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. 93
Now, by thy means, do I judge otherwise. Yet how,
my friend, shall I unravel this mystery? AI' heart is
truly sad. How easily is my woman's courage lowered,
and how prone am I to despond!
Lend me thy aid, thy helping hand, my beloved. Decide and act for me, and be my weakness fortified, my
hope restored, by thee. Let me lose all separate feelings, all separate existence, and let me know no principle of action but the decision of your judgment, no
motive or desire but to please, to gratify you.
Our marriage, you say, will facilitate reconcilement
with my mother. Do you think so? Then let it take
place, my dear Hal. Heaven permit that marriage may
tend to reconcile! but, let it reconcile or not, if the wish
be yours it shall occupy the chief place in my heart.
The time, the manner, be it yours to prescribe. My
happiness, on that event, will surely want but little to
complete it; and, if you bid me not despair of my
mother's acquiescence, I will not despair.
I am to send your letter, after reading, to my mother,
I suppose. I have read it, Hal, more than once. And
for my sake thou declinest her offers! When you thus
refuse no sacrifice on my account, shall I hesitate when
it becomes my turn? Shall I ever want gratitude,
thinkest thou? Shall I ever imagine that I have done
enough to evince my gratitude?
But how do I forget thy present situation! Thy dying
friend has scarcely occurred to me. Thy afflictions, thy
fatigues, are absorbed in my own selfish cares.
I am very often on the brink of hating myself. So
much thoughtlessness of others; such callousness to sorrows not my own: my hard heart has often reproached
thee for sparing a sigh or a wish from me; that every
gloom has not been dispelled by my presence, was treason, forsooth, against my majesty, and the murmurs that
delighted love should breathe, to welcome thy return,
were changed into half-vindictive reluctance, —not quite
a frown, —and upbraidings, in which tenderness was
almost turned out of door by anger.
In the present case, for instance, I have scarcely
thought of thy dying friend once. How much thy dis