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:.

COLLEGE
or THE PACIFIC

.

WIELAND;
\'

OR..

THE TRANSFORMATION.

BY

CHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN.
I .,

.

.

PHILADELPHIA

DAVID McKA V, PUBLISHER

-8 SOUTH VVASHINGTON SQUARE

"\

'OLL7 1-' Of
1\iF PAGIi-"'r;

.UL -

.. t - .,J
" .t 1'1

\ \ f- -\ 4-
7S
'. \
4
'f\J

MEMOIR

01'

CHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN.

_ \? '4__

GENIUS and knowledge command respect; but superior
genius and profound knowledge, combined with exalted
moral purity, cannot fail to excite unmingled admiration.
The reputation of an author in whom these qualities are
united may be circumscribed during life; but its rise and
extension after death prove that his claims to distinction
are well founded. It is no less the duty than the pleasure
of friendship to fortify and sustain these claims. The im-
partiality of criticism cannot but confirm the anticipations
of affection.
CHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN was the highly-gifted de-
scendant of ancestors originally English, who came over to
this country with the wise and benevolent Penn, and landed
from the same ship on the banks of the Delaware. Their
principles, moral, religious, and political, coincided with
those of their pious and illustrious leader.
He derived the additional name of Brockden from his
uncle Charles Brockden, so respectfully mentioned by Franklin
in his life, who, to avoid the vengeance of conspirators,
whose secret conversations he had accidentally overheard, fled
to America and settled in Pennsylvania, where his :ndustry
and abilities finally raised him to an inlportant office, which
he filled with distinguished reputation.
His parents were pious and respectable members of the
Society of Friends, and may be presulned to have instilled
3

4

ME.J-fOIR OF

into their beloved offspring all that simplicity of n1anners
and benevolence of sentiment which so honourably character-
ize the religious society to which they belonged.
He was born in the city of Philadelphia, on the 17th day
of January, 1771. He had three brothers older than him-
self, to whom, as well as to every other member of his
family, he was from his earliest years an object of deep
interest and fond affection.
Of those incidents and circumstances which in childhood
either control the development or indicate the character
of the moral and intellectual powers of men distinguished
for their talents, and which are not only interesting in
themselves, but valuable as contributions to the great cause
of education, it is always. desirable to hear; but, when he
whose life they would illustrate modestly leaves them un-
noticed, the biographer can only have recourse to conjecture
or to the recollections of friends. From the facts which
they furnish he may deduce and infer, but he cannot esta-
blish with certainty. His narrative of these may therefore be
brief without subjecting him to censure.
Of the first ten years of Mr. Brown's life the memorials
are few but sufficient. His constitution was unusually
delicate and frail and his frame slender. Life opened upon
him with a wan and sickly aspect, and disclosed but doubtful
prospects of a healthy manhood. The weakness of his body
was, however, his only weakness: his mind was not ener-
vated. There all was activity and strength.
Debility of body does not necessarily lead to vigour of mind.
The reverse of this may perhaps be ll1aintained. But he
whom nature had rendered incapable of much corporeal
exertion would almost necessarily be thrown upon his in-
tellectual resources for enjoyment.
This was the case with the lamented subject of this
memoir. From his earliest years he was devoted to books
and reflection. Maps, books, and prints were to hin1 even
in childhood objects irresistibly attractive. The study and
exanlinntion of these were the constant and invariable occu-

CHARLES BROCI("DEN BRO WN.

5

pations of his juvenile years. Jlis knowledge of geograpIIY
and architecture in his tenth year was a subject of pride and
exultation to his friends and of surprise to strangers.
He entered the classical school of Robert Proud, the well-
known author of the "History of Pennsylvania," in his
eleventh year, and left it before he had completed his
sixteenth. His rapid advancement and incessant diligence
while under the direction of this gentleman received, as
they merited, his warmest commendations. His studies
were, however, by no IneaDS confined to the ancient classics:
his application was unren1Ïtting to the best English models.
Five years of ardent and intellectual exercise in classical
studies! What a mass of intellectual treasures may not be
collected during such a period! 'Vhat rich materials for
future use may it not afford! Fortunate is the youth of
whom it may be said that, for five years, he persevered with
ardour and enthusiasm in the pursuit of knowledge and tho
cultivation of his powers. His 'Soul becomes imbued with
the love of letters and of science, and he is already on the
highroad to distinct.ion and honour. He can hardly become
the slave of low and grovelling vices.
1\11'. Brown's application during this period was indeed so
intense as seriously to endanger his health; and, therefore,
by the ad vice of his preceptor, he occasionally relaxed from
the severities of study and made excursions into the country.
'fhese journeys he performed on foot; and, on account of
the pleasure and advantagè which he derived from them, he
ever after continued the practice.
Accustomed as he had been to the confined atmosphere,
the dusky streets, and unwholesome exhalations of a city,
the extended prospects, the varied hues, the delicious fra..
grance, and the balmy and elastic air of the country weloe
unspeakably grateful and refreshing. Solitary wandering
leads to thoughtful nlusing, and this to romantic enthusiasm.
It would not be difficult to predict the effects which such a
practice would have upon an ilnagination ever active, en-
riched and clubelliHhed with elegant literature and YarinH

