 
 
THE PARADISE OF WOMEN. 291 
 
 same roof, and to eat at the same table, and to 
 be served by the same domestics ? This circum 
 stance alone is the source of innumerable ills. 
 Familiarity is the sure destroyer of reverence. 
 All the bickerings and dissentions of a married 
 life flow from no other source than that of too 
 frequent communication. How difficult is it to 
 introduce harmony of sentiment, even on topics 
 of importance, between two persons ? But this 
 difficulty is increased in proportion to the num 
 ber and frequency, and the connection with our 
 private and personal deportment of these topics. 
 
 " If two persons are condemned to cohabita-^ 
 tion, there must doubtless be mutual accommo 
 dation. But let us understand this term. No 
 one can sacrifice his opinions. What is incum 
 bent upon him, in certain cases, is only to for 
 bear doing what he esteems to be right. Now 
 that situation is most eligible in which we are at 
 liberty to conform to the dictates of our judg 
 ment. Situations of a different kind will fre 
 quently occur in human life. Many of them 
 exist without any necessity. Such, in its pre 
 sent state, is matrimony. 
 
 " Since an exact agreement of opinions is im- ^ 
 possible, and since the intimate and constant 
 intercourse of a married life requires either that 
 the parties should agree in their opinions, or 
 
 u 2 
 
292 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 that one should forego his own resolution, what 
 is the consequence ? Controversies will inces 
 santly arise, and must be decided. If argument 
 be insufficient, recourse must be had to legal 
 authority, to brute force, or servile artifices, or 
 to that superstition that has bound itself by a 
 promise to obey. These might be endured if they 
 were the necessary attendants of marriage ; but 
 they are spurious additions. Marriage is a sacred 
 institution, but it would argue the most pitiful 
 stupidity to imagine that all those circumstances 
 which accident and custom have annexed to it are 
 likewise sacred : marriage is sacred, but iniqui- 
 f tous laws, by making it a compact of slavery, by 
 imposing impracticable conditions, and extorting 
 impious promises, have, in most countries, con 
 verted it into something flagitious and hateful." 
 " But the marriage promises," said I, " amount 
 to this, that the parties shall love each other till 
 death. Would you impose no restraint on way 
 ward inclinations ? Shall this contract subsist 
 no longer that suits the wishes of either party ? 
 Would you grant, supposing you were exalted into 
 a law-giver, an unlimited power of divorces ?" 
 
 " Without the least doubt. What shadow of 
 justice is there in restraining mankind in this 
 particular. My liberty is precious, but of all 
 the ways in which my liberty can be infringed, 
 
THE PARADISE OF WOMEN. 293 
 
 and my actions be subjected to force, Heaven 
 deliver me from this species of constraint. It is 
 impossible to do justice to my feelings on this 
 occasion. Offer me any alternative condemn 
 me to the workshop of an Egyptian task-master 
 imprison me in chains of darkness tear me 
 into pieces subject me to the endless repetition 
 of toil, and stripes, and contumelies but allow 
 me, I beseech you, the liberty, at least, of con 
 jugal choice. If you prohibit my intercourse ^ 
 with one on whom my heart dotes, I shall not 
 repine the injury is inexpressibly trivial. There 
 is scarcely an inconvenience that will be worth 
 enduring for the sake of this prohibited good. 
 My resources must be few, indeed, if they do not 
 afford me consolation under this injustice. But " 
 if you subject me to the control and the nau 
 seous caresses of one whom I hate or despise, 
 you indeed inflict a calamity which nothing can 
 compensate : there is no form which your in 
 justice can assume, more detestable and ugly 
 than this. 
 
 " According to present modes, the servitude v 
 of a wife is the most entire and unremitting. She 
 lays aside her fetters not for a moment. There 
 is not an action, however minute, in which her 
 tyrant does not assume the power of prescribing. 
 His eyes are eternally upon her. There is no 
 
294 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 period, however short, in which she is exempt 
 from his cognizance no recess, however sacred 
 or mysterious, into which he does not intrude. 
 She cannot cherish the friendship of a human 
 being without his consent : she cannot dispense 
 a charitable farthing without his connivance. 
 ; The beings who owe their existence to her, are 
 fashioned by his sole and despotic will. All 
 their dignity and happiness is lodged in the hands 
 that superintend their education, and prescribe 
 their conduct, during the important periods of 
 infancy and youth : but how they shall exist 
 what shall be taught, and what shall be with- 
 holden from them what precepts they shall hear, 
 and what examples they shall contemplate, it is 
 his province to decide. 
 
 " A husband is proposed to me. I ruminate 
 on these facts. I ponder on this great question 
 Shall I retain my liberty or not ? Perhaps the 
 evils of my present situation the pressure of po 
 verty the misjudging rule of a father, or the 
 rare qualities of him who is proposed to me the 
 advantages of change of place, or increase of 
 fortune may outweigh the evils of this state. 
 Perhaps I rely on the wisdom of my partner. I 
 am assured that he will, in all cases, trust to 
 nothing but the force of reason that his argu 
 ments will always convince, or his candour be 
 
THE PARADISE OF WOMEN. 295 
 
 accessible to conviction that he will never make 
 his appealto personal or legal coercion but al 
 low me the dominion of my own conduct, when 
 he cannot persuade me to compliance with his 
 wishes. These considerations may induce me 
 to embrace the offer. 
 
 " If I am not deceived if no inauspicious 
 revolution take place in his character if circum 
 stances undergo no material alteration if I con 
 tinue to love and to confide, as at the first it 
 is well. I cannot object to a perpetual alliance, 
 provided it be voluntary. There is nothing, in 
 a choice of this kind, that shall necessarily cause 
 it to expire. This alliance will be durable in 
 proportion to the wisdom with which it was 
 formed, and the foresight that was exerted. 
 
 " But if a change take place if I were de 
 ceived, and find insolence and peevishness, ri 
 gour and command, where I expected nothing 
 but sweet equality and unalterable complaisance 
 or, if the character be changed if time intro 
 duce new modes of thinking, and new systems 
 of action to which my understanding refuses to 
 assimilate what is the consequence ? Shall I 
 not revoke my choice ? 
 
 " The hardships of constraint in this respect 
 are peculiarly severe upon the female. Hers is 
 the task of submission. In every case of dis- 
 
296 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 agreement, it is she that must yield. The man 
 still retains, in a great degree, his independence. 
 In the choice of his abode, his occupation, his 
 associates, his tasks, and his pleasures, he is 
 guided by his own judgment. The conduct of 
 his wife, the treatment of her oflfepring, and the 
 administration of her property, are consigned to 
 him. All the evils of constraint are aggravated 
 by the present system. But if the system were 
 reformed if the duties of marriage extended to 
 nothing but occasional interviews and personal 
 fidelity if each retained power over their own 
 actions, in all cases not immediately connected 
 with the sensual intercourse the obligation to 
 maintain this intercourse, after preference had 
 ceased, would be eminently evil. Less so, in 
 deed, than in the present state of marriage: but 
 still it would be fertile in misery. Have you any 
 objections to this conclusion ?" 
 
