His with individuals and classes of men. intercourse with society was, undoubtedly, mainly confined within the limits of a particular circle, in his native city. In his last years, however, he saw more of men in different regions, and became more familiar with their various customs and peculiarities. But a profound knowledge of man by no means requires a great latitude of observation-certainly does not depend on it alone. We find in the novels of our author but few practical remarks on men and manners; yet when such do occur, they are usually just and felicitous. His chief power lay in tracing out from the deep, hidden springs of the human soul-from the region of motives, and impulses, and purposes-a connected and consistent series of actions and events moving on to momentous issues. The circumstances in which a mind like Wieland's is made to spring up and come to maturity, are as adequate as we are able to conceive. In the first place, it is evident that from no quarter of the world could such a mind originate so naturally as from Germany. And then to trace his origin to a family of high and noble blood, and to an individual of ardent poetical temperament, whose love had wrought his temporal ruin, was equally suitable and appropriate. But above all, the morose and solitary habits of his father, his deep fanaticism, and his mysterious and terrible end, have a fit relation to the singular being, who was to bring such overwhelming calamities on those who were embosomed in tranquillity, and plenty, and social happiness. The mother of Wieland ought of necessity to be a disciple of Count Zinzendorf. Clara inherited the qualities of the maternal side, with only the better traits of the Wielands. Her brother gathered up in his nature all the leading characteristics of his paternal ancestors, with only a modifying tinge from the religion of his mother. So far, all is perfectly natural, and the conception truly just. The gradual progress of Wieland's mind into that extraordinary state, which constitutes the most impressive feature of the whole story, is admirably portrayed, and the means by which it is effected are, in our opinion, every way unexceptionable. The mysterious and dreadful death of the father could not but have a large place in the memory and imagination of one who was just old enough, at the time of its occurrence, to understand all its realities, and yet just enough a child to mingle with his knowledge of the facts every wild and wonderful conception. That violent end is, to the last, a mystery unexplained. It should be so. The novelist had a right to make this demand upon our credulity, and the necessities of his story compelled him to do it. Any attempt at an explanation of this occurrence would have appeared feeble at the close of such exciting scenes as those which follow, and to have preceded them would entirely defeat the purpose for which it was introduced. Yet this was an event equally known to Clara-one which she had equally witnessed at an age susceptible of all the strange emotions which it would be likely to excite in the mind of her brother. It was an incident well known to all the other characters of the tale. That strange calamity was, indeed, an adequate cause for marvel and even for awe; and this was the full extent to which it influenced the mind of any but Wieland. The voices subsequently heard, too, were accounted for by all the rest, in any other way than as being supernatural. To Wieland, unimportant as in reality they were, they afforded sufficient food for the nurturing and maturing of his frenzy. Once completely involved in these toils, every movement, however trivial, and every attempt at extrication, only binds and entangles him the more. Pleyel is brought under the same external influences-he wonders, and knows not how to satisfy his judgment. He credits a mysterious announcement of what he was already confident must be true, yet he wisely suspends his judgment of the character of that announcement, until some further grounds of decision are afforded. Wieland makes up his mind at once, while everything is vague and uncertain, according to the promptings of a judgment already disturbed with passion. Clara hears mysterious voices in her closet-and she is frightened. Wieland hears, or fancies that he hears, (for the author leaves us to infer that this is mere fancy, and that the mind of the bewildered man has now arrived at that state in which internal and external impulses are easily confounded,) a voice demanding of him the sacrifice of his wife, as a proof of his disinterested piety -and he obeys! task, will afford a tolerably sure test of his powers. It cannot be too firmly settled in every Carwin is a character in whom we at mind, that there is a Providence which first feel much interest; for we do indeed overrules all events; that crime has its expect to find in him the key to all these own terrible and inevitable consequences; mysteries. Yet it is hardly possible that that the error and folly which lead to the the reader should ever suppose him to same results as crime are equally fatal in