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,

all streets thronged, and all faces thoughtless or busy.
The arts and the amusements of life seemed as sedulously
cultivated as ever. Little did I then think what had
been, and what at that moment was, the condition of
my friend. I stopped for the sake of respite from
fatigue, and did not, therefore, pass much time in the
streets. Perhaps, had I walked seasonably abroad, we
might have encountered each other, and thus have
saved ourselves from a thousand anxieties.
At Baltimore I made myself known, without the formality of introduction, to the Ridgeleys. They acknowledged their relationship to Mr. Dudley, but professed
absolute ignorance of his fate. Indirect intercourse
only had been maintained, formerly, by Dudley with his
mother's kindred. They had heard of his misfortune a
twelvemonth after it happened; but what measures had
been subsequently pursued, their kinsman had not thought
proper to inform them.
The failure of this expedient almost bereft me of hope.
Neither my own imagination nor the Ridgeleys could
suggest any new mode by which my purpose was likely to
be accomplished. To leave America without obtaining the
end of my visit could not be thought of without agony;
and yet the continuance of my stay promised me no relief from my uncertainties.
On this theme I ruminated without ceasing. I recalled
every conversation and incident of former times, and
sought in them a clue by which my present conjectures
might be guided. One night, immersed alone in my
chamber, my thoughts were thus employed. My train
of meditation was, on this occasion, new. From the
review of particulars from which no satisfaction had
hitherto been gained, I passed to a vague and comprehensive retrospect.
Mr. Dudley's early life, his profession of a painter,
his zeal in this pursuit, and his reluctance to quit it,
were remembered. Would he not revert to this profession when other means of subsistence were gone? It is
true, similar obstacles with those which had formerly
occasioned his resort to a different path existed at present, and no painter of his name was to be found in