 " I cannot say that I have many. You knbw 
 what is commonly urged in questions of this 
 I kind. Men, in civil society, are, in most cases, 
 I subjected to a choice of evils. That which is 
 injurious to one, or a few individuals, may yet 
 be beneficial to the whole. Ifi an estimate, suf 
 ficiently comprehensive, the good may over- 
 weigh the ill. You have drawn a forcible pic 
 ture of the inconveniences attending the prohi- 
 
THE PARADISE OF WOMEN. 297 
 
 bition of divorces. Perhaps, if entire liberty in 
 this respect were granted, the effects might con 
 stitute a scene unspeakably more disastrous than 
 any thing hitherto conceived." 
 
 " As how, I pray you ?" 
 
 " Men endeavour to adhere with a good 
 grace to a contract which they cannot infringe. 
 
 That which is commonly termed love,, is a 
 
 u^ 
 vagrant and wayward principle. It pretends to 
 
 spurn at those bounds which decorum and neces 
 sity prescribe to it, and yet, at the same time, is ^^u* 4 * 
 tamely and rigidly observant of those bounds. jj^ 
 This passion commonly betides us when we have 
 previously reasoned ourselves into the belief of 
 the propriety of entertaining it. It seldom visits 
 us but at the sober invitation of our judgment. 
 It speedily takes its leave when its presence be 
 comes uneasy, and its gratification ineligible or 
 impossible. Youth and beauty, it is said, have a 
 tendency to excite this passion, but suppose 
 those qualities are discovered in a sister, what 
 becomes of this tendency ? Suppose the posses- j 
 sion to be already a wife. If chance place us 
 near an object of uncommon loveliness and we 
 are impressed with a notion that she is single 
 and disengaged, our hearts may be in some 
 danger. But suppose better information has 
 precluded this mistake, or that it is immediately 
 
298 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 rectified, the danger in most cases, is at an end. 
 I am married and have no power to dissolve the 
 contract. Will this consideration have no power 
 over my sensations in the presence of a stranger ? 
 If care, accomplishments, and inimitable loveli 
 ness attract my notice, after my lot is decided, 
 and has chained me to one, with whom the com 
 parison is disadvantageous, I may indulge a faint 
 wish that my destiny had other wise decreed ; a 
 momentary sigh at the irrevocableness of my 
 choice, but my regrets will instantly vanish. 
 Recollecting that my fate is indeed decided, and 
 my lot truly irrevocable, I become cheerful and 
 calm. 
 
 " It is true, that harmony cannot be expected 
 to subsist for ever and in every minute instance 
 between two persons : but how far will the con 
 sciousness that the ill is without remedy, and the 
 condition of affairs unchangeable, tend to foster 
 affection and generate mutual compliance. 
 Human beings are distinguished by nothing more 
 than by a propensity to imitation. They con 
 tract affection and resemblance with those per 
 sons or objects that are placed near them. The 
 force of habit, in this respect, is admirable. 
 Even inanimate objects become, through the in 
 fluence of this principle, necessary to our happi 
 ness. They that are constant companions fail 
 
THE PARADISE OF WOMEN. 299 
 
 not to become, in most respects, alike, and to be 
 linked together by the perception of this like 
 ness. Their modes of acting and thinking 
 might, at first, have jarred, but these modes are 
 not, in their own nature, immutable. The bene 
 fits of concurrence, the inconveniences of oppo 
 sition, and the opportunities of comparing and 
 weighing the grounds of their differences cannot 
 be supposed to be without some tendency to 
 produce resemblance and sympathy." 
 
 " This is plausible," said the lady, " but what 
 is your aim in stating these remarks ? Do you 
 mean by them to extenuate the evils that arise 
 from restraining divorces ?" 
 
 " If they contribute to that end," answered I, 
 " it is proper to urge them. They promote a 
 good purpose. Your picture was so terrible, 
 that I am willing to employ any expedient for 
 softening its hues." 
 
 " If it were just, you ought to have admitted 
 its justice. We see the causes of these evils. 
 They admit of an obvious remedy. A change 
 in the opinions of a nation is all that is requisite 
 for this end. But let us examine your pleas, or, 
 rather, instead of reasoning on the subject, let 
 us turn our eyes on the world and its scenes, 
 and mark the effect of this spirit by which hu 
 man beings are prompted to adopt the opinions, 
 
300 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 and dote upon the presence of those whom acci 
 dent has placed beside them. It would be ab 
 surd to deny all influence to habit and all force 
 to reflections upon the incurableness of the evil, 
 but what is the effect they produce ? In num 
 berless cases the married life is a scene of perpe 
 tual contention and strife. A transient observer 
 frequently perceives this ; but in cases where 
 appearances are more specious, he that has an 
 opportunity to penetrate the veil which hangs 
 over the domestic scene, is often disgusted with 
 a spectacle of varied and exquisite misery. 
 Nothing is to be found but a disgusting train of 
 mean compliances, despicable artifices, peevish 
 ness, recriminations, and falsehood. It is rare 
 that fortitude and consideration are exercised by 
 either party. Their misery is heightened by 
 impatience and tormenting recollections, but 
 the few whose minds are capable of fortitude, 
 who estimate the evil at its just value, and pro 
 fit by the portion of good, whatever it be, that 
 remains to them, experience, indeed, sensations 
 less acute, and pass fewer moments of bitterness ; 
 but it is from the unhappy that patience is de 
 manded. This virtue does not annihilate the 
 evil that oppresses us, but lightens it. It does 
 not destroy in us the consciousness of privileges 
 of which we are destitute, or of joys which have 
 
THE PARADISE OF WOMEN. 301 
 
 taken their flight. Its office is to prevent these re 
 flections from leading us to rage and despair; to 
 make us look upon lost happiness without relaps 
 ing into phrenzy ; to establish in our bosoms the 
 empire of cold and solemn indifference. 
 
 "If the exercise of reason and the enjoyment 
 of liberty be valuable ; if the effusions of ge 
 nuine sympathy, and the adherence to an un 
 biassed and enlightened choice, be the true ele 
 ment of man, what shall we think of that har 
 mony which is the result of narrow views, and 
 that sympathy which is the offspring of con 
 straint ? 
 
 " I know that love, as it is commonly under 
 stood, is an empty and capricious passion. It is 
 a sensual attachment which, w hen unaccompa 
 nied with higher regards, is truely contemptible. 
 To thwart it is often to destroy it, and sometimes 
 to qualify the victims of its delusion for Bedlam. 
 In the majority of cases it is nothing but a miser 
 able project of affectation . The languishing and 
 sighing lover is an object to which the errors 
 of mankind have annexed a certain degree of 
 reverence. Misery is our title to compassion ; 
 and to men of limited capacities the most deli 
 cious potion that can be administered is pity. 
 For the sake of this, hundreds are annually me 
 tamorphosed into lovers. It is graceful to Ian- 
 
302 
 
 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 guish with an hopeless passion ; to court the 
 music of sighs and the secrecy of groves. But 
 it is to be hoped that these chimeras will, a* 
 length, take their leave of us. 
 