6

JrIEMOIR OF

knowledge. Habits of reverie and abstraction would be
insensibly contracted. Present objects would gradually fade
from the view, and the imagination revel, free and unfettered,
amid its own creations.
He had been diligent in composition before he was six-
teen; but after he left school he became indefatigable. He
wrote a variety of essays, both in prose and verse, Inost of
which in1ply considerable powers and uncommon acquisitions
in a youth of his age. About this tilne, too, he invented a
system of short-hand, and successfully studied French, aided
only by books.
But it became necessary that his efforts should be con-
centrated upon a single science. A profession must be
adopted. The fictions of the imagination and the enthusiasm
of sentiment must give place to the sober realities of busi-
ness. With the approbation of his family, he made choice
of the law, and became a student in the office of Alexander
Wilcox, Esq., a distinguished member of the Philadelphia
Bar.
His habits of labour and application, no less than his keen
discrimination and sound judglnent, were adlnirably fitted
for his new pursuit, and he entered upon it with his usual
ardour and diligence. He becalne a member of a law society,
over whose deliberations he presided with credit and ability.
The recorded decisions which his duty as president required
him to make evince unusual research and solidity of judg-
ment. But polite literature and liberal studies could not be
relinquished. Law he studied from a principle of duty 01
necessity; but literature had his secret soul. Though the
dry abstractions and bewildering subtleties of law had some-
thing in them which particularly suited his laborious habits
and speculative ingenuity, his literary propensities were irre-
sistible. lIe became, at the same time, a melnber of the
Belles-Lettres Club, whose principal object was improvement
in literature. In this al
o he became a leader. 1'he various
ad lresses which he delivered before this society are creditable
to }}is talents anù indicativ{' of vigour and originality of thought,

CHARLES BROCKDEN BROfVN.

7

During the whole of his novitiate his pen was in diligent
exercise. He wrote various essays, some of them of con-
siderable Inerit, and maintained a long and elaborate corre-
spondence with several of his friends. Not satisfied with
these labours, he kept a minute and copious journal, not
merely of the incidents and occurrences of the day, but
of his thoughts, feelings, and reflections. He did this for
the double purpose of improvement in thinking and in
writing. Of excellence in style he was always ambitious;
and for it he most assiduously laboured.
Of the progress that he made, or was qualified to make, in
the science of law, the decisions before alluded to afford
abundant and convincing evidence. His qualifications and
attainments were unquestionably great for so young a man;
and of moral purity and elevation of sentiment he was a rare
and signal example. His early associates were selected solely
with a view to moral and intellectual improvement; for to
sensual enj oyments and vicious pleasures he was an utter
stranger. Vice in every shape was loathsome and disgusting
to him.
He was now of that age when youth swells into manhood,-
when the dispositions, habits, and propensities of early life
become fixed and permanent, or, swayed by novel and un-
foreseen circumstances, assume new directions, or become
supplanted by others still n10re powerful. The period came
when the study was to be succeeded by the practice of the
law. To this he was decidedly averse. His resolution was
fixed, and the law was abandoned. Neither argument nor
persuasion could vanquish his resolution. This was not the
result of whim or caprice. His passion for letters, the weak-
ness of his physical constitution, and his reluctance to engage
in the noise and bustle of professional business, were doubtless
causes abundantly adequate to the production of this effect.
The last of these originated in that habit of romantic and
visionary speculation in which he so much delighted to in-
rlul
e, and of which be gaye a striking instance in the essays
which be rnl'!i
h
(1 und\'r the tide' of the" Ilhapsodist."

