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.

118 JANE TALBOT.
trade. What is it that makes one calling more lucrative
than another? Not superior strength of shoulders or
sleight of hand; not the greater quantity of brute matter
that is reduced into form or set into motion. No. The
difference lies in the mental powers of the artist, and the
direction accidentally given to these powers.
What should hinder a girl like this from growing rich
by her diligence and ingenuity? She has, perhaps, acquired many arts with no view but her own amusement.
Not a little did her mother pay to those who taught her
to draw and to sing. May she not levy the same tributes
upon others that were levied on her, and make a business
of her sports?
There is, indeed, a calling that may divert her from the
thoughts of mere lucre. She may talk and sing for another, and dedicate her best hours to a tutelage for which
there is a more precious requital than money can give.
Dost not see her, Hal? I do,-as well as this gushing sensibility will let me,-rocking in her arms and
half stifling with her kisses, or delighting with her lullaby, a precious little creatureWhy, my friend, do I hesitate? Do I not write for
thy eye, and thine only? and what is there but pure and
sacred in the anticipated transports of a mother?
The conscious heart might stifle its throbs in thy
presence; but why not indulge them in thy absence, and
tell thee its inmost breathings, not without a shameconfessing glow, yet not without drops of the truest
delight that were ever shed?
Why, how now, Jane? whence all this interest in the
scene thou portrayest? One would fancy that this happy
outcast, this self-dependent wife, was no other than
thyse7Sf.
A shrewd conjecture, truly. I suppose, Hal, thou
wilt be fond enough to guess so, too. By what penalty
shall I deter thee from so rash a thing? yet thou art
not here-I say it to my sorrow-to suffer the penalty
which I might choose to inflict.
I will not say what it is, lest the fear of it should
keep thee away.