 " In proportion as men become wise, their 
 pursuits will be judiciously selected, and that 
 which they have wisely chosen will continue, for 
 a certain period, to be the object of their choice. 
 Conjugal fidelity and constancy will characterize 
 the wise. But constancy is meritorious only 
 withirTcertain limits. What reverence is due to 
 groundless and obstinate attachments ? It be 
 comes me to make the best choice that circum 
 stances will admit, but human affairs will never 
 be reduced to that state in which the decisions 
 of the wisest man will be immutable.* Allowance 
 must be made for inevitable changes of situation, 
 and for the nature of man, which is essentially 
 progressive. > That is evil which hinders him 
 from conforming to these changes, and restrains 
 him from the exercise of his judgment. 
 
 " Let it be admitted that love is easily extin 
 guished by reflection. Does it follow that he 
 ought to be controlled in the choice of his com 
 panion ? Your observations imply, that he who 
 is now married to one woman, would attach 
 himself to another, if the law did not interpose. 
 Where are the benefits of interposition ? Does it 
 
THE PARADISE OF WOMEN. 303 
 
 increase the happiness of him that is affected by 
 it ? Will its succour be invoked by his present 
 consort ? That a man continues to associate 
 with me, contrary to his judgment and inclina 
 tion, is no subject of congratulation. If law or 
 force oblige him to endure my society, it does 
 not compel him to feign esteem, or dissemble 
 hatred or indifference. If the heart of my hus 
 band be estranged from me, I may possibly 
 regard it as an evil. If in consequence of this 
 estrangement, we separate our persons and in 
 terests, this is a desirable consequence. This is 
 the only palliation of which the evil is suscep 
 tible. 
 
 k/ 
 
 " It cannot be denied that certain inconve- $4, 
 
 niencies result from the disunion of a married 
 pair, according to the present system. You 
 have justly observed that men are reduced, in \/\^ J^ 
 most cases, to a choice of evils. Some evils are \ ^ 
 unavoidable. Others are gratuitous and wanton- * ^^ 
 ly incurred. The chief evils flowing from the 
 dissolution of marriage, are incident to the fe- J^ v 
 
 male. This happens in consequence of the ini 
 quitous and partial treatment to which women 
 in general are subjected. If marriage were freed 
 from all spurious obligations, the inconveni 
 ences, attending the dissolution of it, would be re 
 duced to nothing. 
 
 T 
 
304 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 " What think you," said I, " of the duty we 
 owe to our children ? Is not their happiness 
 materially affected by this species of liberty ?" 
 
 " / cannot perceive how. I would, however, 
 
 (be rightly understood : I confess that, accord 
 ing to the present system, it would : and hence 
 arises a new objection to this system. The chil 
 dren suffer : but do their sufferings, even in the 
 present state of things, outweigh the evils re 
 sulting from the impossibility of separation ? the 
 evil that the parents endure, and the evil ac 
 cruing to the offspring themselves ? 
 
 " If children stand in need of the guidance 
 and protection of their elders, and particularly 
 of their parents, it ought to be granted. The 
 parental relation continues, notwithstanding a 
 divorce. Though they have ceased to be hus 
 band and wife to each other, they have not ceased 
 to be father and mother to me. My claims on 
 them are the same, and as forcible as ever. The 
 ties by which they are bound to me, are not 
 diminished by this event. My claim for sub 
 sistence is made upon their property : but this 
 accident does not annihilate their property. If 
 it impoverish one, the other is proportionably 
 enriched. There is the same inclination and 
 power to answer my claim. The judgment that 
 consulted for my happiness and decided for me, 
 
THE PARADISE OF WOMEN . 305 
 
 before their separation, is no whit altered or 
 lessened : on the contrary, it is most likely to be 
 improved. When relieved from the task of tor-\ 
 men ting each other, and no longer exposed to| 
 bickerings and disappointment, they become! 
 better qualified for any disinterested or arduous 
 office." 
 
 " But what effects," said I, " may be ex 
 pected from the removal of this restraint, upon 
 the morals of the people ? It seems to open a 
 door to licentiousness and profligacy. If mar 
 riages can be dissolved and contracted at plea 
 sure, will not every one deliver himself up to the 
 impulse of a lawless appetite ? Would not changes 
 be incessant ? {All chastity of mind, perhaps, 
 would perish : a general corruption of manners 
 would ensue : and this vice would pave the way 
 for the admission of a thousand others, till the 
 whole nation were sunk into a state of the lowest 
 degeneracy." ^> 
 
 " Pray thee," cried the lady, " leave this 
 topic of declamation to the school-bo}s. Liberty, 
 in this respect, would eminently conduce to the 
 happiness of mankind. A partial reformation 
 would be insufficient. Set marriage on a right 
 basis, and the pest that has hitherto made itself 
 an inmate of every house, and ravaged every 
 man s peace, will be exterminated the servitude 
 
306 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 that has debased one half, and the tyranny that 
 has depraved the other half of the human species, 
 will be at an end." 
 
 " And with all those objections to the present 
 regulations on this subject, you will still main 
 tain that you are an advocate of marriage ?" 
 
 " Undoubtedly I retain the term, and am justi 
 fied by common usage in retaining it. No one 
 imagines that the forms which law or custom, in 
 i la particular age or nation, may happen to annex 
 to marriage, are essential to it. If law-givers 
 should enlarge the privilege of divorce, and new 
 modify the rights of property, as they are affected 
 by marriage ; should they ordain that hence 
 forth the husband should vow obedience to the 
 wife, in place of the former vow which the wife 
 made to the husband ; or entirely prohibit pro 
 mises of any kind ; should they expunge from 
 the catalogue of conjugal duties, that which con 
 fines them to the same dwelling; who would 
 ..imagine that the institution itself were subverted ? 
 In the east, conjugal servitude has ever been 
 more absolute than with us; and polygamy le 
 gally established : yet, who will affirm that mar 
 riage is unknown in the east. Every one knows 
 that regulations respecting property, domestic 
 government, and the causes of divorce, are inci- 
 denttothisstate,and do not constitute its essence. 5 
 
THE PARADISE OF WOMEN. 307 
 
 " I shall assent," said I, " to the truth of this 
 statement. Perhaps I may be disposed to ad 
 venture a few steps farther than you. It appears 
 to me, that marriage has no other criterion than 
 custom. This term is descriptive of that mode 
 of sexual intercourse, whatever it may be, which 
 custom or law has established in any country. 
 All the modifications of this intercourse that 
 have ever existed, or can be supposed to exist, 
 are so many species included in the general 
 term. The question that we have been dis 
 cussing is no other than this : What species of 
 marriage is most agreeable to justice or, in 
 other words, what are the principles that ought 
 to regulate the sexual intercourse ? It is not 
 likely that any portion of mankind have reduced 
 these principles to practice. Hence arises a 
 second question of the highest moment What 
 conduct is incumbent upon me, when the spe 
 cies of marriage established among my country 
 men does not conform to my notions of duty ?" 
 
