The main incidents in the life of an author, almost always, are the conception and birth of his books, and their progress in the world. It is in these, therefore, that we are to look for his character, and for the sum of his life. It was, at least, the fortune of Brown to make no very decided and abiding impression on those about him, aside from that which was left on their minds by his writings. We are told, indeed, that he was of a gentle nature; that his manners were, in general, pleasing; that he conversed with ease and effect, and that he was at one time rather skeptical in matters pertaining to religious faith. To the many, he appeared to be only a man much given to reveries and moods of abstraction; and perhaps his absent manner sometimes so unconsciously possessed him, when in society, as to call forth a smile on the countenances of some of the less polite and less intelligent of the circle in which he moved. But all these little incidents, that go to make up an extended biography, after all concern us but little. It is not in circumstances like these, that the real man is exhibited.

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ture, to which these two have attained. The author of "Wieland" was only a youth-bis life never passed that limit. Schiller, and Byron, and Shelley, are all said to have died young; but their youth was manhood compared with his. In years, to be sure, there was not this difference--but youth knows no exact boundary of time. And he lived, too, burdened with an almost constant melancholy and gloom, which he never could wholly overcome, and under the thraldom of which, none of the security and peace, essential to the highest achievements, could ever be his. But for physical inabilities, he might, doubtless, have risen above his mental infirmities, and accomplished results of which he has now left behind only some faint promise; but he was himself destined to be overcome, and he perished in the midst of the conflict.

True genius, we are confirmed, never blazes forth at once with its noonday splendor. Chatterton, indeed, may have written remarkable verses at sixteen, and Pope may have lisped in numbers; but of this we are sure, neither Shakspeare nor Milton, neither Goethe nor Schiller, achiev

any correct knowledge, or to form any true judgment.

The first work which finds its way into the world, from the pen of whatsoever writer, has probably within it some true tokens of the power in which it originates. The best qualities of such a mind may indeed be altogether concealed. Its defects may here assume their worst form. The work itself is by no means the measure of what this mind may hereafter create. But a book earnestly written, deliberately put into the hands of a publisher, and willingly exposed in the literary shambles, may be esteemed a rare book indeed, if it contains no certain intimations of the quality of the mind from whence it proceeds.

vere process of culture. Re-modellings of Titus Andronicus, hard struggles with the Two Gentlemen of Verona, and anxious pains with Venus and Adonis, must inevitably precede Hamlet and the Tempest. Lycidas, and Comus, and Samson, must appear, as premonitions and exercises of a strength, which only years of wrestling with "evil tongues and evil times” could nurture up for the realization of Paradise Lost. Wallenstein and the Robbers seem scarcely to be products of the same mind; and that Wilhelm Meister was written by the author of the Sorrows of Werter, seems to require some credulity to believe. Yes, the evolution of genius demands a vehement and long-protracted struggle. None can be developed without it, and the more powerful, the greater the throe of parturition.

Many persons, doubtless, will question whether the species of writing, in which Brown was engaged, was of a character that would tend very much to the promotion of the culture he above all things needed. This suspicion is not without its good reason.

Of two such novels as

"Ormond" and "Edgar Huntley," both written in one year, the last, perhaps, considerably worse than its predecessor, and each inferior to the first of all, we should certainly expect little in the way of improving style or the faculty of invention. If these were all the particulars in which culture is necessary, or in respect to which we find the chief necessity, we should have no hope from such a discipline. But we regard the matter far otherwise. The culture we mean is necessarily a hidden work-different in different individuals, and in all indescribable, yet attainable only by means of constant exertion, vigorous action of the mind, in one direction or another. The first question to raise is, evidently, whether there are any true marks of genius in these works already put forth-plain tokens of the presence of a superior energy, that has not yet worked itself clear of the gross impediments and earthly mixtures that surround it. If such a power is detected, then the constant and vehement action which we observe, however it may at first appear to us, is doing a good work, in a manner undefinable and imprescriptible, and moving towards results which we can but imperfectly calculate.

The plot of "Wieland" is not very complicated. The predominant passion is religious enthusiasm. The interest of the narrative is kept up by a constant appeal to the aid of mystery and wonder, rather than by the relation of thrilling adventures, or by impressive and dazzling description. Love, indeed, has a considerable place, but only a subordinate one.

The scene is laid on the banks of the Schuylkill, at only a little distance from Philadelphia. The time is the middle of the last century. The grandfather of Wieland was descended from an ancient and noble family of Germany, but marrying the daughter of a merchant, he and his offspring were degraded from their rank, and cut off from their inheritance. Wieland's father was apprenticed to a trader in London, and served out his full time. Through the want of books and society, he became a man of melancholy and morose meditation. Accidentally meeting with a work containing a full atcount of the history and doctrines of a certain fanatical sect, (the Camissards,) he at length became deeply interested in its perusal;

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made it a subject of intense study; and became, in the end, a thorough convert. His religion prompted him to become a missionary among the Indians of our own country. He made a feeble and ineffectual attempt to impart his extravagant notions to the savages along the banks of the Ohio; but soon settled on a farm in the situation already indicated as the scene of the story.

