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. 103
I tookl up the pen that I might tell thee my thanks,
yet rambled almost instantly into mournful repetitions.
I, have half a mind to burn the scribble, but I cannot
write more just now, and this will show you, at least,
that I am not unmindful of you. Adieu. COLDEN.
LETTER XXVIII.
To Mrs. Talbot.
Baltimore, November 6.
LET me see! this is the beginning of November. Yes;
it was just a twelvemonth ago that I was sitting, at this
silent hour, at a country-fire just like this. My elbow
then as now was leaning on a table, supplied with books
and writing-tools.
"What shall I do," thought I, "then, to pass away
the time till ten? Can't think of going to bed till that
hour, and if I sit here, idly basking in the beams of this
cheerful blaze, I shall fall into a listless, uneasy doze,
that, without refreshing me, as sleep would do, will unfit
me for sleep.
" Shall I read? Nothing here that is new. Enough
that is of value, if I could but make myself inquisitive;
treasures which, in a curious mood, I would eagerly rifle;
but now the tedious page only adds new weight to my
eyelids.
" Shall I write? What? to whom? there are Sam
and Tom, and brother Dick, and sister Sue: they all
have epistolary claims upon me still unsatisfied. Twenty
letters that I ought to answer. Come, let me briskly set
about the task"Not now; some other time. To-morrow. What
can I write about? Haven't two ideas that hang together intelligibly.'Twill be commonplace trite stuff.
Besides, writing always plants a thorn in my breast.
"Let me try my hand at a reverie; a meditation,-on
that hearth-brush. Hair-what sort of hair? of a hog;
and the wooden handle-of poplar or cedar or white oak.
At one time a troop of swine munching mast in a grove