 " That, indeed, " returned she, " is going- 
 farther than I am willing to accompany you. 
 There are many conceivable modes of sexual 
 intercourse, on which I cannot bestow the ap 
 pellation of marriage : there is something* which 
 inseparably belongs to it. It is allowable to 
 call by this name a state which comprehends, 
 
 x 2 
 
308 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 together with these ingredients, any number of 
 appendages. But to call a state which wants 
 these ingredients, marriage, appears to me a 
 perversion of language." 
 
 " I pr ythee," said I, " what are these ingre 
 dients ? You have largely expatiated on the 
 non-esssentials of matrimony : be good enough 
 to say what truly belongs to this state. " 
 
 " Willingly," answered she. " Marriage is 
 an union founded on free and mutual consent. 
 It cannot exist without friendship it cannot 
 exist without personal fidelity. As soon as the 
 union ceases to be spontaneous, it ceases to be 
 just : this is the sum. If I were to talk for 
 months, I could add nothing to the completeness 
 of this definition." 
 
TWO DIALOGUES, 
 
 The first on Music; the second on Painting, 
 as a female accomplishment, or mode of 
 gaining subsistence and fortune* 
 
 DIALOGUE ON MUSIC. 
 
 L. How have I pitied their grovelling taste 
 and perverse sensibility ! How have I lamented 
 their insufferable waste of time and abuse of 
 leisure ! How many sources of true and benefi 
 cial pleasure are forgotten and unthought of, 
 while this passion is fostered ; and how, indeed, 
 inferior was this kind of musical performance to 
 that which I pursued. 
 
 It is thus, you say, that we are enabled to give 
 pleasure to others ; but low, indeed, must be that 
 ambition which is satisfied with pleasing by mere 
 mimicry ; by putting off every distinctive pro 
 perty, every thing that constitutes themselves; 
 by warbling the words of others, and running 
 through unmeaning, unappropriate, unintelli 
 gent notes. 
 
 Every one that has fingers, and a larynx fa- 
 
 * The first of these Dialogues is a fragment : both are un 
 finished ; but they are too characttristic of the author, and 
 too rich in thought, to be lost. 
 
310 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 shioned in a certain manner, is equal to this ac 
 complishment. Neither virtue, nor talents, nor 
 social feelings any power over the genuine hap 
 piness of others, or any will, usefully to exercise 
 that power are required in a musical performer. 
 Ignorance of nature or science, sensuality, ca 
 price, and folly, are all consistent with musical 
 skill. You will say, perhaps, that they are also 
 compatible with genius and goodness, but I 
 doubt it. 
 
 That time requisite to make a skilful per 
 former, duty requires us to employ in a better 
 manner. Genius, unexercised, undisciplined, 
 or wasted on frivolous and momentary purposes, 
 will languish and expire ; and how deficient, in 
 true taste must she be, who knows not, or holds 
 in contempt, every other mode of employing 
 her precious leisure, and every other mode of 
 entertaining her friends. 
 
 When others approach me I am instantly en 
 grossed by tenderness or curiosity. I meditate 
 their features, their gestures, their accents ; lam 
 eager to see them smile, or hear them talk ; to 
 communicate my own feelings or ideas, and to 
 receive theirs in turn . One impulse of the heart, 
 one flash of wit, one ray of intelligence in my 
 self or my companion, I value more than twenty 
 oratorios. 
 
 If my companion be unpleasing or improper, 
 
DIALOGUE ON MUSIC. 311 
 
 in any way, to converse with, yet I find abund 
 ant and profitable occupation in surveying her, 
 in comparing- and inferring from wbat I see or 
 hear: or subjects spring from my own reflection, 
 sufficient to engage my attention. Music may, 
 indeed, be possibly, at some time, necessary to 
 silence the impertinent and please the stupid ; 
 and then, perhaps, I might comply with it as I 
 do with any other debasing and luckless necessity. 
 
 R. This, surely, is arguing with too much 
 rigour. You demand too much from human 
 beings, when you oblige them to forego every 
 pursuit, but the best, and every gratification but 
 the highest. 
 
 L. Surely, my friend, you are in jest. It is 
 highly proper to demand this, since, by the very 
 terms you use, compliance will merely be the 
 adoption of the best pursuit, and the enjoyment 
 of the highest pleasure. I am truly sensible, 
 that music, if it be not the best, is far from being 
 the worst of human pursuits. To spend the 
 day at the harpsichord, is vicious and absurd ; 
 but there are other ways of spending the day, 
 far more vicious and absurd. There are a thou 
 sand books to be read, a thousand reveries to be 
 indulged, a thousand companions to be talked to, 
 a thousand topics of discourse and modes of ac 
 tion more foolish and pernicious than eternal 
 
312 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 thrumming at an instrument. But what is hence 
 is to be inferred ? May I justify an ill action in 
 myself, by reflecting that it is possible to have 
 been worse employed ? Am I to encourage 
 another to pursue an evil path by reminding him 
 of the many paths that are still more evil ? 
 
 No. I ought rather earnestly to search for, 
 and recommend a better path and a better mode 
 of conduct. Few of us are so wise, that our 
 present conduct is not obviously hurtful or ab 
 surd, and might not, with inexpressible advan 
 tage, be changed for a different. Instead of 
 hunting after pleas for indolence and dissipation, 
 and thus still more perverting my taste and weak 
 ening my principles, my best interests demand 
 that I should detect, deplore, and abjure my fol 
 lies and vices, and incessantly labour after higher 
 excellence. 
 
 R. All this is abstractedly true, but I see not 
 any useful application. We are defective crea 
 tures, and should labour to cure our imperfec 
 tions ; but, after all our labour, we shall be de 
 fective still. We must sometimes form a kind 
 of compromise with our vicious habits. If we 
 cannot, and it often happens that we cannot, allure 
 an individual from a dangerous path by the highest 
 good, or prevail on him to give up indolence for 
 the highest and best species of activity, we must 
 
DIALOGUE ON MUSIC. 313 
 
 content ourselves with offering to hischoicealower 
 one. Music is better than lasciviousness or glut 
 tony, and a man will forego the latter for the 
 former, who will not exchange it for poetry or 
 mathematics. To play from morn to night upon 
 a Jew s harp, is better than to loll aw r ay the year 
 upon a sofa, to saunter it away in the street, or 
 chatter it away at a tea-table. 
 
 L. In that I agree with you, but this surely 
 is no vindication of music. 
 
 R. It is not. It is merely an attempt to jus 
 tify the preference of music to a worse pursuit. 
 Your feelings and mine, while looking- at a 
 player on the harp, are curiously contrasted. 
 You are offended and grieved, because you are 
 busy in imagining some possible mode of employ 
 ing the same time better. I am pleased, be 
 cause I exclaim in secret, how much worse, 
 more hurtfully or frivolously might, and pro 
 bably, all circumstances weighed together, 
 would this creature be employed, if she had 
 not been a minstrel. 
 