Here he married; bought slaves; became wealthy. But in all his pursuits, his peculiar religious notions never left him. He builds a curious chapel, on a height above the river, to which, at noon and at midnight, he constantly repairs, to pay his devotions. Here, at last, at the usual time of his nightly visitation, he is found senseless, with his clothes consumed from his body, and a mysterious cloud of fire overhanging him. He lingers on in the acutest suffering, and dies a horrible death. He had already foretold a terrible retribution for some unperformed duty. His wife soon followed him, overborne by the shock which this astounding and unaccountable occurrence gave to her sensitive mind. Two orphan children are left in possession of their estate, and dependent on the fostering care of a maiden aunt residing in the city. One is the Wieland of our tale, the other is Clara, the narrator. One of the friends of their childhood was Catharine Pleyel, to whom, subsequently, without any very romantic love-making, the former is married. Wieland occupies the paternal mansion, and Clara, from a certain pride of housekeeping, builds a dwelling nearly a mile distant, and settles down with only the immediate society of a female servant.

Wieland inherits the gloomy religious nature of his father. No pains had been taken to impress his mind with precise and rational opinions respecting divine things. His mother was a simple Moravian, devout in her way, but equally careless with her husband about instilling her own peculiar views into the minds of her children. "Our education," says Clara, "had been modelled by no religious standard. We were left to the guidance of our own understanding, and the casual impressions which society might make upon us." At first thought, such a neglect in the religious training of his own children, on the part of one who had been so anxious to convert

a considerable portion of the heathen world, may seem unnatural. A second thought, however, will assure one who knows a little of the ways of this world, that nothing is more common than inconsistencies of this very kind. There are men, who delight to please everybody, and to labor for the improvement of every community-but their own family and their own neighborhood. God seems to require of them some magnificent sacrifice, some heroic endeavor--anywhere but at their own fireside, and in the midst of the circumstances in which fortune has placed them. Wieland inherited violent religious passions. This element of his character, thus unnaturally predominant at the outset, and neglected by the hand of sober and persevering discipline, came at last to overshadow the whole of his being, and to involve himself and the innocent ones about him in hideous ruin.

Not long after, Henry Pleyel, brother of the wife of Wieland, was added to their society, after having spent some years in Europe. His views were skeptical, yet his nature was kindly, his intellect of a high order, and in his fondness for music and poetry, he fully sympathized with each member of the circle into which

he was now come. The action of his peculiar views upon Wieland, and the reaction of the faith of the latter against his skeptical arguments and incredulous pleasantries, may doubtless be understood as contributing their share towards the consummation of that fatal growth in which Wieland's superstitious feelings were rapidly progressing. The four spent many hours of gaiety and pastime at the " temple" where the elder Wieland came to so mysterious an end, and which had been refitted into a beautiful summer retreat. This was especially the favorite resort for musical diversion, sometimes for the reading of favorite authors, occasionally for a banquet. Thus were passed six years of uninterrupted happiness.

But a different season was approaching. One evening, a letter of a certain acquaintance, who was travelling in the Southern States, had been the occasion of some slight controversy between Pleyel and his friend. This letter had been received while all were in the "temple," and was accidentally left behind, on returning to

the house. In order to settle the dispute, Wieland went for the letter. The scene that followed we shall give in the author's own words. The passage is as good a specimen as we could select, for exhibiting the main characteristics of the author's manner.

"In a few minutes he returned. I was somewhat interested in the dispute, and was therefore impatient for his return; yet, as I heard him ascending the stairs, I could not but remark, that he had executed his intention with remarkable dispatch. My eyes were fixed upon him on his entrance. Methought he brought with him looks considerably different from those with which he departed. Wonder, and a slight portion of anxiety, were mingled in them. His eyes seemed to be in search of some object. They passed quickly from one person to another, till they rested on his wife. She was seated in careless attitude on the sofa, in the same spot as before. She had the muslin in her hand, by which her attention was chiefly engrossed.

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The moment he saw her, his perplexity visibly increased. He quietly seated himself, and fixing his eyes on the floor, appeared to be absorbed in meditation. These singularities suspended the inquiry which I was preparing to make respecting the letter. In a short time, the company relinquished the subject which engaged them, and directed their attention to Wieland. They thought that he only waited for a pause in the discourse, to produce the letter. The pause was uninterrupted by him. At length Pleyel said, Well, I suppose you have found the letter.'

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"No,' said he without any abatement of his gravity, and looking steadfastly at his wife, I did not mount the hill.' 'Why not?'-' Catharine, have you not moved from that spot since I left the room ?'-She was affected with the solemnity of his manner, and laying down her work, answered in a tone of surprise, ‘No. Why do you ask that question ?'-His eyes were again fixed upon the floor, and he did not immediately answer. At length, he said, looking round upon us, 'Is it true that Catharine did not follow me to the hill? That she did not just now enter the room?' We assured him, with one voice, that she had not been absent for a moment, and inquired into the motive of his questions.

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Your assurances,' said he, 'are solemn and unanimous; and yet I must deny credit to your assertions, or disbelieve the testimony of my senses, which informed me, when I was half way up the hill, that Catharine was at the bottom.

"We were confounded at this declaration. Pleyel rallied him with great levity on his behavior. He listened to his friend with calmness, but without any relaxation of features.