In the four quarters of the world, is there nation better clothed, housed, governed, ducated, manned, horsed, and wived? Will any one among us pretend that he beeves there is? Well, we have got to be ll this under the system that protected American labor, and nobody can deny it. Vill the American people then cast aside his system, because a few dreaming pednts in political economy talk to them of theory of free trade? Surely not, unless heir perverse infatuation passes everything at has been put upon record of a people But we are advised to try new system; for although the present ay be a good one, the other may prove tter still. We confess, that when it comes this we are about done arguing. We e well, we wish to be better; we take hn Bull's nostrum, and we shall be just

their senses.

we deserve.

In the anticipation of what such a change policy might end in, should this absurd unsel be listened to, let us look at the sture which is now given to the world of country, under the full influence of the otective system-a picture drawn, not a friend of that system, but by an unpromising opponent-no less a personthan the identical Edinburgh reviewer, the identical article which has so painBy made out by ingenious theorizing that domestic industry is all a "delusion" olitically worthless and economically and that we stand in a "false poon," ready to be "cast at the feet of our mies!"

There are few phenomena so striking to eyes, or so suggestive of reflection among all great social occurrences of this age, as the nuous emigration which takes place to the erican Continent. * * * * The endprocession moves ever from East to West, But regard to the counsels or prophecies or ulations of statesmen. What do these mulles care for theories of civil government?

* They seek the land of promand in nine cases out of ten they find it a of performance. America is at this day than ever a great providential blessing to over-peopled world, because it offers nothexcept to the industrious and energetic.

Justice and freedom-not free

dom as understood by a political theorist, or a philosophical poet, or a wandering Arab, but simply the license to do as nearly as possible what a man pleases, provided he do not interfere with the rights of neighbors in similar circumstances with himself,

of

all this he is certain from the moment he touches American soil. What has Continental Eu

rope to compare with this?"

Nothing, indeed, except theories. And thus does this writer, breaking away from the cobwebs of his closet speculations, and looking at the practical and living facts, give utterance to a truth which dashes his own theory to atoms. American industry under the protective policy has moved onward, to copy his own words, "ever from East to West, without regard to the counsels or prophesies or speculations of statesmen. "What does it care for theories of free trade?" But we cannot refrain from quoting the reviewer still further; he is a reluctant witness in favor of the American system, and therefore the more valuable:

"Let us not deceive ourselves: America is

still to the bulk of our population the land of requital and redress; the distant country in which oppressions cease, and poverty grows full-fed and bold, in which fortune opens her arms to the courageous, and the least adventurous looks forward to the achievement of independence and contentment before he die."

And this is the land which, we have just been told, is laboring under intolerable burdens, where the people pay 95 per cent. (alas!) upon window glass, maintain those terrible scourges of humanity, steam revenue-cutters, and pamper themselves with a "delusion" that they are well off. This land, where poverty grows full-fed and bold, is the land "worked with taxed iron," where the hard hands of peasants are chained to the plough, "simply that the world may admire the factory girls of Lowell, and that a few Yankee speculators may get rich in the towns of New England!!!" The reader, doubtless, will ask, "Why these astounding contradictions ?" The answer is plain. This writer was laboring at two distinct points. In the one instance he had a theory to vindicate, in the other he had but a facts to specify. As his theory was theory, and proved to be unsound-"politically worthless and economically false"

the facts came in direct collision with it. That he held fast to his theory after his own facts had falsified it, is more to his credit as a sworn champion than as a practical philosopher; but his faith in it, if faith he has, must be of that sort that will remove mountains.

However, let it not be forgotten that John Bull has compassionate bowels, and that we are the special objects of his pity. He pities us that we have no king; he pities us that we have no House of Lords; he pities us that we have no church establishment; he pities us 95 per cent. on window glass, and he pities us fore and aft on steam revenue-cutters. "These be good

humors," but his "quality of mercy" see to us a little "strained," and we are the oughly inclined to the opinion that su compassion as he is in the habit of besto ing on his customers, "blesses him that gi more than him that takes." In parting, will give him one word of advice, and t shall be, to spin out no more fine theories political economy on the topic of this co try before he has looked well to the fa If he will lay this advice to heart, and accordingly for the future, we will do b the favor to forget that joke of his ab the "Britishers," and we will laugh as tle as possible at his stupendous ma nest of the "steam revenue-cutters."

THE name of Brockden Brown had acquired an attractive sound to our ear, before ever we read a line of his writings. The honorable distinction which was awarded to him, as a novelist, by the British press, at a period when it was almost certain that every book with an American imprint would only be mentioned to be carped at, and which, perhaps, more than any other single circumstance, prepared the way for the Transatlantic fame which Irving and others of our countrymen have since so abundantly enjoyed, contributed not a little to impress our boyish imagination with reverence for this remarkable man. As a nation, we have been accused, by the great critics across the water, of an insensibility to the genius of this writer, and the sole glory of duly appreciating his merits has been strongly claimed in the same quarters. We suspect, however, that this charge, and the pretensions with which it is coupled, are somewhat groundlessthat the chief fault of our ancestors was, that, while they appreciated and liberally patronized one of the most brilliant of the men of letters in their day, they would persist that Barlow's Columbiad and Dwight's Conquest of Canaan were true poems, and might very properly be placed on the same shelf with, at least, the "Last Judgment," and "Leonidas." Brown was eagerly read in his time; obtained a considerable income from his novels; and received flattering attentions from the learned and the influential of our land. But that since his death he should have fallen into comparative neglect, was nearly unavoidable, from the very character of his writings. We do not mean to be understood that such works are useless or trivial. We will not go so far as to say, with some whose judgment we respect, that, from its own nature, it is impossible for a novel to live; but we do say that, in the main, every generation will have its own favorites, and that one novelist will, in ordinary cases, succeed to another with a tolerably rapid movement. The Vicar of Wakefield has,

perhaps, fixed itself permanently in the hearts of many ages; but this is a rare composition, far above the rank of "Wieland."