 But how, let me ask, with your maxims of 
 economy, can you reconcile yourself to so costly 
 an instrument ? 
 
 L. I told you that I did not buy it. Had I 
 not attained it without expense, I should not 
 have been a player, and had I been obliged to 
 
314 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 restore it to my friend, I should have stopped 
 short at a very early stage in my progress. 
 Luckily for me, however, my friend s abode in 
 New York procured her a husband, who, 
 shortly after marriage, carried her to Scotland, 
 her native country. She left many things in my 
 possession, as tokens of her love, pictures, 
 books, and among the rest, her favourite instru 
 ment. My pride remonstrated a little against 
 accepting such a present, but a better motive to 
 reluctance existed than pride. My father s fru 
 gality, if I may call it by the mildest name, 
 would never allow me to retain, merely for the 
 purpose of luxury, or what he deemed such, 
 what would readily bring upwards of an hun 
 dred dollars. I could hardly persuade him to 
 permit me to keep it merely in trust till my 
 friend s return, or till I should receive her di 
 rections to dispose of it. 
 
 R. Methinks I should be glad to hear your 
 performance. Your musical education has been 
 so singular, that 1 want greatly to know the 
 fruits of it. 
 
 L. I am not surprised at your curiosity, but 
 I am afraid, I confess, to admit your claim. I 
 told you what I thought of the influence of such 
 an education, and when I reflect on what ought 
 to be the benefits of this kind of exercise and 
 
DIALOGUE ON MUSIC. 315 
 
 application, during five years, I am ashamed of 
 my slow and imperfect progress. 
 
 R. Do not let that shame, that unworthy 
 shame, govern you. 
 
 L. Unworthy, you justly call it. I cannot 
 deliberately wish to be thought better or worse 
 than I really am. That shall not be an ob 
 stacle. 
 
 R. Then pray make haste, and let me judge 
 of your minstrelsy. 
 
 L. No, that can never be. 
 
 R. Never be ! You alarm me. Why not ? 
 
 L. Have you so soon forgotten my times 
 and occasions? My music, I told you, is an 
 hymn, played alone, at night, and in my cham 
 ber. How then can you expect to be an audi 
 tor? 
 
 R. And will you not, for once, deviate from 
 your rule? Not to gratify a friend, who re 
 quests the privilege, not so much on account of 
 any direct pleasure that will flow from your per 
 formance, as to judge of your skill ? 
 
 L. That, truly, is a plausible argument from 
 you, who have owned yourself without any 
 knowledge, either practical or speculative, of 
 the art, and to me, who have a very con 
 temptuous opinion of my own skill. Indeed, I 
 cannot comply. It is not pride or diffidence 
 that hinders, but a long established belief of 
 
316 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 what is fit and right to be done on such occa 
 sions. 
 
 R. Well, I will not importune you, but, in 
 truth, I can obtain the same end, more effectu 
 ally, without disturbing your regularities. 
 
 L. As how, I pray you ? 
 
 R. By taking post, at midnight, underneath 
 your chamber window. You will then play, 
 without the tremours or misgivings that the 
 conscious presence of a stranger brings along 
 with it. Your inspirations will be free, spon 
 taneous and divine. Your ditty will be heard, 
 more flowing and more sweet, at a little dis 
 tance, and will borrow, from the stillness of the 
 night, charms that noon-day can never bestow. 
 
 L. What a scheme for a Sober-sides like 
 thee ! A votary of love and the muses might 
 adopt such a plan, without the blame of incon 
 sistency, but thou 
 
 R. You mistake, my good friend . The lover 
 and the poet will, indeed, resort to such a scene, 
 but not as listeners. They will bring their pipe 
 or string, their elegy or ode along with them, 
 and lay claim to the homage of attention, but I 
 shall come only with a view to be instructed or 
 delighted by another. I hope you will not dis 
 appoint me, by playing in a lower key, or by 
 shutting your windows, 
 
 L. No. I have declined obliging you imme- 
 
DIALOGUE ON MUSIC. 317 
 
 diately, not through affectation, not through 
 pride or diffidence; and, therefore, shall not be 
 displeased with any scheme for reconciling your 
 wishes with my scruples. But why lose we 
 thus the precious time in prating. Do you not 
 mark the farewel beam trembling on the very 
 topmast leaves of those pines ? Let us move to 
 a higher window, whence the sun s last gleam- 
 ings may be seen. 1 would rather join with 
 you in watching and admiring the descent of a 
 summer s sun, than in settling the dignity and 
 value of a Solo or a Concerto. 
 
 R. I am not quite of your opinion, for 
 L. Nay, I will not stay to argue with you. 
 Don t you see ? the sun will be set, before you 
 have gotten half through your syllogism. Let 
 us begone this moment. 
 
 R. Go, then, I will follow vou. 
 
318 MISCELLANIES, 
 
 DIALOGUE ON PAINTING. 
 
 L. What a scene is there? Are you not in 
 raptures with it ? You shall not be a friend of 
 mine, if you do not see more charms in a scene 
 like this, than in any spell which music can 
 create. 
 
 R. I must be pleased, if that be the condi 
 tion, and yet, if I were not seated just here, if 
 my pleasure were not heightened by sympathy 
 with yours, and by contrast with the noise, sul 
 triness and tiresome monotomy of the city I 
 have lately left, I am afraid my sensations would 
 not rise to transport. 
 
 L. Insensible creature that thou art ! How 
 shall I make thee a votarist of colours ; as much 
 enamoured of the pencil as thou pretendest to be 
 of the chords ? 
 
 R. It is easily done. Only make your good 
 opinion depend upon my taste, and I will in 
 stantly set about acquiring and improving it. 
 
 L. That I cannot do. Your application to 
 painting, such as would make you a proficient, 
 would be far from strengthening your claims to 
 my esteem. 
 
DIALOGUE ON PAINTING. 319 
 
 R. Indeed! How comes it then, that you 
 yourself are so good an artist ? 
 
 L. It was, in a very small part, the conse 
 quence of inclination. I believe, nature design 
 ed me, if any design she had, to be a painter. 
 Of all my senses, I exercised none with so much 
 delight and perseverance as my sight. Impres 
 sions, made through this medium, were stronger, 
 more distinct, more durable, than any other tribe 
 of impressions. I found it easier to retain in 
 my fancy, and to describe in words, the features 
 of a face or landscape, once carefully examined, 
 than any person, whose powers, in that respect, 
 I have had opportunity of knowing. 
 
 I had, likewise, a wonderful dexterity in 
 giving a moral significance to lines and shades, 
 especially in faces. Every one s character was 
 settled with me, when once his face was survey 
 ed. I was led, at the beginning, you may readily 
 imagine, into strange mistakes, but the detection 
 of these did not dishearten me. They merely 
 occasioned a change in the principles on which 
 I judged of characters. 
 
 With all these faculties and habits, it was easy 
 to have made me an enthusiast in painting, at a 
 very early age, but this did not happen. While 
 living with my father, I saw nothing to awaken 
 or direct my wishes in this respect, except now 
 
320 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 and then, a few prints of indifferent merit in the 
 houses of my friends, and these I looked upon? 
 for the most part, with unconcern. 
 
