I
recalled
the purpose for which I thus
urged her attendance.
urged her attendance.
Warner - World's Best Literature - v04 - Bes to Bro
Hence American society took
its literary meals at the common table of the English-speaking race,
with little or no effort at a separate establishment. There was
much writing, but mostly polemic or journalistic. When real litera-
ture was attempted, it consisted in general of imitations of British
—
## p. 2426 (#632) ###########################################
2426
CHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN
essays, or fiction, or poetry; and in the last two cases not even imi-
tations of the best models in either. The essays were modeled on
Addison; the poetry on the heavy imitators of Pope's heroics; the
fiction either on the effusive sentimentalists who followed Richard-
son, or on the pseudo-Orientalists like Walpole and Lewis, or on the
pseudo-mediævalists like Mrs. Roche and Mrs. Radcliffe. This sort
of work filled the few literary periodicals of the day, but was not
read enough to make such publications profitable even then, and is
pretty much all unreadable now.
Charles Brockden Brown stands in marked contrast to these sec-
ond-hand weaklings, not only by his work but still more by his
method and temper. In actual achievement he did not quite fulfill
the promise of his early books, and cannot be set high among his
craft. He was an inferior artist; and though he achieved naturalism
of matter, he clung to the theatrical artificiality of style which was
in vogue.
But if he had broken away from all traditions, he could
have gained no hearing whatever; he died young-twenty years
more might have left him a much greater figure; and he wrought in
disheartening loneliness of spirit. His accomplishment was that of a
pioneer. He was the first American author to see that the true field
for his fellows was America and not Europe. He realized, as the
genius of Châteaubriand realized at almost the same moment, the
artistic richness of the material which lay to hand in the silent forest
vastnesses, with their unfamiliar life of man and beast, and their
possibilities of mystery enough to satisfy the most craving. He
was not the equal of the author of The Natchez' and 'Atala';
but he had a fresh and daring mind. He turned away from both the
emotional orgasms and the stage claptrap of his time, to break ground
for all future American novelists. He antedated Cooper in the field
of Indian life and character; and he entered the regions of mystic
supernaturalism and the disordered human brain in advance of Haw-
thorne and Poe.
That his choice of material was neither chance nor blind instinct,
but deliberate judgment and insight, is shown by the preface to
'Edgar Huntly,' in which he sets forth his views:
――
"America has opened new views to the naturalist and politician, but has
seldom furnished themes to the moral-pointer. That new springs of action and
new motives of curiosity should operate, that the field of investigation opened
to us by our own country should differ essentially from those which exist in
Europe, may be readily conceived. The sources of amusement to the fancy
and instruction to the heart that are peculiar to ourselves are equally numer-
ous and inexhaustible. It is the purpose of this work to profit by some of
these sources, to exhibit a series of adventures growing out of the conditions
of our country, and connected with one of the most common and wonderful
## p. 2427 (#633) ###########################################
CHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN
2427
diseases of the human frame. Puerile superstition and exploded manners,
Gothic castles and chimeras, are the materials usually employed for this end.
The incidents of Indian hostility and the perils of the Western wilderness are
far more suitable, and for a native of America to overlook these would admit
of no apology. These therefore are in part the ingredients of this tale. »
Brown's was an uneventful career. He was much given to solitary
rambles and musings, varied by social intercourse with a few con-
genial friends and the companionship of his affectionate family, and
later, many hours spent at his writing-desk or in an editorial chair.
He was born January 17th, 1771, in Philadelphia, of good Quaker
stock. A delicate boyhood, keeping him away from the more active
life of youths of his own age, fostered a love for solitude and a taste
for reading. He received a good classical education; but poor health
prevented him from pursuing his studies at college. At his family's
wish he entered a law office instead; but the literary instinct was
strong within him. Literature at this time was scarcely considered a
profession. Magazine circulations were too limited for publishers to
pay for contributions, and all an author usually got or expected
to get was some copies to distribute among his friends. To please
his prudent home circle, Brown dallied for a while with the law; but
a visit to New York, where he was cordially received by the mem-
bers of the "Friendly Club," opened up avenues of literary work to
him, and he removed to New York in 1796 to devote himself to it.
The first important work he produced was 'Wieland: or the Trans-
formation' (1798). It shows at the outset Brown's characteristic
traits-independence of British materials and methods. It is in sub-
stance a powerful tale of ventriloquism operating on an unbalanced
and superstitious mind. Its psychology is acute and searching; the
characterization realistic and effective. His second book, Ormond:
or the Secret Witness' (1799), does not reach the level of 'Wieland. '
It is more conventional, and not entirely independent of foreign.
models, especially Godwin, whom Brown greatly admired. A rapid
writer, he soon had the MS. of his next novel in the hands of the
publisher. The first part of Arthur Mervyn: or Memoirs of the
Year 1793' came out in 1799, and the second part in 1800. It is
the best known of his six novels. Though the scene is laid in Phila-
delphia, Brown embodied in it his experience of the yellow fever which
raged in New York in 1799. The passage describing this epidemic.
can stand beside Defoe's or Poe's or Manzoni's similar descriptions,
for power in setting forth the horrors of the plague.
In the same year with the first volume of Arthur Mervyn' ap-
peared Edgar Huntly: or Memoirs of a Sleep-Walker. ' Here he
deals with the wild life of nature, the rugged solitudes, and the red-
skins, the field in which he was followed by Cooper. A thrilling
## p. 2428 (#634) ###########################################
2428
CHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN
scene in which a panther is chief actor was long familiar to Amer-
ican children in their school reading-books.
In 1801 came out his last two novels, Clara Howard: In a Series
of Letters,' and 'Jane Talbot. ' They are a departure from his pre-
vious work: instead of dealing with uncanny subjects they treat of
quiet domestic and social life. They show also a great advance on
his previous books in constructive art. In 1799 Brown became editor
of the Monthly Magazine and American Review, and contributed
largely to it.
In the autumn of 1801 he returned to Philadelphia, to assume
the editorship of Conrad's Literary Magazine and American Review.
The duties of this office suspended his own creative work, and he
did not live to take up again the novelist's stylus. In 1806 he be-
came editor of the Annual Register. His genuine literary force is
best proved by the fact that whatever periodical he took in charge,
he raised its standard of quality and made it a success for the time.
He died in February, 1810. The work to which he had given the
greater part of his time and strength, especially toward the end of
his life, was in its nature not only transitory, but not of a sort to
keep his name alive. The magazines were children of a day, and
the editor's repute as such could hardly survive them long. The
fame which belongs to Charles Brockden Brown, grudgingly accorded
by a country that can ill afford to neglect one of its earliest, most
devoted, and most original workers, rests on his novels. Judged by
standards of the present day, these are far from faultless. The
facts are not very coherent, the diction is artificial in the fashion of
the day. But when all is said, Brown was a rare story-teller; he
interested his readers by the novelty of his material, and he was
quite objective in its treatment, never obtruding his own personality.
'Wieland, Edgar Huntly,' and 'Arthur Mervyn,' the trilogy of his
best novels, are not to be contemned; and he has the distinction of
being in very truth the pioneer of American letters.
་
WIELAND'S STATEMENT
THE
HEODORE WIELAND, the prisoner at the bar, was now called
upon for his defense. He looked around him for some time
in silence, and with a mild countenance. At length he
spoke:-
It is strange: I am known to my judges and my auditors.
Who is there present a stranger to the character of Wieland?
