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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CLARA HOWARD; OR,

" Such is the history of your packet, which, you see, was
mislaid through accident and my sister's bad memory."
This packet instantly connected itself, in my fancy, with
the destiny of poor Mary. It came hither nearly at the
time of her flight from Abington. It no doubt came from
her, and contained information of unspeakable moment
to our mutual happiness. When I reflected on the consequences of this negligence, I could scarcely restrain my
impatience. I eagerly inquired for the packet.
"Not a half-hour ago," said Hickman, "I delivered it
to Cartwright, with directions to put itinto the post-office
for New York. He sets out early in the morning, so that
thou wilt receive it on thy return to New York."
Cartwright lives five miles from this house. The least
delay was intolerable; and, my horse not being yet unsaddled, I mounted him immediately, and set out, in spite
of expostulation and entreaty. The night was remarkably gloomy and tempestuous, and I was already thoroughly
fatigued; but these considerations were forgotten.
I arrived at Cartwright's hovel in less than an hour,
and, having gotten the packet, I returned with equal
despatch. Immediately after, I retired to my chamber,
and opened the packet, on which I instantly recognised
the well-known hand of Miss Wilmot. I will waive all
comments and send you the letter.
To Philip Stanley.
Abington, November 11.
I need not tell you, my friend, what I have felt in consequence of your silence. The short note which I received,
a fortnight after you had left me, roused my curiosity and
my fears, instead of allaying them. You promised me a
longer account of some mysterious changes that had taken
place in your condition. This I was to receive in a few
days. At the end of a week, I was impatient. The
promised letter did not arrive. Four weeks passed away,
and nothing came from you.
Your packet has at last put an end to suspense: but why
did you not send it sooner? Why not send me your story
piecemeal, —or, at least, tell me, in half a line, how you
were employed, and what occasioned your delay? Why

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