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.

JAJE TA'LBOT. 109
know it, seems irregular and injudicious. To lay before
a stranger private letters from his friend, in which
opinions were avowed and defended that he knew would
render the writer detestable to her that read.
He imagined himself justified in imputing to me atrocious and infamous errors. He was grieved for my debasement, and endeavoured, by his utmost zeal and eloquence, to rectify these errors. This was generous and
just: but needed he to proclaim these errors and blazon
this infamy?
Yet ought I to wish to pass upon the world for other
than I am? Can I value that respect which is founded
in ignorance? Can I be satisfied with caresses from
those who, if they knew me fully, would execrate and
avoid me?
For past faults and rectified errors, are not remorse and
amendment adequate atonements? If any one despise
me for what I was, let me not shrink from the penalty.
Let me not find pleasure in the praise of those whose
approbation is founded on ignorance of what I am. It
is unjust to demand, it is sordid to retain, praise that is
not merited either by our present conduct or our past.
Why have I declined such praise? Because I value it not.
Thus have I endeavoured to think in relation to Thomson. My endeavour has succeeded. My heart entirely
acquits him. It even applauds him for his noble sincerity.
Yet I could never write to him or talk to him on this
subject. My tongue, my pen, will be sure to falter. I
know that he will boldly justify his conduct, and I feel
that he ought to justify; yet the attempt to justify would
awaken-indignation, selfishness. In spite of the suggestions of my better reason, I know we should quarrel.
We should not quarrel now, if the topic were mentioned.
Of indignation against him, even for a real fault, much
less for an inmaginary one, I am, at this time, not capable;
but it would be useless to mention it. There is nothing
to explain; no misapprehensions to remove, no doubts to
clear up. All that he did, I, in the same case, ought to
have done.
But I told you I wished not to fill my letters with the
melancholy scene before me. This is a respite, a solace
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