Who knows him not as a husband, as a father, as a friend? Yet
## p. 2429 (#635) ###########################################
CHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN
2429
here am I arraigned as a criminal. I am charged with diabolical
malice; I am accused of the murder of my wife and my children!
It is true, they were slain by me; they all perished by my
hand. The task of vindication is ignoble. What is it that I am
called to vindicate? and before whom?
You know that they are dead, and that they were killed by
me. What more would you have? Would you extort from me a
statement of my motives? Have you failed to discover them
already? You charge me with malice: but your eyes are not
shut; your reason is still vigorous; your memory has not forsaken
you. You know whom it is that you thus charge. The habits of
his life are known to you; his treatment of his wife and his off-
spring is known to you; the soundness of his integrity and the
unchangeableness of his principles are familiar to your apprehen-
sion: yet you persist in this charge! You lead me hither mana-
cled as a felon; you deem me worthy of a vile and tormenting
death!
-
Who are they whom I have devoted to death? My wife - the
little ones that drew their being from me - that creature who,
as she surpassed them in excellence, claimed a larger affection
than those whom natural affinities bound to my heart.
Think ye
that malice could have urged me to this deed? Hide your auda-
cious fronts from the scrutiny of heaven. Take refuge in some
cavern unvisited by human eyes. Ye may deplore your wicked-
ness or folly, but ye cannot expiate it.
Think not that I speak for your sakes. Hug to your hearts
this detestable infatuation. Deem me still a murderer, and drag
me to untimely death. I make not an effort to dispel your illus-
ion; I utter not a word to cure you of your sanguinary folly:
but there are probably some in this assembly who have come
from far; for their sakes, whose distance has disabled them from
knowing me, I will tell what I have done, and why.
It is needless to say that God is the object of my supreme
passion. I have cherished in his presence a single and upright
heart. I have thirsted for the knowledge of his will. I have
burnt with ardor to approve my faith and my obedience. My
days have been spent in searching for the revelation of that will;
but my days have been mournful, because my search failed.
solicited direction; I turned on every side where glimmerings
of light could be discovered. I have not been wholly unin-
formed; but my knowledge has always stopped short of certainty.
## p. 2430 (#636) ###########################################
CHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN
2430
Dissatisfaction has insinuated itself into all my thoughts. My
purposes have been pure, my wishes indefatigable; but not till
lately were these purposes thoroughly accomplished and these
wishes fully gratified.
I thank Thee, my Father, for Thy bounty; that Thou didst
not ask a less sacrifice than this; that Thou placedst me in a
condition to testify my submission to Thy will! What have I
withheld which it was Thy pleasure to exact? Now may I, with
dauntless and erect eye, claim my reward, since I have given
Thee the treasure of my soul.
I was at my own house; it was late in the evening; my sister
had gone to the city, but proposed to return. It was in expecta-
tion of her return that my wife and I delayed going to bed be-
yond the usual hour; the rest of the family, however, were
retired. My mind was contemplative and calm—not wholly
devoid of apprehension on account of my sister's safety. Recent
events, not easily explained, had suggested the existence of some
danger; but this danger was without a distinct form in our im-
agination, and scarcely ruffled our tranquillity.
Time passed, and my sister did not arrive. Her house is at
some distance from mine, and though her arrangements had
been made with a view of residing with us, it was possible that
through forgetfulness, or the occurrence of unforeseen emergen-
cies, she had returned to her own dwelling.
Hence it was conceived proper that I should ascertain the
truth by going thither. I went. On my way my mind was full
of those ideas which related to my intellectual condition. In the
torrent of fervid conceptions I lost sight of my purpose. Some-
times I stood still; sometimes I wandered from my path, and
experienced some difficulty, on recovering from my fit of musing,
to regain it.
The series of my thoughts is easily traced. At first every
vein beat with raptures known only to the man whose parental
and conjugal love is without limits, and the cup of whose de-
sires, immense as it is, overflows with gratification. I know not
why emotions that were perpetual visitants should now have re-
curred with unusual energy. The transition was not new from
sensations of joy to a consciousness of gratitude. The Author
of my being was likewise the dispenser of every gift with which
that being was embellished. The service to which a benefactor
like this was entitled could not be circumscribed.
My social
## p. 2431 (#637) ###########################################
CHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN
2431
sentiments were indebted to their alliance with devotion for all
their value. All passions are base, all joys feeble, all energies
malignant, which are not drawn from this source.
For a time my contemplations soared above earth and its in-
habitants. I stretched forth my hands; I lifted my eyes, and
exclaimed, "Oh, that I might be admitted to thy presence! that
mine were the supreme delight of knowing Thy will and of
performing it! -the blissful privilege of direct communication.
with Thee, and of listening to the audible enunciation of Thy
pleasure!
"What task would I not undertake, what privation would I
not cheerfully endure, to testify my love of Thee? Alas! Thou
hidest Thyself from my view; glimpses only of Thy excellence
and beauty are afforded me. Would that a momentary emanation
from Thy glory would visit me! that some unambiguous token of
Thy presence would salute my senses! "
In this mood I entered the house of my sister. It was vacant.
Scarcely had I regained recollection of the purpose that brought
me hither. Thoughts of a different tendency had such an abso-
lute possession of my mind, that the relations of time and space
were almost obliterated from my understanding. These wander-
ings, however, were restrained, and I ascended to her chamber.
I had no light, and might have known by external observation
that the house was without any inhabitant. With this, however,
I was not satisfied. I entered the room, and the object of my
search not appearing, I prepared to return. The darkness re-
quired some caution in descending the stair. I stretched out my
hand to seize the balustrade, by which I might regulate my steps.
How shall I describe the lustre which at that moment burst
upon my vision?
I was dazzled. My organs were bereaved of their activity.
My eyelids were half closed, and my hands withdrawn from the
balustrade. A nameless fear chilled my veins, and I stood
motionless. This irradiation did not retire or lessen. It seemed
as if some powerful effulgence covered me like a mantle.
opened my eyes and found all about me luminous and glowing.
It was the element of heaven that flowed around. Nothing but
a fiery stream was at first visible; but anon a shrill voice from
behind called upon me to attend.
I
I turned. It is forbidden to describe what I saw: words,
indeed, would be wanting to the task. The lineaments of that
## p. 2432 (#638) ###########################################
2432
CHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN
Being whose veil was now lifted and whose visage beamed upon
my sight, no hues of pencil or of language can portray. As it
spoke, the accents thrilled to my heart:-"Thy prayers are
heard. In proof of thy faith, render me thy wife. This is the
victim I choose. Call her hither, and here let her fall. " The
sound and visage and light vanished at once.
What demand was this? The blood of Catharine was to be
shed! My wife was to perish by my hand! I sought oppor-
tunity to attest my virtue. Little did I expect that a proof like
this would have been demanded.
"My wife! " I exclaimed: "O God! substitute some other vic-
tim. Make me not the butcher of my wife. My own blood is
cheap. This will I pour out before Thee with a willing heart;
but spare, I beseech Thee, this precious life, or commission some
other than her husband to perform the bloody deed. "
In vain. The conditions were prescribed; the decree had gone
forth, and nothing remained but to execute it. I rushed out of
the house and across the intermediate fields, and stopped not till
I entered my own parlor. My wife had remained here during
my absence, in anxious expectation of my return with some tid-
ings of her sister. I had none to communicate. For a time I
was breathless with my speed. This, and the tremors that shook
my frame, and the wildness of my looks, alarmed her. She
immediately suspected some disaster to have happened to her
friend, and her own speech was as much overpowered by emotion
as mine. She was silent, but her looks manifested her impa-
tience to hear what I had to communicate. I spoke, but with so
much precipitation as scarcely to be understood; catching her at
the same time by the arm, and forcibly pulling her from her seat.
