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.

114 ORMOND; OR,
deception on himself, and imagine that there was genuine
beneficence in a scheme like this. Would the lady more
consult her happiness by adopting than by rejecting it?
There can be but one answer. It cannot be supposed
that Ormond, in stating this proposal, acted with all the
impartiality that he pretended; that he did not employ
fallacious exaggerations and ambiguous expedients; that
he did not seize every opportunity of triumphing over
her weakness, and building his success rather on the illusions of her heart than the convictions of her understanding. His conclusions were specious but delusive, and
were not uninfluenced by improper biasses; but of this
he himself was scarcely conscious, and it must be at least
admitted that he acted with scrupulous sincerity.
An uncommon degree of skill was required to introduce
this topic so as to avoid the imputation of an insult.
This scheme was little in unison with all her preconceived
notions. No doubt, the irksomeness of her present situation, the allurements of luxury and ease which Ormond
had to bestow, and the revival of her ancient independence
and security, had some share in dictating her assent.
Her concurrence was by no means cordial and unhesitating. Remorse and the sense of dishonour pursued
her to her retreat, though chosen with a view of shunning
their intrusions; and it was only when the reasonings
and blandishments of her lover were exhibited, that she
was lulled into temporary tranquillity.
She removed to Philadelphia. Here she enjoyed all
the consolations of opulence. She was mistress of a small
but elegant mansion. She possessed all the means of
solitary amusement, and frequently enjoyed the company
of Ormond. These, however, were insufficient to render
her happy. Certain reflections might, for a time, be repressed or divested of their sting, but they insinuated
themselves at every interval, and imparted to her mind
a hue of dejection from which she could not entirely relieve herself.
She endeavoured to'acquire a relish for the pursuits of
literature, by which her lonely hours might be cheered;
but of this,/even in the blithesomeness and serenity of
her former days, she was incapable,-much more so now