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.

24

CLARA HOWARD; OR,

My theme is of an interesting and affecting nature.
Perhaps it might appear to you improper to employ any
hand but my own. Circumstances must apologize for me.
I cannot hold the pen: the friend whose hand I employ
deserves my affection and gratitude. On her discretion I
can rely. Besides, I am now approaching a bourne where
our scruples and reserves usually disappear. The suggestions of self-interest, and the calculations of the future,
are sure to vanish at the approach of death.
When I wrote you last, I told you my intention to
leave the city on Tuesday. I afterwards received your
letter. Your censure was far more severe than my conscience told me I deserved. But my own heart did not
secure me from regret. I was highly culpable to allow
my peace to be molested by the tenor of your letter. In
different circumstances, I should certainly conceal from
you its effect upon my feelings. I intended to have concealed them from you. I perceived that, with respect
to you, I was thenceforth to regard myself as a stranger
and an outcast, and resolved that you should see me and
hear from me no more.
In embracing this scheme, I found no tranquillity.
Clara, I loved you, and that love led me to place my
supreme happiness in the possession of your heart. For
this you call me sensual and selfish. This at least convinced me of one thing,-that the happiness which I formed
to myself is beyond my reach! It behooved me, doubtless, to dismiss all fruitless repinings, as well as to forbear all unprofitable efforts. My courage was equal to
the last, but not to. the first. Though the confession will
degrade me still lower in your opinion, it is now no time
to prevaricate or counterfeit; and I will not hide from
you my anguish and dejection. These did not unfit me
for performing my duty to your father, but they banished
health and repose from my pillow.
I set out, on Tuesday morning, for Baltimore. The
usual floods of this season having carried away the bridge
on the Schuylkill, we prepared to pass it in a boat. The
horses which drew the stage, being unaccustomed to this
mode of conveyance, and being startled by the whirlpools
and eddies, took fright when the boat had gained the