"Come along with me; fly; waste not a moment; time will
be lost, and the deed will be omitted. Tarry not, question not,
but fly with me. "
This deportment added afresh to her alarms.
Her eyes pur-
sued mine, and she said, "What is the matter? For God's
sake, what is the matter? Where would you have me go? "
My eyes were fixed upon her countenance while she spoke.
I thought upon her virtues; I viewed her as the mother of my
babes; as my wife.
I recalled the purpose for which I thus
urged her attendance. My heart faltered, and I saw that I must
rouse to this work all my faculties. The danger of the least
delay was imminent.
## p. 2433 (#639) ###########################################
CHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN
2433
I looked away from her, and, again exerting my force, drew
her toward the door. "You must go with me; indeed you
must. "
In her fright she half resisted my efforts, and again ex-
claimed, “Good heaven! what is it you mean? Where go? What
has happened? Have you found Clara ? "
"Follow me and you will see," I answered, still urging her
reluctant steps forward.
"What frenzy has seized you? Something must needs have
happened. Is she sick? Have you found her? "
"Come and see. Follow me and know for yourself. "
Still she expostulated and besought me to explain this mys-
terious behavior. I could not trust myself to answer her, to look
at her; but grasping her arm, I drew her after me. She hesi-
tated, rather through confusion of mind than from unwillingness
to accompany me. This confusion gradually abated, and she
moved forward, but with irresolute footsteps and continual excla-
mations of wonder and terror. Her interrogations of "What was
the matter? " and "Whither was I going? " were ceaseless and
vehement.
It was the scope of my efforts not to think; to keep up a
conflict and uproar in my mind in which all order and distinct-
ness should be lost; to escape from the sensations produced by
her voice. I was therefore silent. I strove to abridge this inter-
val by haste, and to waste all my attention in furious gesticu-
lations.
In this state of mind we reached my sister's door. She looked
at the windows and saw that all was desolate. "Why come we
here? There is nobody here. I will not go in. "
Still I was dumb; but, opening the door, I drew her into the
entry. This was the allotted scene; here she was to fall. I let
go her hand, and pressing my palms against my forehead, made
one mighty effort to work up my soul to the deed.
In vain; it would not be; my courage was appalled, my arms
nerveless. I muttered prayers that my strength might be aided
from above. They availed nothing.
Horror diffused itself over me. This conviction of my
cowardice, my rebellion, fastened upon me, and I stood rigid and
cold as marble. From this state I was somewhat relieved by my
wife's voice, who renewed her supplications to be told why we
come hither and what was the fate of my sister.
VI-153
## p. 2434 (#640) ###########################################
2434
CHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN
The fellness of a gloomy hurricane but faintly resembled the
discord that reigned in my mind. To omit this sacrifice must not
be; yet my sinews had refused to perform it. No alternative
was offered. To rebel against the mandate was impossible; but
obedience would render me the executioner of my wife. My
will was strong, but my limbs refused their office.
That accents and looks so winning should disarm me of my
resolution was to be expected. My thoughts were thrown anew
into anarchy. I spread my hand before my eyes that I might
not see her, and answered only by groans. She took my other
hand between hers, and pressing it to her heart, spoke with that
voice which had ever swayed my will and wafted away sorrow:
"My friend! my soul's friend! tell me thy cause of grief. Do
I not merit to partake with thee in thy cares? Am I not thy
wife ? »
-
This was too much. I broke from her embrace and retired
to a corner of the room. In this pause, courage was once more
infused into me. I resolved to execute my duty. She followed
me, and renewed her passionate entreaties to know the cause of
my distress.
I raised my head and regarded her with steadfast
looks. I muttered something about death, and the injunctions of
my duty.
At these words she shrunk back, and looked at me
with a new expression of anguish. After a pause, she clasped
her hands, and exclaimed: -
:-
"O Wieland! Wieland! God grant that I am mistaken! but
something surely is wrong. I see it; it is too plain; thou art
undone lost to me and to thyself. " At the same time she
gazed on my features with intensest anxiety, in hope that differ-
ent symptoms would take place. I replied to her with vehe-
mence:
-
"Undone! No; my duty is known, and I thank my God that
my cowardice is now vanquished and I have power to fulfill it.
Catharine, I pity the weakness of thy nature; I pity thee, but
must not spare. Thy life is claimed from my hands; thou must
die! "
Fear was now added to her grief. "What mean you? Why
talk you of death? Bethink yourself, Wieland; bethink yourself,
and this fit will pass. Oh, why came I hither? Why did you
drag me hither? "
"I brought thee hither to fulfill a divine command.
appointed thy destroyer, and destroy thee I must. "
I am
Saying this,
## p. 2435 (#641) ###########################################
CHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN
2435
She shrieked aloud, and endeavored to free
I seized her wrists.
herself from my grasp; but her efforts were vain.
"Surely, surely, Wieland, thou dost not mean it. Am I not
thy wife and wouldst thou kill me? Thou wilt not; and yet-I
see-thou art Wieland no longer! A fury resistless and horri
ble possesses thee. Spare me- spare-help-help-»
Till her breath was stopped she shrieked for help, for mercy.
When she could speak no longer, her gestures, her looks appealed
to my compassion. My accursed hand was irresolute and trem-
ulous. I meant thy death to be sudden, thy struggles to be
brief. Alas! my heart was infirm, my resolves mutable. Thrice
I slackened my grasp, and life kept its hold, though in the
midst of pangs.
Her eyeballs started from their sockets. Grim-
ness and distortion took the place of all that used to bewitch me
into transport and subdue me into reverence. I was commis-
sioned to kill thee, but not to torment thee with the foresight
of thy death; not to multiply thy fears and prolong thy agonies.
Haggard and pale and lifeless, at length thou ceasedst to contend.
with thy destiny.
This was the moment of triumph. Thus had I successfully
subdued the stubbornness of human passions: the victim which
had been demanded was given; the deed was done past recall.
I lifted the corpse in my arms and laid it on the bed. I
gazed upon it with delight. Such was the elation of my thoughts
that I even
even broke into laughter. I clapped my hands and
exclaimed, “It is done! My sacred duty is fulfilled! To that I
have sacrificed, O my God, Thy last and best gift, my wife! "
For a while I thus soared above frailty. I imagined I had
set myself forever beyond the reach of selfishness; but my im-
aginations were false. This rapture quickly subsided. I looked
again at my wife. My joyous ebullitions vanished, and I asked
myself who it was whom I saw. Methought it could not be
Catharine. It could not be the woman who had lodged for years in
my heart; who had slept nightly in my bosom; who had borne in
her womb, who had fostered at her breast, the beings who called
me father; whom I have watched with delight, and cherished
with a fondness ever new and perpetually growing; it could not
be the same. Where was her bloom? These deadly and blood-
suffused orbs but ill resemble the azure and ecstatic tenderness
of her eyes.
The lucid stream that meandered over that bosom,
the glow of love that was wont to sit upon that cheek, are
## p. 2436 (#642) ###########################################
2436
CHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN
much unlike these livid stains and this hideous deformity. Alas!
these were the traces of agony; the gripe of the assassin had
been here!
