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.

14

CLARA HOWARD; OR,

secure to him the competence which I could not enjoy
alone.
This end cannot now be effected. New reasons have
sprung up for foregoing your affection, even had Morton
perished at sea. A friend has returned to you, who is
far more able to relieve your poverty than I should be.
It is easy to see on what conditions this relief is intended
to be given. He has a daughter, whom he deems worthy
of his adopted son.
He knows your merit, and cannot fail of perceiving
that it places you on a level with the most accomplished
of human beings.
I see how it is. This Clara will be yours. That intelligence, that mien, that gracefulness, which rustic obscurity cannot hide, which the garb of a clown could never
disguise, accompanied with the ardent commendations
of her father, will fascinate her in a moment. I cannot
hesitate what to wish, or how to act. That passion which
a form homely and uncouth like mine, tarnished and
withered by drudgery and sorrow and by comparative
old age (for I am nine years older than you)-which a
mind void of education and the refinements of learned
and polished intercourse-was incapable of weakening,
cannot fail to be excited by the youth and beauty, the
varied accomplishments and ineffable graces, of this
stranger. She will offer you happiness, and wealth, and
honour, and you will accept them at her hands.
As for me, I cannot be yours, because I am not my own.
My resolution to be severed from you is unalterable; but
this is not necessary to insure our separation. It cannot
take place, even if all my wishes were in favour of it.
Long before the expiration of the half-year, I shall be
removed beyond your reach. This is not the illusion of
despair. I feel in my deepest vitals the progress of
death. Nature languishes within me, and every hour
accelerates my decay.
My friend, thou must not parley with me; thou must
not afflict me with arguments or entreaties, by letters or
visits.
I must see thee and hear from thee no more; but I
know thy character too well to expect this from thee.