 The materials of the painter, colours, pencils, 
 and the like, the instructions of an artist, time, 
 and tables, were all necessary, and none of these 
 did I enjoy. My father s parsimony, no less 
 than his notions of what was proper and becom 
 ing the female character, denied me all these 
 means ; and, to say the truth, 1 scarcely regret 
 ted the want of them. My pleasure lay in mark 
 ing and analysing the forms of nature, or in 
 depicting imaginary scenes in which these forms, 
 without the pencil s aid, were newly combined 
 and arranged. 
 
 I am inclined to believe, that if these advan 
 tages had been possessed, I should not have 
 employed them. I was too volatile, too covet 
 ous of pleasure and of time, to lose so much of 
 it, in the mixing, and laying on of colours; in 
 copying the works of others, and providing for 
 future excellence, by laborious attention to rudi 
 ments and sketches. 
 
 The hiccory, seen from my summer-house, 
 robed in verdure and luxuriance, was too beau 
 tiful, too deserving contemplation, to be imper 
 fectly portrayed on paper or canvass. I could 
 not have reconciled my impatient spirit to the 
 
DIALOGUE ON PAINTING. 321 
 
 drudgery, and did not then see, what I have 
 since discovered, that the purpose of copying 
 directs, disciplines, gives accuracy and vigour 
 to attention and fancy ; that objects can scarcely 
 be said to have been seen, that have not been 
 examined with a view to imitation. 
 
 Having lost my father, and returned to my 
 aunt Hollis s in England, I had new incitements 
 and new opportunities to make myself a painter. 
 I soon became sensible of my precarious and 
 dependent condition : on how many slight and 
 casual events, my mere subsistence depended. 
 My aunt was not without her virtues. I was, 
 in many ways, serviceable to her happiness ; ways, 
 indeed, of which she herself was unconscious, 
 and which her pride would not permit her to ac 
 knowledge. This belief enabled me cheerfully 
 to bear numerous inconveniences, but it was, 
 by no means, improbable, that events w r ould 
 take place marriage, change of residence or 
 temper, which would make it impossible for me 
 longer to live with her, and, in that case, my sub 
 sistence must be gained by my own exertions. 
 
 I wanted to discover some profession, to which, 
 as a female, young, single, unpropertied, I 
 might betake myself. This was a subject of 
 much reflection. I examined the whole cata 
 logue of trades, and weighed, with much rare, 
 
 Y 
 
322 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 their respective claims to my choice. You 
 will smile at my presumption, when I tell you 
 the profession, for which, for some time, I 
 thought myself best qualified, but the dread of 
 your smile shall not make me conceal it ; espe 
 cially as I never carried my design into effect. 
 
 I had an active fancy. I had ever been a 
 close observer of faces and manners. I was 
 never satisfied with viewing things exactly as 
 they rose before me. I was apt to imagine, in 
 their order, some change, and to ask, what con 
 sequences would ensue if things were so and 
 so, instead of being as they were ? I found 
 little, in my real situation, to gratify or exercise 
 my feelings. My ordinary companions were 
 trite and vulgar characters, with whom I was 
 incapable of sympathy : yet these I loved, if I 
 may so say, to explore : to examine their modes 
 of thinking and acting, and to conjecture in 
 what different shapes they would have appear 
 ed, had they been placed in different circum 
 stances. 
 
 I had, also, an ease in writing, in putting my 
 thoughts into words, in describing characters 
 and incidents, and objects, that few of my age 
 possessed. I knew that the world is pleased 
 with tales of fiction ; that this manufacture was 
 considerably popular ; that a price was set upon 
 
DIALOGUE ON PAINTING. 323 
 
 it, proportioned not merely to quantity and num 
 ber, but to the genius and dexterity displayed 
 by the artist. Why, thought I, may I not pur 
 sue the footsteps of so many of my sex, from 
 Madame Scudery down to Mrs. Bennet, and 
 endeavour to live upon the profits of my story-tel 
 ling pen ? The tools of this art are cheap. The 
 time employed in finishing a piece of work, and 
 the perfection of the workmanship will much de 
 pend upon myself. I am fond of quiet and se 
 clusion. I wish not to be molested by selfish 
 ness, the superintendence, the tyranny of masters 
 and employers. I wish to blend profit and 
 pleasure, health and purity of conscience. I wish 
 to benefit others by the means of profiting my 
 self. I wish for intellectual and moral occupa 
 tion. Can any calling be more favorable to all 
 these ends than the writing of romances ? 
 
 I had always used myself, from a very early 
 age, to set down my thoughts and adventures 
 daily, upon paper. This was a kind of reli 
 gious duty, the omission of which was as in 
 excusable as that of my nightly hymn. To 
 preserve some record of the past, to state my 
 employments during the day, and my progress 
 in useful knowledge, in however few words, I 
 conceived to be iny duty, and this, unless in ex 
 traordinary circumstances, I have never omitted. 
 
324 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 To this practice I ascribe my facility in writing, 
 in painting emotions of the heart, and recounting 
 dialogues, and this I came at length to regard as 
 a kind of education or apprenticeship to the 
 trade which now appeared most deserving to be 
 followed. 
 
 Full of this new scheme, I began to tutor my 
 invention, to settle plans and discipline my 
 taste. I looked about for a model, whose style and 
 manner I might assiduously copy, and began 
 sketches of different works. 
 
 While thus busied, I became acquainted with 
 Mrs. Eckstein, the widow of an artist who came 
 from Saxony, and settled with his wife in Lon 
 don many years before my return thither. This 
 man acquired decent subsistence by portrait 
 miniature-painting. His wife had a genius for 
 the same art, and, under her husband s instruc 
 tions, became no mean proficient. She employed 
 her skill to increase the common fund, first, by 
 occasionally copying her husband s pictures, when 
 copies were required, and, at length, by painting 
 from female originals. 
 
 Gradually, the business was divided between 
 them, and the female faces were constantly trans 
 ferred by Eckstein to his wife. Her skill came 
 into fashion and repute, and the gains of the 
 wife were little inferior to those of her husband 
 
DIALOGUE ON PAINTING. 325 
 
 They had no offspring, and mere domestic avo 
 cations were unsuited to her taste. 
 
 Though their gains were considerable, they 
 lived without much foresight or economy. All 
 they gained during the year, they spent before 
 the end of it, and hence, at Eckstein s death, his 
 wife was left without any means of support bat 
 her profession. 
 
 She possessed much general literature ; of an in 
 dependent though improvident spirit, she had lit 
 tle respect for the ordinary maxims of the world, 
 and of her sex ; and when you had surmounted 
 your punctilios, and reconciled yourself to a few 
 seeming, for they were not real, infractions of 
 decorum, you found her a valuable friend. 
 
 Our acquaintance began after her husband s 
 death, and quickly ripened into confidence and 
 intimacy. I paid her frequent visits at her 
 lodgings ; w^as, of course, prompted to examine 
 her arrangements and performances, and to rea 
 son on the nature of her art. 
 