I will not dwell upon my lapse into desperate and outrageous
sorrow. The breath of heaven that sustained me was withdrawn,
and I sunk into mere man. I leaped from the floor; I dashed
my head against the wall; I uttered screams of horror; I panted
after torment and pain. Eternal fire and the bickerings of hell,
compared with what I felt, were music and a bed of roses.
I thank my God that this degeneracy was transient-that He
deigned once more to raise me aloft. I thought upon what I
had done as a sacrifice to duty, and was calm. My wife was
dead; but I reflected that though this source of human consola-
tion was closed, yet others were still open. If the transports of
a husband were no more, the feelings of a father had still scope
for exercise. When remembrance of their mother should excite
too keen a pang, I would look upon them and be comforted.
While I revolved these ideas, new warmth flowed in upon
my heart. I was wrong. These feelings were the growth of self-
ishness. Of this I was not aware; and to dispel the mist that
obscured my perceptions, a new effulgence and a new mandate
were necessary. From these thoughts I was recalled by a ray
that was shot into the room. A voice spake like that which I
had before heard:- "Thou hast done well. But all is not done
-the sacrifice is incomplete-thy children must be offered-
they must perish with their mother! —»
Thou, Omnipotent and Holy! Thou knowest that my actions
were conformable to Thy will. I know not what is crime; what
actions are evil in their ultimate and comprehensive tendency, or
what are good. Thy knowledge, as Thy power, is unlimited. I
have taken Thee for my guide, and cannot err. To the arms of
Thy protection I intrust my safety. In the awards of Thy
justice I confide for my recompense.
Come death when it will, I am safe. Let calumny and abhor-
rence pursue me among men; I shall not be defrauded of my
dues. The peace of virtue and the glory of obedience will be
my portion hereafter.
## p. 2437 (#643) ###########################################
2437
JOHN BROWN
(1810-1882)
OHN BROWN, the son of a secession-church minister, was born
in Biggar, Lanarkshire, Scotland, September 22d, 1810, and
died in Edinburgh, May 11th, 1882. He was educated at
the Edinburgh High School and at the University, and graduated in
medicine in 1833. For a time he was a surgeon's assistant to the
great Dr. Syme, the man of whom he said "he never wasted a drop
of ink or blood," and whose character he has drawn in one of his
most charming biographies. When he began to practice for himself
he gradually "got into a good connection,"
and his patients made him their confidant
and adviser. He was considered a fine
doctor too, for he had remarkable common-
sense, and was said to be unerring in diag-
nosis.
JOHN BROWN
Dr. Brown did not, as is commonly be-
lieved, dislike his profession; but later on
he took a view of it which seemed non-
progressive, and his success as a writer no
doubt interfered with his practice. His
friend Professor Masson draws a pleasant
picture of him when he first settled in
practice, as a dark-haired man with soft,
fine eyes and a benignant manner, the hus-
band of a singularly beautiful woman, and much liked and sought
after in the social circles of Edinburgh. This was partly owing to
the charm of his conversation, and partly to the literary reputation
he had achieved through some articles on the Academy exhibition
and on local artists. Though he had little technical training, he had
an eye for color and form, an appreciation of the artist's meaning,
and an instinct for discovering genius, as in the case of Noel Paton
and David Scott. He soon became an authority among artists, and
he gave a new impulse to national art.
He contributed largely to the North British Review. In 1855 he
published 'Horæ Subsecivæ,' which contained, among medical biog-
raphy and medico-literary papers, the immortal Scotch idyl, 'Rab
and his Friends. Up to this time the unique personality of the
doctor, with its delightful mixture of humor and sympathy, was
## p. 2438 (#644) ###########################################
2438
JOHN BROWN
known only to his own circle. The appearance of 'Rab and his
Friends' revealed it to the world. Brief as it is in form, and simple
in outline, Scotland has produced nothing so full of pure, pathetic
genius since Scott.
Another volume of 'Horæ Subsecivæ appeared two years after,
and some selections from it, and others from unpublished manuscript,
were printed separately in the volume entitled 'Spare Hours. ' They
met with instant and unprecedented success. In a short time ten
thousand copies of 'Minchmoor' and 'James the Doorkeeper' were
sold, fifteen thousand copies of 'Pet Marjorie,' and 'Rab' had reached
its fiftieth thousand. With all this success and praise, and constantly
besought by publishers for his work, he could not be persuaded that
his writings were of any permanent value, and was reluctant to
publish. In 1882 appeared a third volume of the 'Hora Subsecivæ,'
which included all his writings. A few weeks after its publication
he died.
The Doctor's medical essays, which are replete with humor, are
written in defense of his special theory, the distinction between the
active and the speculative mind. He thought there was too much
science and too little intuitive sagacity in the world, and looked back
longingly to the old-time common-sense, which he believed mod-
ern science had driven away. His own mind was anti-speculative,
although he paid just tributes to philosophy and science and ad-
mired their achievements. He stigmatized the speculations of the
day as the "lust of innovation. " But the reader cares little for the
opinions of Dr. Brown as arguments: his subject is of little conse-
quence if he will but talk. By the charm of his story-telling these
dead Scotch doctors are made to live again. The death-bed of Syme,
for instance, is as pathetic as the wonderful paper on Thackeray's
death; and to-day many a heart is sore for 'Pet Marjorie,' the ten-
year-old child who died in Scotland almost a hundred years ago.
As an essayist, Dr. Brown belongs to the followers of Addison
and Charles Lamb, and he blends humor, pathos, and quiet hopeful-
ness with
a grave and earnest dignity. He delighted, not like
Lamb "in the habitable parts of the earth," but in the lonely moor-
lands and pastoral hills, over which his silent, stalwart shepherds
walked with swinging stride. He had a keen appreciation for
anything he felt to be excellent: his usual question concerning
a stranger, either in literature or life, was "Has he wecht, sir? ”—
quoting Dr. Chalmers; and when he wanted to give the highest
praise, he said certain writing was "strong meat. " He had a warm
enthusiasm for the work of other literary men: an artist himself, he
was quick to appreciate and seize upon the witty thing or the excel-
lent thing wherever he found it, and he was eager to share his
## p. 2439 (#645) ###########################################
JOHN BROWN
2439
pleasure with the whole world. He reintroduced to the public
Henry Vaughn, the quaint seventeenth-century poet; he wrote a
sympathetic memoir of Arthur Hallam; he imported 'Modern Paint-
ers, and enlightened Edinburgh as to its merits. His art papers.
were what Walter Pater would call "appreciations," that is to say,
he dwelt upon the beauties of what he described rather than upon
the defects. What he did not admire he left alone.
As the author of 'Rab' loved the lonely glens on Minchmoor and
in the Enterkin, or where Queen Mary's "baby garden" shows its
box-row border among the Spanish chestnuts of Lake Monteith, so
he loved the Scottish character, "bitter to the taste and sweet to the
diaphragm": "Jeemes" the beadle, with his family worship when he
himself was all the family; the old Aberdeen Jacobite people; Miss
Stirling Graham of Duntrune, who in her day bewitched Edinburgh;
Rab, Ailie, and Bob Ainslie. His characters are oddities, but are
drawn without a touch of cynicism. What an amount of playful,
wayward nonsense lies between these pages, and what depths of
melancholy under the fun! Like Sir Walter, he had a great love
for dogs, and never went out unaccompanied by one or two of them.
They are the heroes of several of his sketches.
