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.

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ORMOND; OR,

"What did you buy?"
"Some kind of water,-laud'num I think they call it.
She wrote it down, and I carried the paper to Mr. Eckhart's; and he gave it to me in a' bottle, and I gave it to
my mistress."
"'Tis well. Retire. I will see how she is myself."
Ormond had conceived- himself fortified against every
disaster. He looked for nothing but evil, and therefore,
in ordinary cases, regarded its approach without fear or
surprise. Now, however, he found that his tremors
would not be stilled. His perturbations increased with
every step that brought him nea:rer to her chamber. He
knocked, but to answer was returned. He opened, advanced to the bedside, and drew back the curtains. IIe
shrunk from the spectacle that presented itself. Was
this the Helena that, a few hours before, was blithesome
with health and radiant with beauty? HIer visage was
serene, but sunken and pale. Death was in every line
of it. To his tremulous and hurried scrutiny every limb
was rigid and cold.
The habits of Ormond tended to obscure the appearances, if not to deaden the emotions, of sorrow. He was
so much accustomed to the frustration of well-intended
efforts, and confided so much in his own integrity, that
he was not easily disconcerted. He had merely to advert, on this occasion, to the tumultuous state of his
feelings, in order to banish their confusion and restore
himself to calm. "Well," said he, as he dropped the
curtain and turned towards another part of the room,
"this, without doubt, is a rueful spectacle. Can it be
helped? Is there in man the power of recalling her?
There is none such in me.
"She is gone. Well, then, she is gone. If she were
fool enough to die, I am not fool enough to follow her.
I am determined to live and be happy notwithstanding.
Why not?
"Yet this is a piteous sight. What is impossible to
undo might be easily prevented. A piteous spectacle!
But what else, on an ampler scale, is the universe?
Nature is a theatre of suffering. What corner is unvisited by calamity and pain? I have chosen as became