 Every thing that I saw coincided with my 
 early propensities, and my new schemes for em 
 ployment and subsistence. Here was an ex 
 ample of one who pursued no servile or dis 
 honourable trade, and who, with a little differ 
 ence of character, with more attention to the 
 delicacies of her sex, and with more neatness in 
 
326 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 her household, more economy in her expense, 
 might, in a few years, acquire such opulence as 
 to dispense with daily application. Might not 
 this example deserve to be studied and followed ? 
 
 As soon as my friend discovered my thoughts, 
 she expressed great eagerness to encourage and 
 assist me in my undertaking ; expatiated, with 
 great zeal, on the advantages of her pursuit, 
 offered me the use of her models, her colours and 
 apartments, and even importuned me to take up 
 my abode with her, and form a kind of part 
 nership. 
 
 To this, however, there were obstacles, arising 
 partly from certain dissonances and disparities 
 between our characters and manners, and partly 
 from the temper and views of my aunt, which 
 were not to be surmounted. I was willing, so 
 far, to profit by her offers, as to take, daily, her 
 instructions in the art. For nearly two years I 
 was an assiduous scholar, and my zeal being se 
 conded by inclination and by interest, I made no 
 despicable progress. 
 
 R. Did you confine yourself merely to the 
 face? 
 
 L. Chiefly to the face. I sought for, and la 
 boured after, excellence in no other branch of 
 the art. No object, in the circle of nature, more 
 merits to be looked upon and studied than the 
 
DIALOGUE ON PAINTING. 327 
 
 human countenance, and never is there any dan 
 ger of exhausting its varieties. My observation 
 was thus rendered acute, vivid, and limited to 
 one class of objects, and my source of pleasure 
 was augmented in a degree surprising to myself. 
 
 R. Had you ever any need of lucratively ap 
 plying your skill ? 
 
 L. Never. Fortunately, I have passed my 
 life, hitherto, without the necessity of purchasing 
 my food with my labour. 
 
 R. What use then have you made of your 
 skill ? 
 
 L. Chiefly for my own gratification, and for 
 that of my friend. I was lately counting up the 
 faces, real and imaginary, which I had sketched 
 during three years, and dividing them into classes. 
 What, think you, was the number? 
 
 R. I should be glad to know. 
 
 L. The number is three hundred and four 
 teen, which, on an average, is hardly less than 
 one in three days, but in truth, I applied myself 
 to painting with much regularity. Some por 
 tion of almost every day I bestowed upon it. 
 
 R. But how could you procure subjects for 
 such constant occupation ? 
 
 L. There never could be want of subjects as 
 long as I lived in human society ; while faces 
 met my eye, there were always some among them 
 
328 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 singular and striking, by their novelty and their 
 significance. If real faces were wanting, I tasked 
 my fancy, and, forming a scale, which included 
 every possible modification of features, had al 
 ways a subject for my pencil. 
 
 My pictures were of several kinds. The first 
 were such as were drawn at the request of my 
 friends, and for their use, as tokens or memo 
 rials of affection or respect. 
 
 The second were such as were executed for 
 my own : either those whom I loved, and who 
 sat while I drew, or others whom their charac 
 ters, their adventures, or their countenances 
 rendered anywise remarkable, and whose faces 
 were drawn either from casual inspection or from 
 memory. 
 
 A third kind consisted of imaginary faces. As 
 rny favourite employment always was to feign 
 characters and incidents, I, of course, was prone 
 to create suitable forms and faces, and these fre 
 quently I pencilled with great care. 
 
 I perceive, intuitively, relations between the 
 intellectual character and the outward form. My 
 experience has supplied me with a great number 
 of materials to work with. Having always par 
 ticularly noted faces, being attentive to the de 
 meanour and inquisitive into the history of those 
 to whom they belong, I may, perhaps, rely with 
 
DIALOGUE ON PAINTING. 329 
 
 some degree of confidence on my physiognomical 
 decisions. At any rate, every face makes a 
 strong, and vivid, and distinct impression on my 
 fancy. I can trace the features upon paper, even 
 in its absence, with tolerable fidelity. 
 
 My fancy is wont to exert itself in two ways: 
 first, to conjecture the history and character of 
 those whose faces only have been seen ; and se 
 condly, to conjecture the lineaments and form of 
 one, whose history and character only are known . 
 These processes have afforded me many an in 
 structive, or, if you please, many an amusing 
 hour. Hence, I have amassed a large stock of 
 those images which revisit me in solitude, and 
 give celerity and pleasure to those moments that 
 w r ould otherwise be vacant and wearisomely slow. 
 
 R. And what estimate do you form of the 
 advantages flowing from your application to the 
 pencil ? Was the choice of this profession the 
 best that could have been made ? Was there no 
 other pursuit, in which the same application 
 would not have produced more delightful conse 
 quences ? 
 
 L. These are questions more easy to be put 
 than answered. As a calling, I cannot hesitate 
 to prefer this to any other. I could not make 
 myself lawyer, physician, merchant, or divine. 
 The necessary trades of building, tailoring and 
 
330 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 cooking, were only to be followed through 
 necessity. Music, painting, and needle-work 
 were all that remained, and these were useful to 
 subsistence, either as being practised or taught. 
 
 To teach an art to others, is, without doubt, 
 unspeakably worse than to practise it : more 
 toilsome, more degrading, less favourable to cul 
 tivation of the understanding and the temper, 
 and to liberty, and less gainful. 
 
 Needle-work and pencil-work have some things 
 in common, but their differences are those which 
 subsist between forming a statue with a wooden 
 mallet and a steel chissel, between the sport of 
 an hour and the task of a year. The pencil is 
 alive, active, creative, and a wonder-worker, but 
 the needle is sluggish, inanimate and dead ; the 
 enemy of all zeal, the obstacle to all progress ; 
 the mother and the emblem of plodding and 
 stupid perseverance. I merely speak of the 
 needle, as the tool of fancy, the agent of embel 
 lishment. In all useful works, we cannot over 
 rate its value, or the importance of every female 
 being thoroughly mistress of it. 
 
 Music has its charms : but to gain a living by 
 the practice is to shew ourselves at concerts and 
 the theatres: to forfeit all esteem, and trample 
 upon delicacy, and to set at nought a good name. 
 
 R. But, are music, needle-work and painting, 
 
DIALOGUE ON PAINTING. 331 
 
 the only paths open to ingenious females ? You 
 mentioned, that you first design .d to become an 
 author. Your sex did not exclude you from 
 this. Your education and your genius were re 
 markably adapted to it. The implements and 
 materials were cheap, easy, and to be wrought 
 up with less exposure to the world, less personal 
 exertion, and less infringement of liberty, than 
 in Eckstein s vocation. 
 
 The passion for fame, the fervours of pathetic, 
 or the brilliance of sportive eloquence, the sense 
 of contributing to the benefit and pleasure of re 
 mote nations and distant generations, all invited 
 you to take up the pen, and yet you took up the 
 pencil instead. 
 
