Arthur Mervyn by Charles Brockden Brown arrives here as a LibriVox recording, a public-domain audiobook released in episodes titled by chapter. The recording of the first chapter is credited to Margaret Espaillat. That chapter carries the author's short preface, which predicts that the pestilence lately afflicting the city will probably mark an era in its history. A narrator then takes over, and his household nurses a young stranger through the epidemic. Within a fortnight the patient is out of danger. He still says almost nothing. His gravity seems unusual for eighteen, and he describes himself as a farm boy with no schooling, raised at the 'plow-tail and the threshing floor'. The chapter closes with the family gathered at the hearth and the baby asleep, as Arthur Mervyn begins his account. From the second chapter on, the voice is his. He describes a Chester County farm and siblings who died one after another at nineteen or twenty, and says his own frail constitution leads him to expect the same end. After his mother dies, his father presents Betty as his new wife, a woman Mervyn considers rude and ignorant. He packs three check shirts, the stockings he knitted himself and three quarter-dollar pieces, and sets out for the city at dawn, leaving his books to the mice. Once there he is hungry and has nowhere to sleep, though he reflects that it is no crime to be without a home. A talkative companion leads him through a court full of stables and in by a back way, into a house whose lofty rooms and painted-canvas staircase dwarf his father's wooden farmhouse. Before the night is out he is shut in a closet, listening to a man urge a weeping lady to master her grief, and he escapes through a window having lost part of his clothing. He then asks a stranger for the loan of sixpence so he can leave for the country, and is questioned closely about his family and his reasons. By the sixth chapter he is in the house of a man named Welbeck, wearing clothes that are not his own. He works out a theory that he resembles a son who may have died on the scaffold or in war. Brockden Brown keeps these guesses out in the open, so the listener hears a young man talk himself into hope. The pleasure of the recording lies in that anxious, second-guessing voice set against formal, carefully weighted prose. It rewards attention to the sentences as much as to the plot.