8

l'rfEl'rfOIR OF

In reference to this event, he says himself, "As for me, I
had long ago discovered that nature had not qualified me for
an actor on this stage. The nature of my education only
added to these disqualifications." The disappointment of
his friends was great indeed at this abandonment of the
only patl- to fame and fortune which seemed to be open to
him. They reasoned, they remonstrated; but their labour was
vain. His reluctance was invincible. Not even his own
sense of duty could overcome it. His friends saw this, and
were silent. To one so strongly attached to his family and
friends, of whom he was the pride and the boast, this trial
must have been peculiarly severe. The effect was soon
perceived: his spirits sunk almost to hopelessness, and his
health became visibly impaired.
The portion of his life from the close of his legal studies
till the time of his becoming professedly an author, in the
year 1798, comprises a period of about six years. Of this
part of his history the incidents are few and may be briefly
told. His literary and scientific tastes were now his only
resource, and they were indulged without restraint.
To dissipate the gloom and dejection into which his mind
had sunk, he left Philadelphia, and, after traversing various
parts of the country, he remained for a while in the city of
New York. There the joys and consolations of friendship
awaited him; for his friend, Dr. Elihu II. Smith, was a resi.
dent of that city. By him Mr. Brown was received with all
the cordiality which the most disinterested friendship could
inspire. Their intercourse had commenced in Philadelphia,
while respectively engaged in professional studies. This
visit was not only productive of pleasure, but of friendship,
to :r.lr. B. Through the kindness of his beloved friend
Smith the circle of his friends was considerably enlarged,
and hope was revived in his breast. lIe left New York
gratified and strengthened.
The inlpressions he received during this visit induced a
speedy repetition of it. The secolld was longer than the
first, and from this tinle tl1 c grca tcr part of the period before

CHARLES BROCR
EN BROWN.

9

mentioned was spent by him in New York. His situation
there was happily adapted to gratify his best feelings and
promote his fayourite pursuits. Of his new friends and asso..
ciates, many were distinguished, and all respectable, for
literature or science. 1Vith most of these gentlemen he was
on terms of the strictest intinlacyand most liberal intercourse.
1\Iany of theln were nlembers of a literary society, about that
time formed in New York, under the modest title of the
" Friendly Club." Of this society
Ir. B. became a member,
and frequently mentions, in his journal, the pleasure and
advantages he derived from it.
By his friend Smith he was introduced to the friendship
of 1\1r. Johnson and l\ir. Dunlap, the latter of whotn has
since celebrated the talents and virtues of his friend in an
extended biography. Between these gentlemen, Dr. Smith,
and himself, an intimacy of the most endearing and confi-
dential nature subsisted for several years, and was terminated
only by deatb. He was an inmate in the family of 1\lr. Dun-
lap during the greater palot of this time; but he afterwards
resided with his friends Johnson and Smith. 1\lr. Brown
was of that temperament that required objects for the exer-
cise of tbe domestic affections. l\lere literary or social inter-
course was not sufficient for him. In the family establish-
Inents just mentioned, he found ample exercise for the sensi-
bilities of his affectionate heart.
Thus circumstanced, his intellectual powers were strongly
excited and his moral propensities confirmed and strength-
ened. That he made large additions to his knowledge may
fairly be inferred from his known habits of labour and appli-
cation. His reading was various and extensive, but not
always profitable. He had at this period of his life a strong
tcndency to skepticism, which, in his riper years, he rejected.
This was natural, and the explanation is easy. Ilnperfection
is written upon every thing human. It requires little saga-
city to perceive defects in existing institutions, or to suggest
difficulties and to fran1c objections to any systcln of 11loraJs
or religion. To a young, ncute, and original inquirer these

10

MEfifOIR OF

are soon apparent To hÏ1n, if zealous and 81ncere in his
search after truth, nothing is more vehemently desired than
certainty. He strains after perfection, and, .finding the
system whic.h accident, design, or necessity, first presents
to his examination not to yield the satisfaction he seeks,
he rejects it for another. This is liable to objections as
well as the former,-less potent, perhaps, but still objec-
tions. Another and another succeeds; but doubts and
difficulties are still unresolved, and the inquirer, wearied at
last with the fruitless search, sinks into the indifference of
skepticism, from which a more enlarged experience and
deeper inquiries alone can raise him.
During this period of his life, the moral and political
worlds were in a state of the most violent excitation. The
deep foundations of society were shaken. The spirit of
fearless inquiry was abroad upon the earth. Theories the
most extravagant were daily promulgated, and the mad-
ness of speculation knew no bounds.
Towards the close of these times of such fearful excite-
ment, he commenced his career as an author, and his first
publication was "Alcuin: a Dialogue on the Rights of
WouJen." This was written during the autumn and winter
of the year 1797. It is an eloquent and ingenious specula-
tion, of which, though we may praise the elegance of the
language, the originality of the style, and the subtlety of
the argument, we cannot but condemn the unsoundness of
the doctrine. Though published, it was scarcely known
to the public, and the author consequently acquired fronl
it neither reputation nor profit.
About the same period be wrote a small novel, in the form
of a series of letters, which he never pubHshed, and which,
though not destitute of merit, it would be unnecessary to
notice here, did not the composition of it seem to have been
the circuillstance which led to his subsequent efforts in the
same walk. On this work he remarks in his journal, "I
cOlnmenced something in the forIn of a romance. I had at
firi:.t no definite eOliceptions of my design. .A.s DIY pen prOr