have been introduced as the immediate their outward effects, and render men cause of any supernatural phenomena. equally responsible for those effects. MurWe have already begun to suspect that the der committed in a drunken frolic is not incidents which produce so great an effect excusable; the strangling and robbery upon Wieland, and so little upon all the which the Thug believes it to be his posirest, have some degree of mysteriousness, tive duty to perform, and for the omission indeed, but no very great actual impor- of which he dreads a terrible retribution, tance. For we see very plainly that we render him as amenable to justice as the are conversing with real men and women same deeds would any other criminal; and of this world, and that we are not intro- the infanticide religiously perpetrated on duced to the island of Prospero; that in the banks of the Ganges is no less heinous such an every-day state of things as has because induced by the religious passion. been all along described, no reasonable No action is performed without some moauthor could introduce an order of events tive. Even the madman has an irrational depending on unheard-of laws, and on un- motive. Coleridge has taken rather a sinnatural agencies. No sane writer of fic-gular position, in one of his works, where tion would be very likely to introduce a he descants Caliban into the family of an ordinary country gentleman like Squire Western, or a Mephistopheles among the quiet and simple inhabitants of "sweet Auburn." Yet, though no reader could justly form any expectation of finding in Carwin a character that should be the author of supernatural events, in a manner strictly accordant with his own nature, we have no doubt that a majority of readers feel more dissatisfaction with the author's development of this personage than with anything else in the tale. This was the most critical part of the whole writing.* The manner in which the author extricates himself from this difficulty, and acquits himself of this * It has not escaped our notice that the author (in his Advertisement) speaks of Carwin as the "principal person." This may seem a conclusive testimony against our opinion of the purpose which this character was intended to serve. But we must be allowed to doubt that the author means anything more by these words than we have already admitted. It is indeed the character on which the whole, in a certain way, depends, and the one which unquestionably gave the author most pains and perplexity in unfolding. So, also, he speaks of the narrative being told "by the lady whose story it contains"-although no one will pretend that the work is very much like an autobiography. Both these expressions seem to be used in rather a loose manner, to avoid the repetition of names, and not for the sake of explaining a story which is not yet told. 66 upon a self-determined will." A man may do this or that according to our metaphysician-without motive, were it only to show that the thing can be done without motive! The same author has elsewhere descanted at some length upon Irish bulls. It is in this region of motives, if we mistake not, that authors of fiction are most usually assailable, in all controversies respecting naturalness and consistency. The providential laws are violated, when innocence is suffered to be involved in a series of intolerable calamities, brought about by an innocent agent: that is, such a thing is impossible. But that the guilt of one should be the cause of calamities to another, or to many others, is nothing impossible-nay, it is comparatively common. Now the problem for our author to solve was no less than this: To make Wieland the deliberate. agent of a most horrible deed, under a sense of duty. Those who deny that the human will acts under the restraint of any superior law, will need no further reason for such an action than, simply, that he willed it. The common sense of every reader, nevertheless, tells him that, in all ordinary states of mind, the phenomenon and the conditions we have mentioned are incompatible-that, to be rendered possible, there must be some intervening mo tive, depending for its efficacy on a diseased state of the mind. The mental malady of Wieland, we have already seen, would have come to that stage which rendered the act possible, through the operation of only some very trivial incident, so soon as it was possible for him to credit the reality of a direct, sensuous intercourse with the Deity. It is to confirm this faith that Carwin is introduced. The motive on the part of Carwin, however, must not have been pure malignity-else the design of the author would have been entirely frustrated, by removing the whole enormity of the murder, and the whole weight of the reader's horror, upon this inferior agent. Now we conceive that this part of the fiction is admirably managed so as to secure all the ends intended. Carwin carries on a complicated system of deceit, into which guilt-of another and different character, in respect to which we feel little indignation, but abundant loathing has betrayed him. He never once suspected any