It is plain that the novel has a place provided for it among the literary wants of man. Little intervals of businessodd ends and fragments of time-such as would otherwise almost inevitably be given to idle musing, or still worse, to melancholy self-reflection, are, by the aid of these products of the fancy, made to give an agreeable relaxation and refreshment to the mind, with a secret impulse onward and upward in spiritual culture, u be found nowhere else. Neither is it al together foolishly, we think, that some persons make these books the companions of a tedious voyage, or of a temporary stay at an inn, seeking from them a sort o oblivious exhilaration, that shall for a mo ment stifle all the vexations of the presen circumstances, and remove every anxiety and disquietude of life: just as one some times takes an opiate before submitting t a painful surgical operation, or inhales th sulphuric ether when about to take du vengeance on a mutinous tooth. In short we may easily discover a thousand differ ent ways, in which this species of litera ture becomes an important provision fo the human mind. Among all these cir cumstances, however, we find no occasio for admitting "Pelham" to the brain a a miss at school, nor the "Sorrows & Werter" to the meditations of a yout desperately in love with himself. W suppose that nobody under the sun is jus tified in reading, or blessed in being suffere to read, a romance of any kind, who is no fully competent to understand that a pres ty story is not a history of the who world, and that a fine piece of sentimenta philosophy is not the sum of human wr dom and genius.

This department of literature has a dis tinct character, and a plainly marked boundary, that divides it from all other The author of a novel, no less than tha

dramatist, is required by the nature of his work to observe certain "proprieties." Not that any critical Frenchman, within our knowledge, has ever gone so far as to lay down exact "rules," to which every writing of this kind must be conformed; neither has any Quintilian applied the irresistible power of analysis to the best models in this species of ideal creation. But there is a sort of critical common sense, nevertheless, respecting these matters, which we must esteem, for all practical purposes, at least, infallible. A novel is universally understood to be a story of passion; of adventure; of events intricately involved and marvellously extricated; of insurmountable obstacles swept away by the force of heroism, by the violence of love, or by the frenzy of gloomier passions; perhaps of supernatural occurrences and of divine or angelic interpositions; and certainly of experiences passing through the whole range from the depths of grief and anguish to the full rapture of realized wishes and hopes. We generally expect calm, sunny beginning, among the ardent yet tranquil thoughts of dreamy youth, in the abodes of childish years, and amidst all the delights of nature; a series of Events issuing from this point, thickening and confusedly mingling as they proceed -lover and loved playing at cross purposes, thrown into seemingly inextricable infusion, every incident increasing their barrassment, and proportionally increasing their affection, as the impossibility of gratification becomes more and more pparent, until they come into a state of ownright despair; and lastly, an entire and triumphant unravelling of all the inertwisted threads, and the completion of perfect web of golden felicity. All this, fe say, is generally expected; and that thor may, in most cases, be safely said possess either very insignificant, or else ery confident, powers, who ventures to isappoint this common anticipation. It beds some courage, even, to give the chief tominence to any other passion than love. he author of "Caleb Williams" was albst the first who dared, in a decided anner, to transgress the general custom this respect; and it was not altogether ithout reason that Brown was, by some, ekoned to be of the school of Godwin resemblance in a single particular is a

sufficient ground for predicating the relation of master and disciple. That Brown was, in the highest sense, original, is nevertheless true. And we do not think it too much to add, that many of the later and more celebrated novelists of Great Britain have many incidents and scenes, not to say characters, which seem to have been rather more than suggested by passages in the fictions of our own countryman.

Charles Brockden Brown was born at Philadelphia, in the year 1771. His family was highly respectable, though involved in the heresy of George Fox. He was always studious, and, in some particulars, he was considerably precocious. After a pupilage of five years with a Mr. Proud, from whom he learnt Latin and Greek, he began to devote his attention, at sixteen, to poetical composition; sketched no less than three epics-of the "six weeks kind-and made some progress towards their completion. Fortunately, no Joseph Cottle standing ready to publish, the manuscripts soon after fell, by design doubtless, into the fire. In addition to these more magnificent endeavors, it is known that he now and then gratified the vanity, incident to boyish years, of gracing the Poet's Corner of a respectable country newspaper. Subsequently, he studied law-mainly, it is evident, to gratify the wishes of his friends, and without any definite purpose of his own. He never entered on the duties of that profession. He always had one favorite purpose, manifestly, however at times he may have suffered it to lie dormant. From the time of relinquishing his law studies, his attention was turned to literary pursuits; and henceforward he continued to write more or less assiduously until the time of his death. He published no work, of any pretensions, before "Wieland," which appeared in 1798. This was followed, in the next year, by "Ormond," "Arthur Mervyn," and " Edgar Huntley." In 1801, he published "Clara Howard," and in 1804, "Jane Talbot," which was first issued in England. During the same year of the latter publication, he was married to a lady of New York-where he had spent a considerable portion of his time since he first became known as an author-and was, the rest of his life, permanently settled at Philadelphia. He died in February, 1810.