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. 95
rest of mankind, all its doors fly open of their own
accord when you approach.
Now am I got into my usual strain; in which I could
persevere forever. No wonder it charms me so much,
since, while thus pursuing it, I lose all my cares in a
sweet oblivion; but I must stop at last, and recall my
thoughts to a less welcome subject.
Painful as it is, I must write to my mother. I will do
it now, and send you my letter. I will endeavour, hereafter, to keep alive a salutary distrust of myself, and do
nothing without your approbation and direction. Such
submission becomes thy JANE.
LETTER XXVI.
To iars. P7ielder.
Philadelphia, November 4.
I TREMBLE thus to approach my honoured mother once
more, since I cannot bring into her presence the heart that
she wishes to find. Instead of acknowledgment of faults,
and penitence suitable to their heinous nature, I must
bring with me a bosom free from self-reproach, and a confidence, which innocence only can give, that I shall be
some time able to disprove the charge brought against me.
Ah, my mother! could such guilt as this ever stain a
heart fashioned by your tenderest care? Did it never
occur to you that possibly some mistake might have
misled the witness against me.?
The letter which you sent me is partly mine. All that
is honest and laudable is mine, but that which confesses
dishonour has been added by another hand. By whom
my handwriting was counterfeited, and for what end, I
know not. I cannot name any one who deserves to be
suspected.
I might proceed to explain the circumstances attending the writing and the loss of this letter, so fatal to me;
but I forbear to attempt to justify myself by means
which, I know beforehand, will effect nothing, unless it
be to aggravate, in your eyes, my imaginary guilt.