serious consequence could folÎow. And therefore, while the part he has played has a sufficient motive, and falls short of the highest degree of guilt, it nevertheless serves the purpose for which he was introduced on the stage. We despise the man-we look upon him as a degraded, insignificant creature. whole weight of all the dreadful mystery is left to rest upon Wieland; and the chief responsibility of the calamities in which his family are overwhelmed is not transferred from their immediate cause. The The excessive dislike and detestation of Clara towards Carwin has, doubtless, contributed to mislead some readers respecting the real magnitude of the agency which he exerts. This horror is perfectly natural-exaggerated as it nevertheless is. The remembrance of that scene, in which Carwin comes forth from the closet at midnight, avowing a fiendish purpose, must awaken no very gentle emotions in the mind of such a woman as the sister of Wieland. Nor could she forget the base heartlessness of the deceitful calumny that had for so long a time alienated Pleyel from his attachment, and induced him to impute to her one of the most infamous of crimes. But even had Carwin been only, as he pretends, the innocent yet careless occasion of the calamity that annihilated the whole family of her brother, her feelings could hardly have been less violent against him than they were. For all these reasons combined, therefore, it is very plain that the reader who enters into entire sympathy with the emotions of the narrator, and does not form an estimate of things from the facts she communicates, entirely independent of her personal feelings, does injustice to the author. He has exactly followed nature in the words which Clara is made to use, but, of course, he expects the reader to bear in mind by whom they are spoken. On certain particulars, as her own expressions plainly show, she is totally unfit for a dispassionate judgment. Some parts of the closing scenes of Wieland's life are unsurpassed by any passage which we remember in the most celebrated novelists. The tumultuously shifting clouds of madness that chase through his soul in that last hour, and the final moments of sanity, more terrible than all, excite the mind to a feeling of almost supernatural awe. A more vivid, burning impression than that which these powerful passages leave on the mind, is inconceivable. We detect here, very plainly, the workings of a genius kindred to that which gave birth to the tragedy of Macbeth, and to the wild, frantic energies of the Moor of Venice. We know of few novels that are fuller of moral meaning than "Wieland." It seems to us impossible for any one to read it without receiving some very valuable lessons, such as cannot very soon be forgotten. The dangers of fanaticism, of false notions of the Deity, of a too ready credence of supernatural interpositions, are here effectively exhibited. That direct intercourse of the senses with the Supreme Being is impossible; that an uncontrolled and irregular flow of the religious feelings is unwise and pernicious; and that duty never can require of a man any other sacrifice than a renunciation of his attachment to evil; are truths proved and illustrated on almost every page. And if there is a little excess of tragedy.in the events here portrayed, even this fault turns to some good account, by adding to the force and permanence of the impression made by the moral lessons connected therewith. On one who reads for critical purposes set,) even his warmest friend could hardly hope to do more than temporarily arrest. There is, therefore, a certain mournful sat the whole effect of the work is to leave an | exalted opinion of the natural powers of the author. These powers, we have already said, were but imperfectly devel-isfaction in the thought, that even this oped. "Wieland" is not, and could not be, a truly great and finished work. Its main defects are but too obvious, without particularization. Its style, except in rare passages, is not uniformly easy and natural, neither have its sentences, in general, a musical flow and cadence. More faulty still is the almost constant exaggeration of horror-the carrying of tragedy to the utmost extreme of anguish and gloom. The youthful writer had not yet learned to temper his light and shade-if, indeed, "Wieland" may not rather be said to be made up entirely of the latter-neither had he been able to distinguish the boundary that separates the sentiment of pleasurable sadness from the horror of unmitigated suffering and torture. Yet he shows clearly enough, that he was not unconscious of the existence of such a boundary, and that only a little further culture was necessary to put him in full possession of the requisite skill. But we cannot give ourselves heartily to the work of tracing out and exposing the errors of a youth whose early death and whose uncommon capabilities ought, after the lapse of so many years, to secure him from any but the kindest mention. The gradual progress of his works towards forgetfulness, (as we intimated at the out article, which a few may be disposed to