CHARLES BROCKDEN BRO IYN.

II

ceeded for,vard, my invention was tasked, and the materials
that it afforded were arranged and digested." " Every new
attempt will be better than the last, and, considered in the
light of a prelude or first link, it may merit that praise to
which it may possess no claim, considered as a last, best
creation."
It was indeed a prelude to a series, which he now in rapid
succession produced, of the most original, powerful, and
masterly, though faulty and in some respects imperfect and
objectionable, works of fiction of which American literature
could then, or perhaps can now, boast; and which will ad-
vantageously sustain a comparison with European works of
the same species of composition, in most of the qualities
essential to such productions.
l\Ir. Brown wrote six works of this description, upon which
his fame has hitherto chiefly rested :-" 'Vieland," "Ormond,"
"Arthur
Iervyn," "Edgar Huntly," "Clara Howard," and
" Jane Talbot." The first five were published in the interval
that elapsed from the spring of 1798 till the sunlIDer of 1801,
a period of little more than three years, and in which he
completed his thirtieth year.. The last was published some-
what later.
V Upon the character of these fictions little more can be
said upon this occasion. They have now in their favour
the voice of British criticism, tardy as it has ever been to
proclaim the merits of American genius; and that excellence
must indeed be positive on this side of the Atlantic which
can win or extort applause from the judges on the other.
They are indeed remarkable productions. Once read, the
impression they make is never forgotten. They are original
in every sense,- in the conception, the style, the execution;
in the characters, sentiments, manners, incidents, altogether
original. Full of energy and pathos, th
y abound with pas-
sages of genuine eloquence and irresistible force. Few
works excite such breathless anxiety and awful apprehension.
The tone of seriuusncsB and solenll1Íty that pervades then)
re.pcls the ordinary readcr uf nuvel
. ()ne fond of mcre

12

llIElIfOIR 0./,

love-tales must not look into them for cnjoyulcnt. They are
calculated only for those who indulge in the deep and power-
ful emotions; for those who think and feel strongly; who
delight patiently to trace every action to its appropriate
motive; and to mark the ebbs and flows of passion, and
follow them out to their furthest consequences. To such
readers they will always be welcome, notwithstanding the
admission that the characters and incidents are too frequently
in extremes and lie barely within the range of probability.
Few writers of fictitious -narrative can be pronounced equal
to 1\'11'. Brown in the analysis of the thoughts and emotions
of the soul, in exquisite skill in the arrangement and de-
velopment of incidents, and in accuracy, extent, and variety
of knowledge.
During this period he not only wrote a variety of essays
and fugitive pieces in prose and verse, some of which were
published in the journals of the day, but he at the same
time conducted, with great credit and ability, a periodical
work, in the city of New York, under the title of the
"Monthly Magazine and Anlerican Review." This work-
begun in April, 1799, and closed in the autumn of the year
1800-was alnlost entirely the production of his own pen;
though he received SOlne valuable contributions from his
literary and scientific friends, particularly in the critical
department. It abounds with curious and learned essays,
ilJgenious speculations, interesting tales, and valuable informa-
tion, and affords SOllie of the best specimens of liberal, can-
did, and manly criticism that the American press has hitherto
produced.
In closing this short summary of his first literary labors,
it is but justice to his memory to claim for him the honour
of having been alnong the first-perhaps of hhving been the
first - of those ..A.merican writers who set an exanlple of
literary independence by drawing upon their own re
ources,
thu
stinlulatiug the national n1Ïnd to exertion in the fielùs
of literature and science. lIe was, it is believed, the first
native A::ucl'ican aulhur \vhu ù..'voted hiulself to literary pur-

CHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN.