Throughout the English-speaking world, he was affectionately
known as Dr. John Brown of Edinburgh. He stood aloof from polit-
ical and ecclesiastical controversies, and was fond of telling a story
to illustrate how little reasoning went to forming partisans.
its literary meals at the common table of the English-speaking race,
with little or no effort at a separate establishment. There was
much writing, but mostly polemic or journalistic. When real litera-
ture was attempted, it consisted in general of imitations of British
—
## p. 2426 (#632) ###########################################
2426
CHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN
essays, or fiction, or poetry; and in the last two cases not even imi-
tations of the best models in either. The essays were modeled on
Addison; the poetry on the heavy imitators of Pope's heroics; the
fiction either on the effusive sentimentalists who followed Richard-
son, or on the pseudo-Orientalists like Walpole and Lewis, or on the
pseudo-mediævalists like Mrs. Roche and Mrs. Radcliffe. This sort
of work filled the few literary periodicals of the day, but was not
read enough to make such publications profitable even then, and is
pretty much all unreadable now.
Charles Brockden Brown stands in marked contrast to these sec-
ond-hand weaklings, not only by his work but still more by his
method and temper. In actual achievement he did not quite fulfill
the promise of his early books, and cannot be set high among his
craft. He was an inferior artist; and though he achieved naturalism
of matter, he clung to the theatrical artificiality of style which was
in vogue.
But if he had broken away from all traditions, he could
have gained no hearing whatever; he died young-twenty years
more might have left him a much greater figure; and he wrought in
disheartening loneliness of spirit. His accomplishment was that of a
pioneer. He was the first American author to see that the true field
for his fellows was America and not Europe. He realized, as the
genius of Châteaubriand realized at almost the same moment, the
artistic richness of the material which lay to hand in the silent forest
vastnesses, with their unfamiliar life of man and beast, and their
possibilities of mystery enough to satisfy the most craving. He
was not the equal of the author of The Natchez' and 'Atala';
but he had a fresh and daring mind. He turned away from both the
emotional orgasms and the stage claptrap of his time, to break ground
for all future American novelists. He antedated Cooper in the field
of Indian life and character; and he entered the regions of mystic
supernaturalism and the disordered human brain in advance of Haw-
thorne and Poe.
That his choice of material was neither chance nor blind instinct,
but deliberate judgment and insight, is shown by the preface to
'Edgar Huntly,' in which he sets forth his views:
――
"America has opened new views to the naturalist and politician, but has
seldom furnished themes to the moral-pointer. That new springs of action and
new motives of curiosity should operate, that the field of investigation opened
to us by our own country should differ essentially from those which exist in
Europe, may be readily conceived. The sources of amusement to the fancy
and instruction to the heart that are peculiar to ourselves are equally numer-
ous and inexhaustible. It is the purpose of this work to profit by some of
these sources, to exhibit a series of adventures growing out of the conditions
of our country, and connected with one of the most common and wonderful
## p. 2427 (#633) ###########################################
CHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN
2427
diseases of the human frame. Puerile superstition and exploded manners,
Gothic castles and chimeras, are the materials usually employed for this end.
The incidents of Indian hostility and the perils of the Western wilderness are
far more suitable, and for a native of America to overlook these would admit
of no apology. These therefore are in part the ingredients of this tale. »
Brown's was an uneventful career. He was much given to solitary
rambles and musings, varied by social intercourse with a few con-
genial friends and the companionship of his affectionate family, and
later, many hours spent at his writing-desk or in an editorial chair.
He was born January 17th, 1771, in Philadelphia, of good Quaker
stock. A delicate boyhood, keeping him away from the more active
life of youths of his own age, fostered a love for solitude and a taste
for reading. He received a good classical education; but poor health
prevented him from pursuing his studies at college. At his family's
wish he entered a law office instead; but the literary instinct was
strong within him. Literature at this time was scarcely considered a
profession. Magazine circulations were too limited for publishers to
pay for contributions, and all an author usually got or expected
to get was some copies to distribute among his friends. To please
his prudent home circle, Brown dallied for a while with the law; but
a visit to New York, where he was cordially received by the mem-
bers of the "Friendly Club," opened up avenues of literary work to
him, and he removed to New York in 1796 to devote himself to it.
The first important work he produced was 'Wieland: or the Trans-
formation' (1798). It shows at the outset Brown's characteristic
traits-independence of British materials and methods. It is in sub-
stance a powerful tale of ventriloquism operating on an unbalanced
and superstitious mind. Its psychology is acute and searching; the
characterization realistic and effective. His second book, Ormond:
or the Secret Witness' (1799), does not reach the level of 'Wieland. '
It is more conventional, and not entirely independent of foreign.
models, especially Godwin, whom Brown greatly admired. A rapid
writer, he soon had the MS. of his next novel in the hands of the
publisher. The first part of Arthur Mervyn: or Memoirs of the
Year 1793' came out in 1799, and the second part in 1800. It is
the best known of his six novels. Though the scene is laid in Phila-
delphia, Brown embodied in it his experience of the yellow fever which
raged in New York in 1799. The passage describing this epidemic.
can stand beside Defoe's or Poe's or Manzoni's similar descriptions,
for power in setting forth the horrors of the plague.
In the same year with the first volume of Arthur Mervyn' ap-
peared Edgar Huntly: or Memoirs of a Sleep-Walker. ' Here he
deals with the wild life of nature, the rugged solitudes, and the red-
skins, the field in which he was followed by Cooper. A thrilling
## p. 2428 (#634) ###########################################
2428
CHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN
scene in which a panther is chief actor was long familiar to Amer-
ican children in their school reading-books.
In 1801 came out his last two novels, Clara Howard: In a Series
of Letters,' and 'Jane Talbot. ' They are a departure from his pre-
vious work: instead of dealing with uncanny subjects they treat of
quiet domestic and social life. They show also a great advance on
his previous books in constructive art. In 1799 Brown became editor
of the Monthly Magazine and American Review, and contributed
largely to it.
In the autumn of 1801 he returned to Philadelphia, to assume
the editorship of Conrad's Literary Magazine and American Review.
The duties of this office suspended his own creative work, and he
did not live to take up again the novelist's stylus. In 1806 he be-
came editor of the Annual Register. His genuine literary force is
best proved by the fact that whatever periodical he took in charge,
he raised its standard of quality and made it a success for the time.
He died in February, 1810. The work to which he had given the
greater part of his time and strength, especially toward the end of
his life, was in its nature not only transitory, but not of a sort to
keep his name alive. The magazines were children of a day, and
the editor's repute as such could hardly survive them long. The
fame which belongs to Charles Brockden Brown, grudgingly accorded
by a country that can ill afford to neglect one of its earliest, most
devoted, and most original workers, rests on his novels. Judged by
standards of the present day, these are far from faultless. The
facts are not very coherent, the diction is artificial in the fashion of
the day. But when all is said, Brown was a rare story-teller; he
interested his readers by the novelty of his material, and he was
quite objective in its treatment, never obtruding his own personality.
'Wieland, Edgar Huntly,' and 'Arthur Mervyn,' the trilogy of his
best novels, are not to be contemned; and he has the distinction of
being in very truth the pioneer of American letters.
་
WIELAND'S STATEMENT
THE
HEODORE WIELAND, the prisoner at the bar, was now called
upon for his defense. He looked around him for some time
in silence, and with a mild countenance. At length he
spoke:-
It is strange: I am known to my judges and my auditors.
Who is there present a stranger to the character of Wieland?
Who knows him not as a husband, as a father, as a friend? Yet
## p. 2429 (#635) ###########################################
CHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN
2429
here am I arraigned as a criminal. I am charged with diabolical
malice; I am accused of the murder of my wife and my children!