esteem some years too late to attract much notice by its title, is perhaps one of the last efforts to keep alive in the memory of his countrymen, the name of a youth who gave promise of a fame that should exceed that of even our most honored writers. Could Brown have lived to become a complete master of himself, to reduce all his faculties under perfect control; had the long discipline of years and of severe experiences wrought out a way whereby the genial impulses that visited his spirit could find full and free access to the minds of his fellows; envy itself must have done him reverence. But the course of the divine destinies is inevitable-irresistible. The flower that perishes when first opening from its bud is soon forgot, in the midst of full-blown and perfect blossoms. Not altogether such is the fate of Brockden Brown. His novels are still in the Circulating Libraries of our own and other lands; and, what is more satisfactory to know, they are still read by no small number. Such, we doubt not, will be their fortune, for a long time to come. Whatever may afterwards be their fate, they will at least, after having already survived half a century, go down with a good name to the next generation. LIFE AND PUBLIC SERVICES OF THE HONORABLE ROBERT CHARLES WINTHROP, SPEAKER OF THE HOUSE OF REPRESENTATIVES. WE have presented to our readers in the Review for this month a portrait of the Hon. Robert Charles Winthrop, the present Speaker of the House of Representatives. This gentleman, whose preferment to the high official station which he now holds, is a well-deserved and appropriate tribute to his personal worth and public service, has won a not less eminent place in the esteem of the Whig party of the Union, by the fidelity with which he has devoted his talents, throughout an active political career, to the advancement of the good of the country. Mr. Winthrop's participation in the public counsels is attended by a fortunate prestige of name and lineage. In both of these he may be said to be identified with the history of that portion of the country which he represents; and if there be any truth in the ancient notion that an honorable ancestry constitutes a pledge to patriotism and virtue, he has an especial reason to acknowledge its obligations, and to find in them an incentive to the faithful and zealous performance of every public duty. He stands in the sixth degree of lineal descent from John Winthrop, the first Governor of Massachusetts-"that famous pattern of piety and justice," as he is called in the early chronicles of New England, -who, emigrating to this shore in 1630, brought with him the confidence and respect of the government he had left, and the most upright and exalted faculty for the duties he came to assume. Grahame, adopting the thought of a classic historian, says of him that "he not only performed actions worthy to be written, but produced writings worthy to be read." John Winthrop, the eldest son of this worthy, was scarcely less distinguished. He was a man much addicted to philosophical study and especially to physical science, and was one of the early patrons of the Royal Society. Sir Hans Sloane and three other members of that society, some fifty years afterwards, in commending the grandson of this gentleman to the notice of their associates, bear honorable testimony to the good repute in which the ancestor was held. They speak of "the learned John Winthrop" as "one of the first members of this Society, and who, in conjunction with others, did greatly contribute to the obtaining of our charter; to whom the Royal Society in its early days was not only indebted for various ingenious communications, but their museum still contains many testimonies of his generosity, especially of things relating to the natural history of New England." He was elected Governor of Connecticut for several years, in which station, says Belknap, "his many valuable qualities, as a gentleman, a philosopher and a public ruler, procured him the universal respect of the people under his government; and his unwearied attention to the public business, and great understanding in the art of government, was of unspeakable advantage to them." He was twice married, his second wife being the daughter of the celebrated Hugh Peters. By this marriage he had several children, amongst them two sons, of whom Fitz John was the elder. He, following in the footsteps of his father, was elected Governor of Connecticut, and held that post for nine years, commencing in 1698 and continuing until the day of his death. The younger son was a member of the Council in Massachusetts under the new charter granted by William and Mary, and was afterwards Chief Justice of the Superior Court of that State. His name was Wait Still, a compound of two family names, and not, as some have supposed, one of those conceits which at that period seemed to strike the fancy of the Puritan fathers. That middle name," as the learned and accurate President of the Massachusetts Historical Society has been careful to inform us, "was derived from inter-marriage of Adam, his great grand |