The novels of Charles Brockden Brown, consisting of Wieland;or, The transformation. Arthur Mervyn; or, Memoirs of the year 1793. Edgar Huntly; or, Memoirs of a sleep-walker. Jane Talbot. Ormond; or, The secret witness. Clara Howard; or, The enthusiasm of love. With a memoir of the author.

JANE TALBOT. 113
enough to support her and her Sally in the way they
wished.
Inquiring into their views and wishes, I found them
limited to the privacy of a small but neat house in some
cleanly and retired corner of the city. Their stock in trade
I advised them to convert into money, and, placing it in
some public fund, live upon its produce. Mrs. Henning
knew nothing of the world. Though an excellent manager
within-doors, any thing that might be called business was
strange and arduous to her, and without my direct assistance she could do nothing.
Happily, at this time, just such a cheap and humble,
but neat, new, and airy dwelling as my friend required,
belonging to Mrs. Fielder, was vacant. You know the
house.'Tis that where the Frenchman Catineau lived.
Is it not a charming abode?-at a distance from noise,
with a green field opposite and a garden behind; of two
stories; a couple of good rooms on each floor; with unspoiled water, and a kitchen, below the ground indeed, but
light, wholesome, and warm.
Most fortunately, too, that incorrigible Creole had deserted it. He was scared away by the fever, and no other
had put in a claim. I made haste to write to my mother, who, though angry with me on my own account,
could not reject my application in favour of my good
widow.
I even prevailed on her to set the rent forty dollars
lower than she might have gotten from another, and to
give a lease of it at that rate for five years. You can't
imagine my satisfaction in completing this affair, and in
seeing my good woman quietly settled in her new abode,
with her daughter Sally and her servant Alice, who had
come with her from Europe, and had lived with her the
dear knows how long.
Mrs. Henning is no common woman, I assure you.
Her temper is the sweetest in the world. Not cultivated
or enlightened is her understanding, but naturally correct.
Her life has always been spent under her own roof; and
never saw I a scene of more quiet and order than her
little homestead exhibits. Though humbly born, and perhaps meanly brought up, her parlour and chamber add to
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