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,

LETTER XXXII.
To Philip Stanley.
New York, May 19.
You are coming, my friend. I shall chide you and
thank you in the same breath, for your laste. I hope
you will'incur no injury by a journey at. night. Knowing
that you mean not to lay by, I am unable to go to bed.
The air was blustering in the evening, and now, at midnight, it blows a storm. It is not very cold, but a heavy
rain is falling. I sit by my chamber-fire, occupied in
little else than listening to it; and my heart droops, or
gains courage, according to the pauses or increases of
the wind and rain.
Would to Heaven thou hadst not this boisterous river
to cross! It is said to be somewhat dangerous in a high
wind. This is a land of evils,-the transitions of the
seasons are so quick, and into such extremes. How
different from the pictures which our fancy drew in our
native land!
This wind and rain! how will you endure them in
your crazy vehicle, thumping over rocks and sinking
into hollows? I wish you had not been in such haste;
twenty hours sooner or later would be of no moment; and
this river,-to cross it at any time is full of danger,what must it be at night, and in a storm?. Your adventurous spirit will never linger on the opposite shore till
day dawns and the wind has died away.
But well know I the dangers and toils of a midnight
journey, in a stage-coach, in America. The roads are
knee-deep in mire, winding through crags and pits, while
the wheels groan and totter, and the curtains and roof
admit the wet at a thousand seams.
It is three, and the day will soon come. How I long
to see thee, my poor friend! Having once met, never,
I promise thee, will we part more. This heart, with
whose treasures thou art imperfectly acquainted, will
pour all its sorrows and joys into thy honest bosom. My