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.

102 JANE TALBOT.
would only sink me with more speed into despair.
Quickly, and by some fatal deed, should I abandon you,
my children and the world.
Possibly I err. Possibly I underrate my strength of
mind and the influence of habit, which makes easy to us
every path; but I will not trust to the possible.
Hence it is that, if by marriage you should become
wholly dependent on me, it could never take place. Some
freak of fortune may indeed place me above want, but
my own efforts never will. Indeed, in this forbearance,
in this self-denial, there is no merit. While admitted to
the privileges of a betrothed man, your company, your
confidence, every warrantable proof of love mine, I may
surely dispense with the privileges of wedlock. Secretly
repine I might; occasionally I might murmur. But my
days would glide along with fewer obstacles, at least,
than if I were that infirm and disconsolate wretch, your
husband.
But this unhappy alternative is not ours. Thou hast
something which thy mother cannot take away; sufficient
for thy maintenance, thy frugal support. iMeaner and
more limited indeed than thy present and former affluence; such as I, of my own motion, would never reduce
thee to; such as I can object to only on thy own account.
How has the night run away! My friend's sister arrived here yesterday. They joined in beseeching me to
go to a separate chamber and strive for some refreshment. I have slept a couple of hours, and that has sufficed. My mind, on waking, was thronged with so many
images connected with my Jane, that I started up at last
and betook myself to the pen.
Yet how versatile and fleeting is thought! In this long
letter I have not put down one thing that I intended. I
meant not to repeat what has been so often said before,
and especially I meant not to revolve, if I could help
it, any gloomy ideas.
Thy letters gave me exquisite pleasure. They displayed all thy charming self to my view. I pressed
every precious line to my lips with nearly as much rapture as I would have done the prattler herself, had she
been talking to me all this tenderness instead of writing it.