notwithstanding the author's assertion, says it was never finished. It is interesting, however, to regard Brown's own views of his first, probably crude, effort in novel-writing, and to trace in his high estimation of Mr. Godwin's "Caleb Williams," the standard by which be resolved to measure his own endeavours.
"I hardly know," says he, "how to regard this exploit. Is it a respectable proof of perseverance or not? Considering my character in its former appearance, this steadiness of application might not have been expected. What is the nature or merit of my performance? This question is not for me to answer. My decision is favourable or otherwise, according to the views which I take of the subject. When a mental comparison is made between this and the mass of novels, I am inclined to be pleased with my own production. But when the objects of comparison are changed, and I revolve the transcendent merits of 'Caleb Williams,' my pleasure is diminished, and is preserved from a total extinction only by the reflection that this performance is the first; that every new attempt will be better than the last, and that, considered in the light of a prelude or first link, it may merit that praise to which it may possess no claim, considered as a last best creation."
During his residence in New-York, in the year 1798, Brown, who had already seen the plague of Philadelphia, witnessed the appalling ravages of the yellow fever. This city had been attacked several years in succession by the pestilence; but it was hoped that its frightful malignity would be diminished in each new visitation. Of the events brought about by this awful infliction, our novelist gives many overwhelming
