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BEAZLY,OF BEASLEY, Dr. This gentleman wrote a large handsome octavo, some three years ago, to prove, among others matters--firstly, that one John Locke was in his right mind, when he made his book---about--if we are not mistaken---the Human Understanding; secondly, that all our Scotch metaphysicians (Brown, perhaps, excepted) had miserably mistaken the said John Locke; misquoted him shamefully; and misrepresented him like the very -we won't say what---as Dr. B., if our recollection serves, is a clergyman of what is called the "Church of England"* in America; and is, or was, a Professor (perhaps of ethicks), or one of the government, at Princeton College, New Jersey, to boot--where, if Salmagundi may be trusted, "all the Professors wear boots :" and, thirdly, that some of the best authenticated apparitions and ghosts, that have ever been heard of---are---probably---mere humbugs; while others are only delusions; and the rest very true---to a certain extent-in a certain way. Nor is this all. Surprising as the work may appear so far, the best part of the story is to come. The book is a very clever book, done up in good style; and Mr. B. or Dr. B. does prove-firstly-that John Locke was in his right mind-in times and places when and where, to tell the plain truth, (for which we take no little credit,by the way,to ourselves) We had often had our doubts; and, moreover, that he, the said John Locke, knew very well what he was driving at, many a time and oft, when-we did not, while studying him, (although, to come up to the scratch manfully, we confess, that we never spoke of the matter at the time, lest it might, one day or other, turn out, as it has in more than one case, that John Locke was right, and ourself wrong, after all; he surprisingly clear, and ourself a blockhead-pass that, if you please, to our credit). Well, having proved this firstly, (to our satisfaction,and surprise of course,) he goes on to prove,second

ly, and what is more, does prove, secondly, some droll blunders, to be sure, upon our chief metaphysicians---our high priesthood; some of which are only to be accounted for,---charitably or decently,--by supposing that our said chief metaphysicians had never seen "Locke on the Human Understanding;" quoted from some other book, by mistake --which had been so lettered by mistake; or copied from one another, what had been hastily written down, by somebody, from recollection,---and put a wrong name to it; and, thirdly, Dr. B. does prove, not only as much as he undertook to prove respecting apparitions, &c. &c.---but (after the fashion of his countrymen, who do everything so thoroughly) rather more. It reminded us of Dr. Hayden; who proved the universal deluge, and the Bible, at the same time, from the water-rolled pebbles on one side of a brook (Jones's Falls) in America; of Ira Hill, who proves that there was a universal deluge-in Europe,---because all North America arose instantaneously out of the water; and that all North America arose instantaneously out of the water, because there was a universal deluge in Europe, and because there is no other way of accounting for it ;---and of Paul Allen, (all three native born Yankees) who,while attacking slavery, went rather out of his way to prove, that the Africans were nothing more nor less," according to the received opinion," than the children of Canaan, whom the Almighty, by the mouth of Noah, doomed forever to slavery[Gen. ix. 25.] saying, "Cursed be Canaan. A servant of servants shall he be to his brethren."

BIGELOW.-A Yankee: formerly editor of a magazine,or journal, inNew York---now,nobody knows where: one of those rolling-stones that gather no moss,which are so common in America. He was a bold,saucy,unprincipled writer; and was the first of those who ventured,headforemost, at Byron. Mr. B. began with Lord B.'s "Lament of

* EPISCOPAL CHURCH.--It is not a little remarkable, but we are assured (and believe it) from good authority---that this Church, without any privilege or patronage, in any way, (except what is private,) is now increasing faster than any other in America. We know, that, in a wordly point of view, it is always more respectable there.

Tasso, or Prophecy of Dante ;" wrote a furious, blackguard, clever article, to prove that Lord Byron left out his rhymes. He gave examples, which proved-either that Byron was writing blank verse at the time; or that he, the critic, had mistaken a stanza for a couplet--we forget which.

BOLMAN Dr. a pamphleteer: wrote, very sensibly, upon many questions of importance; and somewhat about a metallic currency,and the precious metals, at a time (during the late war, in America) when there were no precious metals in the country (out of Massachusetts, and that neighbourhood) not enough silver and gold, if they could have been diluted to the consistence of moonshine, to wash over a thousandth part of the scoundrel trash that was in circulation, for money of course,there was a fine opportunity for speculation, hypothesis, and theory, among the newspaper-people,and pamphleteers concerning a substitute for money. Dr B. did some good, nevertheless: and one or two of his pamphlets would be worth looking into, now; and that, as we take it, is no common praise for any pamphlet or political squib, some ten or a dozen years after it has burnt

out.

