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.
What then will be the fruit of marriage? Nothing
but woe to her whom you labour, by uniting us, to make
happy. You rely, however, on the influence of time and
intercourse to beget that passion which is now wanting.
And think you that this girl will wed a man who loves
her not?
She never will. Our union is impracticable, not from
opposition or refusal on my side, but on hers. As to me,
my concurrence shall be full, cheerful, zealous; argument
and importunity will not be wanting. If they fail, you
will ascribe their failure to my coldness, ambiguity, or
artifice, or to mistaken generosity in her with regard to
you. The last motive, after due representations, will not
exist; the former cause may possess some influence, for
I shall act with scrupulous sincerity. I shall counterfeit
no passion and no warmth; the simple and unembellished
truth shall be told to her, and this, I know, will be an
insurmountable impediment.
But suppose, for a moment, this obstacle to disappear,
and that Mary is happy as the wife of one who esteems
her indeed, but loves her not. Your end is accomplished:
you proceed to reap the fruits of disinterested virtue, and
contemplate the felicity which is your own work.
This girl is the only one of God's creatures worthy of
benevolence; no other is entitled to the sacrifice of your
inclination. None there are in whose happiness you find
a recompense for evils and privations befalling yourself.
As to me, I am an inert and insensible atom, or I move
in so remote a sphere that my pains or pleasures are independent of any will or exertion of yours. But no; that
is a dignity of which I must not boast. I am so far sunk
into depravity, that all my desires are the instigations of
guilt, and all my pleasures those of iniquity. Duty tells
you to withstand and to thwart, not to gratify, my wishes.
I love you, and my happiness depends upon your favour.
Without you, or with another, I can know no joy; but this,
in your opinion, is folly and perverseness; to aspire to
your favour, when it is beyond my reach, is criminal
infatuation; not to love her who loves me, and whose
happiness depends upon my love, is, you think, cruel and
unjust. Be it so; great indeed is my demerit. Worth31*