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.

121

LETTER XXX.
To Philip Stanley.
Philadelphia, May 15.
WHAT has become of that fortitude, my friend, which I
was once accustomed to admire in you? You used to be
circumspect, sedate, cautious; not precipitate in judging
or resolving. What has become of all these virtues?
Why would you not give your poor friend a patient hearing? Why not hesitate a moment, before you plunged
all whom you love into sorrow and distress? Was it impossible for six months of reflection to restore the strength
of my mind, to introduce wiser resolutions and more cheerful thoughts than those with which I parted from you?
I was then sick. My lonely situation, the racking fears
your long silence had produced, a dreary and lowering
sky, and the tidings your letter conveyed of my return
again to that indigence so much detested by my pride,
were surely enough to sink me deeply in despondency,to make me, at the same time, desire and expect my death.
I saw the bright destiny that was reserved for you.
My life, I thought, stood in the way of your felicity. I
knew your impetuous generosity, your bewitching eloquence. I knew the frailty of my own heart. Hence
my firm resolve to shun an interview with you, to see-you
no more,-at least till your destiny had been accomplished.
Happy was the hour in which I formed this resolution.
By it I have not only secured that indirect happiness
arising from the contemplation of yours, but the ineffable
bliss of requiting that love of which my heart was so long
insensible.
Yes, my friend, the place that you once possessed in
my affections is now occupied by another,-by him of
whose claims I know you have always been the secret
advocate,-by that good, wise, and generous man whom
I always admitted to be second to yourself, but for whom
my heart now acknowledges a preference.
Had you waited for an explanation of my sentiments,
you would have saved me, your beloved Clara, yourself,