 L. I am not unaware of the manifold ad van. 
 tages which a moral fiction has over a portrait. 
 I regret, now that I look back upon the past, 
 that so many hours were not given to books and 
 the pen. My portraits have benefited and de- 
 jighted me, but when I think upon the progress 
 which a different devotion of my time would 
 have enabled me to make, in useful and delightful 
 knowledge, I have no terms to convey the sense, 
 not merely of my folly, but my guilt. How 
 many volumes might I not have read, might I not 
 have written ; how might my knowledge of man 
 and nature, of poetry and science have been en- 
 
332 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 larged, if all those days, and all that zeal, which, 
 during fiveyea^, were absorbed by painting, had 
 been dedicated to the poets, historians and philo 
 sophers ! But, thanks to my wiser years, the in 
 fatuation is now at an end, and the pencil is laid 
 aside for ever. 
 
 R. Forever? Do you mean never to paint 
 again ? 
 
 L. Never : unless upon some very extraor 
 dinary exigence. The truth is, that the end of 
 application the ability to figure to one s self, 
 and to retain, in memory, the features of another, 
 was long ago accomplished. To form a definite 
 image, it is no longer requisite to paint it to 
 recall it to view, it is no longer necessary to 
 turn to my portfeuille. Having not to paint 
 for subsistence, but for pleasure ; and every 
 pleasurable purpose being attained, without the 
 actual use of the pencil, I must lay it aside. 
 
 But, if its aid were as indispensable as ever, I 
 would not use it again. 
 
 R._Why ? 
 
 L. Because my time can be more usefully 
 employed with a book. Formerly, I spent a 
 precious hour stooping over a table, with eyes 
 rivetted to the whitened surface, my reason at a 
 stand, and my fancy fixed upon a single set of 
 features. If permitted to wander, it was only by 
 
DIALOGUE ON PAINTING. 333 
 
 fits, at random, through the maze of vague and 
 discontented recollections; whence my mind 
 returned exercised, but not improved weary 
 and bewildered. 
 
 Now, that hour enables me to traverse a league 
 of this variegated surface to cheer my mind, 
 and strengthen my frame, by passing through 
 a half-score vallies, and ascending a half-score 
 hills. I examine twenty faces, or landscapes, 
 of Nature s forming, whose lines and colours I 
 can never hope to emulate instead of producing 
 one uniform, perishable, and imperfect creature 
 of my own. 
 
 If I choose to betake myself to books what 
 a world is open before rne ! how worthy of mi 
 nute and never-tired contemplation ! How many 
 structures of poets and philosophers may be ex 
 amined in the time mis-devoted to a picture ! 
 what insight may be gained into the mechanism 
 of human society, and the laws of human action, 
 by pursuing the vicissitudes of individuals, or of 
 nations, from their hour of birth to their hour 
 of extinction. 
 
 I once, while living with a friend in Hamp 
 shire, employed three hours one morning, in 
 copying a head of Raphael : having tired my 
 fingers at this work, I went into a closet where 
 
334 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 there were a few books, and thought to amuse 
 myself with whatever chance should offer. 
 
 I lighted on Dryden s Virgil, and opened at 
 the fourth book of the .ZEneid. I read it through 
 in about an hour ; and was so much pleased, 
 and so conscious of the many things unobserved, 
 or unreflected on, at the first perusal, that I im 
 mediately began again : I went through it, and 
 could not resist the inclination to begin it a 
 third time. 
 
 It was a favourable moment : my mind was 
 active, and my attention vigorous. It is impos 
 sible to describe the number and vividness of 
 my conceptions my new views of composition, 
 morality, and manners, and government, all ra 
 pidly flowing from this source. My enthusiasm 
 prompted me to read aloud : and not my intel 
 lectual powers merely, but my physical and vocal 
 powers my eye and my ear were beneficially 
 exercised. The incidents, images, phrases, and 
 epithets, impressed themselves with remarkable 
 force upon my memory. There are few of the 
 lines contained in this book, which have not, 
 many times, casually, or, in consequence of ef 
 forts to recall them, been repeated. The plea 
 sures and benefits flowing from the employment 
 of these three hours, are, indeed, endless in va- 
 
DIALOGUE ON PAINTING. 335 
 
 riety and number; and they form a sort of 
 bright spot in the scene of my past existence, 
 on which I meditate with a nameless kind of 
 satisfaction. 
 
 On a similar occasion, afterwards, I opened, 
 accidentally, Robertson s Scottish History, and 
 read for three hours. During this time, I had 
 deliberately perused the whole story of Mary s 
 sufferings, from her flight across the Tweed till 
 her death. 
 
 I cannot describe the effect of this narrative 
 upon my mind : it deeply affected me. I wept 
 plentifully ; and yet my emotions were not pain 
 ful : they were solemn, ecstatic, and divine. 
 The sudden influx of new ideas seemed like an 
 addition to my mental substance. I began to 
 live a new existence ; and was sensible of facul 
 ties for virtue and happiness, of which before I 
 had not had a glimpse. 
 
 How often have I since compared the occupa 
 tion of these hours, with those consigned to 
 painting, and regretted that I did not sooner 
 awaken from my dream ! 
 
 Then, however, these delights had no other 
 effect than to make me attempt to draw, merely 
 from fancy, first, a portrait of Dido, and then one 
 of Mary. I afterwards met with a fine portrait of 
 
336 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 the mother-queen, at Holyrood-house ; and with 
 a bust of the infelix Eliza , in a gallery at Naples. 
 The emotions with which I contemplated these 
 pieces, were wholly owing to my knowledge of 
 their history ; and were so different from any 
 which my own performances had given, that I 
 w r onder at my still adhering to the pencil. 
 
 Now, instead of delineating the eyes, nose and 
 lips of him or her whose adventures I have just 
 read or heard, I put down all my reflections on 
 the story upon paper, and where I formerly 
 sketched the face of another, I now exhibit rny 
 thoughts, enlightened, methodized, and extended 
 by the very act of putting them into words. 
 
 R. But here, I make the same remark which 
 I formerly made as to your music. The mind 
 necessarily demands relief from variety and 
 change. Why may not painting and music be 
 admitted to diversify the scene, at intervals, how 
 ever rare and brief? 
 
 L. I have no intervals to spare. I find no 
 satiety, no decay of curiosity, no langour of 
 spirits, except from the intermission of my fa 
 vourite employments. I do not spend my whole 
 time in writing or reading, or in lonely musing. 
 I have personal and household occupations to at 
 tend to. I have visits to pay and to receive ; 
 
DIALOGUE ON PAINTING. 337 
 
 conversations to sustain, and rambles to take. 
 My present and absent friends lay claim to some 
 of my time, and I practise, I assure you, not a 
 slight degree of self-denial, in withholding 
 myself from the pen and the book as much as 
 I do. 
 
 THE END. 
 
 LONDON : 
 PRINTED BY J. GREEN, LEICESTER STREET. 
 
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