services as the amanuensis of their posthumous productions, and thus
secure the endless renown that they have forfeited by going hence
too early. But I have my own business to attend to; and besides, a
medical gentleman, who interests himself in some little ailments of
mine, advises me not to make too free use of pen and ink. There are
clerks enough out of employment who would be glad of such a job.

Good by! Are you alive or dead? and what are you about? Still
scribbling for the Democratic? And do those infernal compositors
and proof-readers misprint your unfortunate productions as vilely as
ever? It is too bad. Let every man manufacture his own nonsense,
say I. Expect me home soon, and--to whisper you a secret--in
company with the poet Campbell, who purposes to visit Wyoming and
enjoy the shadow of the laurels that he planted there. Campbell is
now an old man. He calls himself well, better than ever in his
life, but looks strangely pale, and so shadow-like that one might
almost poke a finger through his densest material. I tell him, by
way of joke, that he is as dim and forlorn as Memory, though as
unsubstantial as Hope.


Your true friend, P.

P. S.--Pray present my most respectful regards to our venerable and
revered friend Mr. Brockden Brown.


It gratifies me to learn that a complete edition of his works, in a
double-columned octavo volume, is shortly to issue from the press at
Philadelphia. Tell him that no American writer enjoys a more