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.

THE ENTHUSIASM OF LOVE.

31

honoured me with his notice; the unspeakable delight
which his increasing familiarity and confidence, my admission to his house, and my partaking of his conversation
and instructions, afforded me. I recollect the gradual
disappearance, in his intercourse with me, of that reserve
and austerity which he still maintained to the rest of mankind, with emotions of gratitude and pleasure unutterable.
He had reason to regard me, indeed, somewhat like
his own son. I had no father; I had no property; there
was no one among my own relations who had any particular claim upon my reverence or affection. A thousand tokens in my demeanour must have manifested a
veneration for him next to idolatry. My temper was
ardent and impetuous, and several little incidents occurred,
during tile many years that I frequented his house, that
brought forth striking proofs of my attachment to him.
I greedily swallowed his lessons, and remember how often
his eyes sparkled, his countenance brightened into smiles,
and his tongue lavished applause, on my wonderful docility and rapid progress. Hle showed his affection for
me, by giving his instructions, inquiring into my situation, and directing me in every case of difficulty that occurred: but he never offered to become my real father;
to be at the expense of my subsistence or my education
to any liberal profession. Indeed, he was anxious to persuade me that the farmer's life was the life of true dignity, and that, however desirable to me property might
be, I ought to entertain no wish to change my mode of
life. That was a lesson which he was extremely assiduous
to teach.
He never gave me money, nor ever suffered the slightest hint to escape him that he designed to carry his munificence any further than to lend me his company, his
conversation, and his books. Indeed, in my attachment
to him there was nothing sordid or mercenary. It never
occurred to me to reflect on this frugality, this limitation
of his bounty. What he gave was, in my own eyes, infinitely beyond my merits; and, instead of panting after
more, I was only astonished that he gave me so much.
Indeed, had I had wisdom enough to judge of appearances, I should have naturally supposed that there ex26