BROWN, CHARLES BROCKDEN.-This was a good fellow; a sound, hearty specimen of Trans-Atlantic stuff.Brown was an Amenèan to the back bone-without knowing it. He was a novelist; an imitator of Godwin, whose Caleb Williams made him. He had no poetry; no pathos; no wit; no humour; no pleasantry; no playfulness; no passion; little or no eloquence; no imagination---and, except where panthers were concerned, a most penurious and bony invention-meagre as death,--and yet---lacking all these natural powers---and working away, in a style with nothing remarkable in it--except a sort of absolute sincerity, like that of a man, who is altogether in earnest, and believes every word of his own story---he was able to secure the attention of extraordinary men,as other people (who write better) would that of children to impress his pictures upon the human heart, with such unexampled vivacity, that no time can

obliterate them: and, withal, to fasten himself, with such tremendous power, upon a common incident, as to hold the spectator breathless.

---as

His language was downright prose ---the natural diction of the man himself-earnest--full of substantial good sense, clearness, and simplicity ;---very sober and very plain, so as to leave only the meaning upon the mind. Nobody ever remembered the words of Charles Brockden Brown; nobody ever thought of the arrangement; yet nobody ever forgot what they conveyed. You feel, after he has described a thing--and you have just been poring over the description, not as if you had been reading about it; but as if you, yourself, had seen it; or, at least,-if you had just parted with a man who had seen it--a man, whose word had never been doubted; and who had been telling you of it--with his face flushed. He wrote in this peculiar style, not from choice; not because he understood the value or beauty of it, when seriously or wisely employed--but from necessity. He wrote after his peculiar fashion, because he was unable to write otherwise. There was no self-denial in it; no strong judgment; no sense of propriety; no perception of what is the true source of dramatic power (distinctness-vividness.) While hunting for a subject, he had the good luck to stumble upon one or two (having had the good luck before, to have the yellow fever) that suited his turn of expression, while he was imbued, heart and soul, with Godwin's thoughtful and exploring manner: and these one or two, he wore to death. The very incidents, which were often common-place, are tossed up, over and over again-with a tiresome circumstantiality, when he is not upon these particular subjects. He discovered, at last perhaps, as many wiser men have done-when there was no use in the discovery-that it is much easier to suit the subject to the style, than the style to the subject ;—no easy matter to change your language, or cast off your identity-your individuality-but 'mighty easy,' as a Virginian would say, to change your theme.

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BROWN was one of the only three or

four professional authors, that America has ever produced. He was the first. He began, as all do, by writing for the newspapers-where that splendour of diction, for which the Southern Americans are so famous-is always in blast: He was thought little or nothing of, by his countrymen; rose, gradnally, from the newspapers to the magazines, and circulating libraries; lived miserably poor; and died, as he lived, miserably poor; and went into his grave with a broken heart.

He was born in Philadelphia; lived in Philadelphia-or-as his countrymen would say, with more propriety, "put up" (as he did with every thing-literal starvation-and a bad neighbourhood, in the dirtiest and least respectable part of the town)-"tarried" lingered in Philadelphia; and had the good luck-God help him--to die in Philadelphia, while it was the "Athens of America'-the capital city, in truth, of the whole United States.

He was there, during the yellow fever of 1798-(Hence the terrible reality of his descriptions, in Arthur Mervyn, and Ormond)-a pestilence, that, like the plague of London, turned a city into a solitude-a place of sepulture-till the grass grew in the streets.

-He had no means of escape-he had a large family-a wife (to whom he was greatly indebted for the accomplishment of his works-a very superior and interesting woman) and several children-daughters.-Yet-yet -he had no means of escape. The fever raged with especial malignity in his neighbourhood-he, himself, and several of his family, were taken down,

with it--but whither were they to fly? how?-in dead carts, with a yellow flag steaming over them-to the hos pitals, where the 'detestable matter,' of which he speaks, was accumulating by cartloads. No, it was better to die at home-with his own family-dissolve in his own house, at least ;-and keep out everything-even to the very sunshine and air of heaven, both of which were smoking with pestilenceby barring the windows-securing the doors and making the whole house dark.

He lived in Eleventh Street'-(we mention this for the information of his townsmen-not one in a thousand of whom know it: of his countrymen— not one in a million of whom, out of Athens, ever would know it, but for us)-between walnut' and 'chesnut' -on the eastern side-in a low, dirty, two-story brick house; standing a little in from the street-with never a tree nor a shrub near it-lately in the occupation of-or, as a Yankee would say, improved" by, an actor-man, whose name was Darley.