It is true, they were slain by me; they all perished by my
hand. The task of vindication is ignoble. What is it that I am
called to vindicate? and before whom?
You know that they are dead, and that they were killed by
me. What more would you have? Would you extort from me a
statement of my motives? Have you failed to discover them
already? You charge me with malice: but your eyes are not
shut; your reason is still vigorous; your memory has not forsaken
you. You know whom it is that you thus charge. The habits of
his life are known to you; his treatment of his wife and his off-
spring is known to you; the soundness of his integrity and the
unchangeableness of his principles are familiar to your apprehen-
sion: yet you persist in this charge! You lead me hither mana-
cled as a felon; you deem me worthy of a vile and tormenting
death!
-
Who are they whom I have devoted to death? My wife - the
little ones that drew their being from me - that creature who,
as she surpassed them in excellence, claimed a larger affection
than those whom natural affinities bound to my heart.
Think ye
that malice could have urged me to this deed? Hide your auda-
cious fronts from the scrutiny of heaven. Take refuge in some
cavern unvisited by human eyes. Ye may deplore your wicked-
ness or folly, but ye cannot expiate it.
Think not that I speak for your sakes. Hug to your hearts
this detestable infatuation. Deem me still a murderer, and drag
me to untimely death. I make not an effort to dispel your illus-
ion; I utter not a word to cure you of your sanguinary folly:
but there are probably some in this assembly who have come
from far; for their sakes, whose distance has disabled them from
knowing me, I will tell what I have done, and why.
It is needless to say that God is the object of my supreme
passion. I have cherished in his presence a single and upright
heart. I have thirsted for the knowledge of his will. I have
burnt with ardor to approve my faith and my obedience. My
days have been spent in searching for the revelation of that will;
but my days have been mournful, because my search failed.
solicited direction; I turned on every side where glimmerings
of light could be discovered. I have not been wholly unin-
formed; but my knowledge has always stopped short of certainty.
## p. 2430 (#636) ###########################################
CHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN
2430
Dissatisfaction has insinuated itself into all my thoughts. My
purposes have been pure, my wishes indefatigable; but not till
lately were these purposes thoroughly accomplished and these
wishes fully gratified.
I thank Thee, my Father, for Thy bounty; that Thou didst
not ask a less sacrifice than this; that Thou placedst me in a
condition to testify my submission to Thy will! What have I
withheld which it was Thy pleasure to exact? Now may I, with
dauntless and erect eye, claim my reward, since I have given
Thee the treasure of my soul.
I was at my own house; it was late in the evening; my sister
had gone to the city, but proposed to return. It was in expecta-
tion of her return that my wife and I delayed going to bed be-
yond the usual hour; the rest of the family, however, were
retired. My mind was contemplative and calm—not wholly
devoid of apprehension on account of my sister's safety. Recent
events, not easily explained, had suggested the existence of some
danger; but this danger was without a distinct form in our im-
agination, and scarcely ruffled our tranquillity.
Time passed, and my sister did not arrive. Her house is at
some distance from mine, and though her arrangements had
been made with a view of residing with us, it was possible that
through forgetfulness, or the occurrence of unforeseen emergen-
cies, she had returned to her own dwelling.
Hence it was conceived proper that I should ascertain the
truth by going thither. I went. On my way my mind was full
of those ideas which related to my intellectual condition. In the
torrent of fervid conceptions I lost sight of my purpose. Some-
times I stood still; sometimes I wandered from my path, and
experienced some difficulty, on recovering from my fit of musing,
to regain it.
The series of my thoughts is easily traced. At first every
vein beat with raptures known only to the man whose parental
and conjugal love is without limits, and the cup of whose de-
sires, immense as it is, overflows with gratification. I know not
why emotions that were perpetual visitants should now have re-
curred with unusual energy. The transition was not new from
sensations of joy to a consciousness of gratitude. The Author
of my being was likewise the dispenser of every gift with which
that being was embellished. The service to which a benefactor
like this was entitled could not be circumscribed.
My social
## p. 2431 (#637) ###########################################
CHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN
2431
sentiments were indebted to their alliance with devotion for all
their value. All passions are base, all joys feeble, all energies
malignant, which are not drawn from this source.
For a time my contemplations soared above earth and its in-
habitants. I stretched forth my hands; I lifted my eyes, and
exclaimed, "Oh, that I might be admitted to thy presence! that
mine were the supreme delight of knowing Thy will and of
performing it! -the blissful privilege of direct communication.
with Thee, and of listening to the audible enunciation of Thy
pleasure!
"What task would I not undertake, what privation would I
not cheerfully endure, to testify my love of Thee? Alas! Thou
hidest Thyself from my view; glimpses only of Thy excellence
and beauty are afforded me. Would that a momentary emanation
from Thy glory would visit me! that some unambiguous token of
Thy presence would salute my senses! "
In this mood I entered the house of my sister. It was vacant.
Scarcely had I regained recollection of the purpose that brought
me hither. Thoughts of a different tendency had such an abso-
lute possession of my mind, that the relations of time and space
were almost obliterated from my understanding. These wander-
ings, however, were restrained, and I ascended to her chamber.
I had no light, and might have known by external observation
that the house was without any inhabitant. With this, however,
I was not satisfied. I entered the room, and the object of my
search not appearing, I prepared to return. The darkness re-
quired some caution in descending the stair. I stretched out my
hand to seize the balustrade, by which I might regulate my steps.
How shall I describe the lustre which at that moment burst
upon my vision?
I was dazzled. My organs were bereaved of their activity.
My eyelids were half closed, and my hands withdrawn from the
balustrade. A nameless fear chilled my veins, and I stood
motionless. This irradiation did not retire or lessen. It seemed
as if some powerful effulgence covered me like a mantle.
opened my eyes and found all about me luminous and glowing.
It was the element of heaven that flowed around. Nothing but
a fiery stream was at first visible; but anon a shrill voice from
behind called upon me to attend.
I
I turned. It is forbidden to describe what I saw: words,
indeed, would be wanting to the task. The lineaments of that
## p. 2432 (#638) ###########################################
2432
CHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN
Being whose veil was now lifted and whose visage beamed upon
my sight, no hues of pencil or of language can portray. As it
spoke, the accents thrilled to my heart:-"Thy prayers are
heard. In proof of thy faith, render me thy wife. This is the
victim I choose. Call her hither, and here let her fall. " The
sound and visage and light vanished at once.
What demand was this? The blood of Catharine was to be
shed! My wife was to perish by my hand! I sought oppor-
tunity to attest my virtue. Little did I expect that a proof like
this would have been demanded.
"My wife! " I exclaimed: "O God! substitute some other vic-
tim. Make me not the butcher of my wife. My own blood is
cheap. This will I pour out before Thee with a willing heart;
but spare, I beseech Thee, this precious life, or commission some
other than her husband to perform the bloody deed. "
In vain. The conditions were prescribed; the decree had gone
forth, and nothing remained but to execute it. I rushed out of
the house and across the intermediate fields, and stopped not till
I entered my own parlor. My wife had remained here during
my absence, in anxious expectation of my return with some tid-
ings of her sister. I had none to communicate. For a time I
was breathless with my speed. This, and the tremors that shook
my frame, and the wildness of my looks, alarmed her. She
immediately suspected some disaster to have happened to her
friend, and her own speech was as much overpowered by emotion
as mine. She was silent, but her looks manifested her impa-
tience to hear what I had to communicate. I spoke, but with so
much precipitation as scarcely to be understood; catching her at
the same time by the arm, and forcibly pulling her from her seat.
