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.

JANE TALBOT. 173
calumniator; means that will humble and disgrace you
infinitely more than a secret interview and frank confession from your own lips.
"' To deny and to prevaricate in a case like this is to be
expected from one capable of acting-as you have acted;
but it will avail you nothing. It will merely compel me to
have recourse to means less favourable to you. My reluctance to employ them arises from regard to you, for
I repeat that I have no enmity for you, and propose, in
reality, not only Mrs. Talbot's advantage, but your own."
I cannot paint the alarm and embarrassment which
these words occasioned. Tears afforded her some relief,
but shame had deprived her of all utterance.
" Let me conjure you," resumed I,'" to go with me this
moment to Mrs. Fielder. In ten minutes all may be
over. I will save you the pain of speaking. Only be
present while I explain the matter. Your silent acquiescence will be all that I shall demand."
" Impossible!" she exclaimed, in a kind of agony; " I
am already sick to death! I cannot move a step on such
a purpose. I don't know Mrs. Fielder, and can never
look her in the face."
"A letter, then," replied I, " will do, perhaps, as well.
Here are pen and paper. Send to her, by me, a few
lines. Defer all circumstance and comment, and merely
inform her who the author of this forgery was. Here,"
continued I, producing the letter which Talbot had shown
to Mrs. Fielder, —" here is the letter in which my friend's
hand is counterfeited, and she is made to confess a guilt
to the very thought of which she has ever been a stranger.
Enclose it in a paper, acknowledging the stratagem to be
yours. It is done in a few words, and in half a minute."
My impetuosity overpowered all opposition and remonstrance. The paper was before her, the pen in her
reluctant fingers; but that was all.
"There may never be a future opportunity of repairing your misconduct. You are sick, you say; and, indeed, your countenance bespeaks some deeply-rooted
malady. You cannot be certain but that this is the last
opportunity you may ever enjoy. When sunk upon the
bed of death, and unable to articulate your sentiments,
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