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* A few facts will show what is reckoned munificent patronage' in America. Two hundred dollars (about 451, )---payable partly, or wholly, in books---the best of paper money by the way---are now, even to this hour, considered a good price, for a good novel, in two American volumes, (which make from three, to four, here.) When R. Walsh, Jr. Esquire, was the Jupiter of the American Olympus, (having been puffed in the Edinboro', for some blackguard thunder and lightning about Napoleon, whose character neither party ever understood,) he was employed by a confederacy of publishers, to edit a Quarterly Journal. They paid nothing to contributors, of whom Walsh made continual use---spared no trouble ---stuck at nothing, in the experiment ;---paid him fifteen hundred dollars (3407.) a-number ---and failed---of course. Allan was to have had 3000 dollars (6801.) for the Am.Revolution ---but he never wrote a word of it. Neal and Watkins wrote it. Allan got nothing; Watkins the same: Neal, 1000 dollars, in promises--which produced some 3 or 400 dolis. (75.) --It is in two vols. 8vo. Breckenridge got 500 dollars (1107.) cash, for the copyright of his American War: Neal 200 dollars (451.) cash, for the copyright of Keep Cool, a small novel, two vols, his first literary essay.---Cooper published the Spy on his own account. It has produced about six hundred pounds-- in every way, to him: but would not have sold for fifty in MS. Think of that---when Mr. Irving gets fifteen hundred pounds---for the second edition of some tolerable stories, which altogether, would not make one volume of a Yankee novel.

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paper (even for that country)—a first volume of one or two of his works the second volume following, at an interval-perhaps of years-the second edition never never, even to this hour. -Yet will these people talk of their native literature.

There has never been; or, as the Quarterly would have it-there has not ever been, any second edition, of any thing that Brown ever wrote-in America, we mean. We say this, with some positiveness (notwithstanding the most unprofitable uproar lately made about him there, for which we shall give the reasons, before we have done with Brother Jonathan-cut where it may-hit or miss)-because we know, that, very lately, it was impossible to find, even in the circulating libraries of his native city (Philadelphia) any complete edition of his works:-Because we know, that, when they are found, any where (in America) they are odd volumes-of the same edition, so far as we can judge-printed all of a heap'— 6 or samples of some English edition :-Because a young Maryland lawyer told ourself, not long ago, that he had been offered an armful of Brown's novels-(by a relation of Brown's family)-which were lying about in a garret, and had been lying about, in the same place, the Lord knows how long-if he would carry them away-or, as he said, 'tote 'em off, ye see.' But being a shrewd young fellow-not easily 'cotch;' having heard about an executor de son tort, for meddling with a dead man's goods and suspecting some trick (like the people, to whom crowns were of fered, on a wager, at sixpence a-piece,) he cocked his eye-pulled his hat over one ear-screwed up his mouth, and walked off, whistling 'Taint the truck for trowsers, tho’—

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

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

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

It was one thing to make a noise; another to pay money. His countrymen had kicked up a dust, about his grave-talked of the " star-spangled banner"-and what more would ye expect of his countrymen? The whole community were up in arms-people were ready to go a pilgrimage to his birth-place-if there were no toll to pay-but not one in a million can tell, to this hour-where he was bornwhere he lived-where he died—or

what he has written. They had ransacked the circulating libraries, anew; looked into such of his novels, as they could find, most of them for the first time, and the "balance," for the last time; dried out the grease-righted the leaves-wrote over the margins dog-eared what was agreeable-hurried through a part-skipped the rest smuttied their fingers-paid a 'fippenny bit' a head-and what more would you have?

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

Brown wrote Arthur Mervyn; Edgar Huntly; Clara Howard; Wieland; Jane Talbot; Ormond; and some papers, which have since been collected and called the Bibloquist.

Clara Howard and Jane Talbot are mere newspaper novels; sleepy, dull common-sense---very absolute prose-nothing more.

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

under strong temptation, to his own use. -Let us pass on.

Edgar Huntly was the second essay -Ormond, the last. About Wieland we are not very certain. These three are unfinished, irregular, surprising affairs. All are remarkable for vividness, circumstantiality, and startling disclosures, here and there: yet all are full of perplexity, incolierence, and contradiction. Sometimes, you are ready to believe that Brown had made up the whole stories, in his own mind, before he had put his pen to the paper; at others, you would swear that he had either never seen, or forgotten, the beginning, before he came to the end, of his own story. You never know, for example, in Edgar Huntly, whether -an Irishman, whose name we forget--a principal character, is or is not, a murderer. Brown, himself, seems never to have made up his own mind on that point. So---in Wieland---you never know whether Brown is,or is not in earnest; whether Wieland was, or was not, supernaturally made away with.

So---in Ormond---who was the secret witness?-to what purpose ?...-What a miserable catastrophe it isQuite enough to make anybody sick of puling explanations. Now,all this mystery is well enough,when you understand the author's intention. Byron leaves a broken chain--for us to guess by when his Corsair is gone. We see that he scorns to explain. Byron is mysterious---Brown only perplexing. Why? Because Brown undertakes to explain; and fails. Brown might have refused as Byron did. We should have liked him, if he had, all the better for it; as we do Byron. But we shall never forgive him, or any other man, dead or alive, who skulks out of any undertaking with an air---as if not he, but other people are to be pitied. have our eye on a case, in point; but,

no matter now.

We

Brown wanted material. What little he found, tho' it had all the tenuity of pure gold, he drew out, by one contrivance and another, till it disappeared in his own hands. So long as it would bear its own weight, he would never let go of it; and, when it broke...--he

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