"Come along with me; fly; waste not a moment; time will
be lost, and the deed will be omitted. Tarry not, question not,
but fly with me. "
This deportment added afresh to her alarms.
Her eyes pur-
sued mine, and she said, "What is the matter? For God's
sake, what is the matter? Where would you have me go? "
My eyes were fixed upon her countenance while she spoke.
I thought upon her virtues; I viewed her as the mother of my
babes; as my wife.
I recalled the purpose for which I thus
urged her attendance. My heart faltered, and I saw that I must
rouse to this work all my faculties. The danger of the least
delay was imminent.
## p. 2433 (#639) ###########################################
CHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN
2433
I looked away from her, and, again exerting my force, drew
her toward the door. "You must go with me; indeed you
must. "
In her fright she half resisted my efforts, and again ex-
claimed, “Good heaven! what is it you mean? Where go? What
has happened? Have you found Clara ? "
"Follow me and you will see," I answered, still urging her
reluctant steps forward.
"What frenzy has seized you? Something must needs have
happened. Is she sick? Have you found her? "
"Come and see. Follow me and know for yourself. "
Still she expostulated and besought me to explain this mys-
terious behavior. I could not trust myself to answer her, to look
at her; but grasping her arm, I drew her after me. She hesi-
tated, rather through confusion of mind than from unwillingness
to accompany me. This confusion gradually abated, and she
moved forward, but with irresolute footsteps and continual excla-
mations of wonder and terror. Her interrogations of "What was
the matter? " and "Whither was I going? " were ceaseless and
vehement.
It was the scope of my efforts not to think; to keep up a
conflict and uproar in my mind in which all order and distinct-
ness should be lost; to escape from the sensations produced by
her voice. I was therefore silent. I strove to abridge this inter-
val by haste, and to waste all my attention in furious gesticu-
lations.
In this state of mind we reached my sister's door. She looked
at the windows and saw that all was desolate. "Why come we
here? There is nobody here. I will not go in. "
Still I was dumb; but, opening the door, I drew her into the
entry. This was the allotted scene; here she was to fall. I let
go her hand, and pressing my palms against my forehead, made
one mighty effort to work up my soul to the deed.
In vain; it would not be; my courage was appalled, my arms
nerveless. I muttered prayers that my strength might be aided
from above. They availed nothing.
Horror diffused itself over me. This conviction of my
cowardice, my rebellion, fastened upon me, and I stood rigid and
cold as marble. From this state I was somewhat relieved by my
wife's voice, who renewed her supplications to be told why we
come hither and what was the fate of my sister.
VI-153
## p. 2434 (#640) ###########################################
2434
CHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN
The fellness of a gloomy hurricane but faintly resembled the
discord that reigned in my mind. To omit this sacrifice must not
be; yet my sinews had refused to perform it. No alternative
was offered. To rebel against the mandate was impossible; but
obedience would render me the executioner of my wife. My
will was strong, but my limbs refused their office.
That accents and looks so winning should disarm me of my
resolution was to be expected. My thoughts were thrown anew
into anarchy. I spread my hand before my eyes that I might
not see her, and answered only by groans. She took my other
hand between hers, and pressing it to her heart, spoke with that
voice which had ever swayed my will and wafted away sorrow:
"My friend! my soul's friend! tell me thy cause of grief. Do
I not merit to partake with thee in thy cares? Am I not thy
wife ? »
-
This was too much. I broke from her embrace and retired
to a corner of the room. In this pause, courage was once more
infused into me. I resolved to execute my duty. She followed
me, and renewed her passionate entreaties to know the cause of
my distress.
I raised my head and regarded her with steadfast
looks. I muttered something about death, and the injunctions of
my duty.
At these words she shrunk back, and looked at me
with a new expression of anguish. After a pause, she clasped
her hands, and exclaimed: -
:-
"O Wieland! Wieland! God grant that I am mistaken! but
something surely is wrong. I see it; it is too plain; thou art
undone lost to me and to thyself. " At the same time she
gazed on my features with intensest anxiety, in hope that differ-
ent symptoms would take place. I replied to her with vehe-
mence:
-
"Undone! No; my duty is known, and I thank my God that
my cowardice is now vanquished and I have power to fulfill it.
Catharine, I pity the weakness of thy nature; I pity thee, but
must not spare. Thy life is claimed from my hands; thou must
die! "
Fear was now added to her grief. "What mean you? Why
talk you of death? Bethink yourself, Wieland; bethink yourself,
and this fit will pass. Oh, why came I hither? Why did you
drag me hither? "
"I brought thee hither to fulfill a divine command.
appointed thy destroyer, and destroy thee I must. "
I am
Saying this,
## p. 2435 (#641) ###########################################
CHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN
2435
She shrieked aloud, and endeavored to free
I seized her wrists.
herself from my grasp; but her efforts were vain.
"Surely, surely, Wieland, thou dost not mean it. Am I not
thy wife and wouldst thou kill me? Thou wilt not; and yet-I
see-thou art Wieland no longer! A fury resistless and horri
ble possesses thee. Spare me- spare-help-help-»
Till her breath was stopped she shrieked for help, for mercy.
When she could speak no longer, her gestures, her looks appealed
to my compassion. My accursed hand was irresolute and trem-
ulous. I meant thy death to be sudden, thy struggles to be
brief. Alas! my heart was infirm, my resolves mutable. Thrice
I slackened my grasp, and life kept its hold, though in the
midst of pangs.
Her eyeballs started from their sockets. Grim-
ness and distortion took the place of all that used to bewitch me
into transport and subdue me into reverence. I was commis-
sioned to kill thee, but not to torment thee with the foresight
of thy death; not to multiply thy fears and prolong thy agonies.
Haggard and pale and lifeless, at length thou ceasedst to contend.
with thy destiny.
This was the moment of triumph. Thus had I successfully
subdued the stubbornness of human passions: the victim which
had been demanded was given; the deed was done past recall.
I lifted the corpse in my arms and laid it on the bed. I
gazed upon it with delight. Such was the elation of my thoughts
that I even
even broke into laughter. I clapped my hands and
exclaimed, “It is done! My sacred duty is fulfilled! To that I
have sacrificed, O my God, Thy last and best gift, my wife! "
For a while I thus soared above frailty. I imagined I had
set myself forever beyond the reach of selfishness; but my im-
aginations were false. This rapture quickly subsided. I looked
again at my wife. My joyous ebullitions vanished, and I asked
myself who it was whom I saw. Methought it could not be
Catharine. It could not be the woman who had lodged for years in
my heart; who had slept nightly in my bosom; who had borne in
her womb, who had fostered at her breast, the beings who called
me father; whom I have watched with delight, and cherished
with a fondness ever new and perpetually growing; it could not
be the same. Where was her bloom? These deadly and blood-
suffused orbs but ill resemble the azure and ecstatic tenderness
of her eyes.
The lucid stream that meandered over that bosom,
the glow of love that was wont to sit upon that cheek, are
## p. 2436 (#642) ###########################################
2436
CHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN
much unlike these livid stains and this hideous deformity. Alas!
these were the traces of agony; the gripe of the assassin had
been here!