13

suits as a regular occupat.ion, and who depended upon them
for a permanent support.
1\11'. Brown continued to reside in the city of N ew York
and its neighbourhood from the spring of 1798 till the autumn
of the year 1800, at the conclusion of which he removed to
his native city, Philadelphia.
Riper years and more extensive communion with his
fellow-men during his residence in New York corrected, with.
out weakening, his moral enthusiasm and romantic sensi.
bilities. The realities of experience were gradually and
imperceptibly substituted for the visions of a glowing and
luxurious imagination, and his moral progress was eminently
beneficial and salutary. Friendship in him was so powerful
and elevated a sentiment that not even the dangers of pesti-
lence could deter him from the performance of those duties
which it seemed to him to prescribe.
Though he made occasional excursions in the warm sea.
sons, sometimes for health and sometimes for pleasure and
relaxation, yet his favourite studies and pursuits were zealously
continued, and he added largely to the ample stock of litera-
ture and science which he had previously acquired. His
correspondence was prosecuted with his wonted activity, and
his journals were, as usual, detailed and copious. His pen,
indeed, was incessantly employed; and, for the three years
succeeding his return to his paternal abode, he not only
wrote a variety of lighter essays, in prose and verse, but
planned and made considerable collections for future works
of more durable utility and elevated aim than any he had
yet produced, and from which, when completed, he might
expect both profit and reputation.
The year 1803 was an important era in his life, as from
this is to be dated the COUlmencenlent of his career as a
political writer; and we can only regret tbat lIe did not write
more on subjects of such vast practical Ï1nportance, upon
which he has shown himself so adnlirably qualified to write
well. Three of the speculations which he published at
difI"erent periods UP,)ll political subjects arc especially worthy

14

MEMOIR OF

of notice and consideration :-that on the" Cession of Loui

siana to France," that on the "Treaty with England rejected
by 1\lr. Jefferson," and that on "Commercial Restrictions."
The candid and impartial reader will bestow upon these
productions no mean praise. They are evidently the work
of a clear, sagacious, origina], and comprehensive thinker;
the soundness and accuracy of whose views and opinions are
strongly implied in the manliness, candour, and perspicuity
with which those of the adverse parties are stated and exa-
mined. To the praise of variety and depth of knowledge,
vigour of argument, and comprehensiveness of view, they are
eminently entitled. They display a boldness and independ-
ence of thought, a freedom from prejudice and party bias,
and an impartiality of decision, very unusual in writings of
this description among us. The characteristic originality of
the author is seen in almost every page. On subjects so
complicated and various as those discussed in these produc-
tions, different opinions may be entertained and different
conclusions drawn by men of the greatest knowledge and
brightest intellect, without subjecting them to the imputa-
tion of ignorance or unfairness. Of the ability displayed in
these essays, a careful perusal will afford decisive evidence.
.For the disinterestedness and purity of the author's motives,
those who knew him best can best answer. No American
could be actuated by a lllore noble and elevated patriotism,
or could perceive more clearly and paint more vividly the
glorious destinies of his country.
A second edition of the "Cession of Louisiana" was called
for and speedily issued in February, 1803. The public at-
tention was ingeniously and forcibly directed to the import-
ance of the acquisition, and to the necessity that it should,
at all hazards, be secured to these States. 'Ve may there-
fore justly claim for the author the honour of having, in some
small degree, contributed to tbe subsequent annexation of
that important and extensive country to the American
Union.
Therp, was Mthing for which he had a deeper abhorrence

CHARLES BROC.F(DEN BRO WN.

15

than for party intemperance and strife. lIe freely and fairly
allowed to others the freedom which he exercised himsel(,
and he could prove an adversary to be in the wrong without
the imputation of selfish or dishonourable motives. He there-
fore, in his pamphlet on the British Treaty of 1806, fearlessly
but decorously declared his opinions of public men and their
measures. He aimed sedulously and solely to establish truth.
If he failed, his judgment, not his intentions, must be called
in question.
He was decidedly opposed to embargoes and restrictions.
He therefore, in his pamphlet on "Commercial Restrictions,"
endeavoured, and we think successfully, to demonstrate their
injustice and inutility. The course pursued since by some
of the principal maritime States of Europe seems to confirm
the justness of his conclusions, and the enlightened views of
political economy since prevalent lead to the same result.
A considerable portion of his countrymen maintain the same
doctrines which he so forcibly and ably supported, and a still
larger one, perhaps, reject them. l\Iany Inay deride the
impartiality which weighed the merits of France and Eng-
land in the same scales. Some surely will applaud it. Time
will add to the number of the latter, and every American
bosom must swell with exultation at the grand picture of
"the progress to greatness," so eloquently sketched by the
author as that which his country is destined to realize in no
distant futurity.
But political speculations did not detain him long. Litera-
ture had long been his passion, and was now to be his sup-
port. He made an advantageous engagen1ent with an eminent
bookseller of Philadelphia, who undertook the publication at
his own risk; and the first number of a new periodical work
was issued on the 1st of October, 1803, under the title of
"The Literary l\iagazine and American Register." The
following passage from the excellent address which accom-
panied the first number of this work exhibits at once l\Ir.
Brown's modesty, his can dour, and his sensibility to fame:-
" I am far, however, from wishing that my readers should

