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.

6 JANE TALBOT.
I shall take care to prevent future interruption by
shutting up the house and retiring to my chamber, where
I am resolved to remain till I have fully disburdened my
heart. Disburden it, said I? I shall load it, I fear,
with sadness, but I will not regret an undertaking which
my duty to you makes indispensable.
One of the earliest incidents that I remember is an
expostulation with my father. I saw several strange
people enter the chamber where my mother was. Somewhat suggested to my childish fancy that these strangers
meant to take her away, and that I should never see her
again. My terror was violent, and I thought of nothing
but seizing her gown or hand, and holding her back fiom
the rude assailants. My father detained me in his arms,
and endeavoured to soothe my fears, but I would not be
appeased. I struggled and shrieked, and, hearing some
movements in my mother's room, that seemed to betoken
the violence I so much dreaded, I leaped, with a sudden
effort, from my father's arms, but fainted before I reached
the door of the room.
This may serve as a specimen of the impetuosity of
my temper. It was always fervent and unruly, unacquainted with moderation in its attachments, violent in
its indignation and its enmity, but easily persuaded to
pity and forgiveness.
When I recovered from my swoon, I ran to my mother's room; but she was gone. I rent the air with my
cries, and shocked all about me with importunities to
know whither they had carried her. They had carried
her to the grave, and nothing would content me but to
visit the spot three or four times a day, and to sit in the
room in which she died, in stupid and mopeful silence,
all night long.
At this time I was only five years old,-an age at
which, in general, a deceased parent is quickly forgotten;
but, in my attachment to my mother, I showed none of
the volatility of childhood. While she lived, I was never
at ease but when seated at her knee, or with my arms
round her neck. When dead, I cherished her remembrance for years, and have paid, hiildreds of times, the
tribute of my tears at the foot of her grave.