I will not dwell upon my lapse into desperate and outrageous
sorrow. The breath of heaven that sustained me was withdrawn,
and I sunk into mere man. I leaped from the floor; I dashed
my head against the wall; I uttered screams of horror; I panted
after torment and pain. Eternal fire and the bickerings of hell,
compared with what I felt, were music and a bed of roses.
I thank my God that this degeneracy was transient-that He
deigned once more to raise me aloft. I thought upon what I
had done as a sacrifice to duty, and was calm. My wife was
dead; but I reflected that though this source of human consola-
tion was closed, yet others were still open. If the transports of
a husband were no more, the feelings of a father had still scope
for exercise. When remembrance of their mother should excite
too keen a pang, I would look upon them and be comforted.
While I revolved these ideas, new warmth flowed in upon
my heart. I was wrong. These feelings were the growth of self-
ishness. Of this I was not aware; and to dispel the mist that
obscured my perceptions, a new effulgence and a new mandate
were necessary. From these thoughts I was recalled by a ray
that was shot into the room. A voice spake like that which I
had before heard:- "Thou hast done well. But all is not done
-the sacrifice is incomplete-thy children must be offered-
they must perish with their mother! —»
Thou, Omnipotent and Holy! Thou knowest that my actions
were conformable to Thy will. I know not what is crime; what
actions are evil in their ultimate and comprehensive tendency, or
what are good. Thy knowledge, as Thy power, is unlimited. I
have taken Thee for my guide, and cannot err. To the arms of
Thy protection I intrust my safety. In the awards of Thy
justice I confide for my recompense.
Come death when it will, I am safe. Let calumny and abhor-
rence pursue me among men; I shall not be defrauded of my
dues. The peace of virtue and the glory of obedience will be
my portion hereafter.
## p. 2437 (#643) ###########################################
2437
JOHN BROWN
(1810-1882)
OHN BROWN, the son of a secession-church minister, was born
in Biggar, Lanarkshire, Scotland, September 22d, 1810, and
died in Edinburgh, May 11th, 1882. He was educated at
the Edinburgh High School and at the University, and graduated in
medicine in 1833. For a time he was a surgeon's assistant to the
great Dr. Syme, the man of whom he said "he never wasted a drop
of ink or blood," and whose character he has drawn in one of his
most charming biographies. When he began to practice for himself
he gradually "got into a good connection,"
and his patients made him their confidant
and adviser. He was considered a fine
doctor too, for he had remarkable common-
sense, and was said to be unerring in diag-
nosis.
JOHN BROWN
Dr. Brown did not, as is commonly be-
lieved, dislike his profession; but later on
he took a view of it which seemed non-
progressive, and his success as a writer no
doubt interfered with his practice. His
friend Professor Masson draws a pleasant
picture of him when he first settled in
practice, as a dark-haired man with soft,
fine eyes and a benignant manner, the hus-
band of a singularly beautiful woman, and much liked and sought
after in the social circles of Edinburgh. This was partly owing to
the charm of his conversation, and partly to the literary reputation
he had achieved through some articles on the Academy exhibition
and on local artists. Though he had little technical training, he had
an eye for color and form, an appreciation of the artist's meaning,
and an instinct for discovering genius, as in the case of Noel Paton
and David Scott. He soon became an authority among artists, and
he gave a new impulse to national art.
He contributed largely to the North British Review. In 1855 he
published 'Horæ Subsecivæ,' which contained, among medical biog-
raphy and medico-literary papers, the immortal Scotch idyl, 'Rab
and his Friends. Up to this time the unique personality of the
doctor, with its delightful mixture of humor and sympathy, was
## p. 2438 (#644) ###########################################
2438
JOHN BROWN
known only to his own circle. The appearance of 'Rab and his
Friends' revealed it to the world. Brief as it is in form, and simple
in outline, Scotland has produced nothing so full of pure, pathetic
genius since Scott.
Another volume of 'Horæ Subsecivæ appeared two years after,
and some selections from it, and others from unpublished manuscript,
were printed separately in the volume entitled 'Spare Hours. ' They
met with instant and unprecedented success. In a short time ten
thousand copies of 'Minchmoor' and 'James the Doorkeeper' were
sold, fifteen thousand copies of 'Pet Marjorie,' and 'Rab' had reached
its fiftieth thousand. With all this success and praise, and constantly
besought by publishers for his work, he could not be persuaded that
his writings were of any permanent value, and was reluctant to
publish. In 1882 appeared a third volume of the 'Hora Subsecivæ,'
which included all his writings. A few weeks after its publication
he died.
The Doctor's medical essays, which are replete with humor, are
written in defense of his special theory, the distinction between the
active and the speculative mind. He thought there was too much
science and too little intuitive sagacity in the world, and looked back
longingly to the old-time common-sense, which he believed mod-
ern science had driven away. His own mind was anti-speculative,
although he paid just tributes to philosophy and science and ad-
mired their achievements. He stigmatized the speculations of the
day as the "lust of innovation. " But the reader cares little for the
opinions of Dr. Brown as arguments: his subject is of little conse-
quence if he will but talk. By the charm of his story-telling these
dead Scotch doctors are made to live again. The death-bed of Syme,
for instance, is as pathetic as the wonderful paper on Thackeray's
death; and to-day many a heart is sore for 'Pet Marjorie,' the ten-
year-old child who died in Scotland almost a hundred years ago.
As an essayist, Dr. Brown belongs to the followers of Addison
and Charles Lamb, and he blends humor, pathos, and quiet hopeful-
ness with
a grave and earnest dignity. He delighted, not like
Lamb "in the habitable parts of the earth," but in the lonely moor-
lands and pastoral hills, over which his silent, stalwart shepherds
walked with swinging stride. He had a keen appreciation for
anything he felt to be excellent: his usual question concerning
a stranger, either in literature or life, was "Has he wecht, sir? ”—
quoting Dr. Chalmers; and when he wanted to give the highest
praise, he said certain writing was "strong meat. " He had a warm
enthusiasm for the work of other literary men: an artist himself, he
was quick to appreciate and seize upon the witty thing or the excel-
lent thing wherever he found it, and he was eager to share his
## p. 2439 (#645) ###########################################
JOHN BROWN
2439
pleasure with the whole world. He reintroduced to the public
Henry Vaughn, the quaint seventeenth-century poet; he wrote a
sympathetic memoir of Arthur Hallam; he imported 'Modern Paint-
ers, and enlightened Edinburgh as to its merits. His art papers.
were what Walter Pater would call "appreciations," that is to say,
he dwelt upon the beauties of what he described rather than upon
the defects. What he did not admire he left alone.
As the author of 'Rab' loved the lonely glens on Minchmoor and
in the Enterkin, or where Queen Mary's "baby garden" shows its
box-row border among the Spanish chestnuts of Lake Monteith, so
he loved the Scottish character, "bitter to the taste and sweet to the
diaphragm": "Jeemes" the beadle, with his family worship when he
himself was all the family; the old Aberdeen Jacobite people; Miss
Stirling Graham of Duntrune, who in her day bewitched Edinburgh;
Rab, Ailie, and Bob Ainslie. His characters are oddities, but are
drawn without a touch of cynicism. What an amount of playful,
wayward nonsense lies between these pages, and what depths of
melancholy under the fun! Like Sir Walter, he had a great love
for dogs, and never went out unaccompanied by one or two of them.
They are the heroes of several of his sketches.
Throughout the English-speaking world, he was affectionately
known as Dr. John Brown of Edinburgh. He stood aloof from polit-
ical and ecclesiastical controversies, and was fond of telling a story
to illustrate how little reasoning went to forming partisans.
