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.

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CLARA HOWARD; OR,

if I may judge of my own emotions, surely you wrong me
in calling my passion by the odious name of sensual.
But these things are past. You have not done me justice; and, in return, I have imputed to you feelings of
which you know nothing. Henceforth my conduct shall
convince you that I cannot stoop to solicit that boon from
your pity which is refused by your love. Conjugal claims
and enjoyments are mutual. The happiness received is
always proportioned to that conferred. A wretch, worthy
of eternal abhorrence, must he be, and endowed with tigerlike ferocity, who seeks and is contented with the person,
while the heart is averse or indifferent. Such a one, believe me, Clara, am not I.
On Tuesday I expect to despatch all my concerns in
this city, and to proceed southward. Adieu.
PHILIP STANLEY.
LETTER VI.
To Philip Stanley.
New York, April 1.
THERE is an obscurity in your letter, my friend, that
I cannot dispel. The first part affords me much pleasure,
but the sequel disappointed me. You seem to have
strangely misconstrued my meaning. Whether this misconstruction be real or pretended, it does not become me
to enter into any explanation. If it be real, it affords a
proof of a narrow and ungenerous heart, a heart incapable of perceiving the possibility of sacrificing its own personal gratification to that of another, and of deriving from
that very sacrifice a purer and more lasting felicity. It
shows you unable to comprehend that the welfare of
another may demand self-denial from us, and that in bestowing benefits on others there is a purer delight than in
gratifications merely selfish and exclusive.
You question my love, because I exhort you to do your
duty, and to make another happy that is worthier than I.
Why am I anxious for that other and for you? Why should
I rejoice in your integrity and mourn for your degradation? Why should I harbour such glowing images of the