16

MEMOIR OF

judge of n1Y exertions by IllY foriner ones. I have written
much, but take llluch blame to myself for something which I
have written, and take no praise for any thing. I should
enjoy a larger share of my own respect at the present moment
if nothing had ever flowed frolll my pen the production of
which couId be traced to me. A variety of causes induce me
to form such a wish; but I am principally influenced by the
consideration that time can scarcely fail of enlarging and
refining the powers of a man, while the world is sure to
judge of his capacities and principles at fifty from what he
has written at fifteen." The following illustrates an important
change in his opinions :-" In an age like this, when the
foundations of religion and Inorality have been so boldly
attacked, it seems necessary, in announcing a work of this
nature, to be particularly explicit as to the path which the
editor n1eans to pursue. He therefore avows himself to be,
without equivocation or reserve, the ardent friend and the
willing champion of the Christian religion. Christian piety
he reveres as the highest excellence of human beings, and
the amplest reward he can seek for his labour is the conscious-
ness of having in some degree, however inconsiderable, con-
tributed to recommend the practice of religious duties."
This work was continued with unremitting care and
assiduity for five years; and, though his reputation for
knowledge and learning was extended by it, he could derive
from it little fame as an author. It is larger and contains
a greater variety of information than the one which he had
previously conducted; and its general characteristics are
seriousness and solidity. It has little gayety, tbat essential
ingredient in a monthly publication designed for miscellaneous
reading. Of wit and humour it cannot boast, for to neither
of these had the editor any pretensions. There are so many
articles on subjects of science dispersed through this work
that it might with propriety be denoluinated a scientific as
well as a literary journal. The editor, as in his former
enterprise, was cOlupelled to draw copiously froln his own
store, and he not unfrequcntly wrote the whule of the original

CHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN.

17

matter of a nUluber hinlself. When the variety of articles
embraced in a number of this miscellany is considered, we
cannot but acknowledge the versatility of his powers and
the abundance of his resources who could so readily and
promptly produce essays on topics so diversified. This work
is an honourable evidence of the taste, knowledge, talents,
and attainments of its indefatigable editor.
Single, enjoying the pleasures of friendship and social
intercourse, full of literary occupation, with brightening
prospects and a rising reputation, honourably supported by
the labours of his pen, and free from all cares but those
incident to the life of a literary man, he seemed to have
reached a situation in all respects gratifying and satisfactory
to the votary of letters. He was not insensible to the
advantages of this condition j and a year passed away in
abundant occupation and eager anticipations of future felicity
from that state into which, at the close of this year, he was
for the first time to enter.
In November, 1804, he was married to Miss Elizabeth
Linn, of New York. This lady was the daughter of the
Rev. Dr. J
inn, of that city, a clergyman of the Presbyterian
Church, of great respectability and superior eloquence.
After his marriage he became a permanent resident in his
native city. Of his domestic condition and prospects he
must be his own historian. He says, in a letter to a friend,
" As to myself, my friend, you judge rightly when you think
me situated happily. l\Iy present way of life is in every
respect to my mind. There is nothing to disturb my felicity
but the sense of tbe uncertainty and instability that cling
to every thing human. . . . l\iy business, if I may so call it,
is altogether pleasurable, and, such as it is, it occupies not
one fourth of my time. . . . I have nothing to wish but
that my present situation may last." This was written in
1805. In the SUlllmer of the following year, he writes thus
of his home to another friend :-"You will find it the abode
of content, anù ll13Y enjoy the spectacle, not very common,
of a }wppy fanlily."
2

18

MEMOIR OF

Thus happily situated, notwithstanding the delicacy of his
health, his literary labours were prosecuted with his accus-
tomed zeal and perseverance; and, in the year succeeding his
marriage, he commemorated the virtues and abilities of his
departed friend, Dr. J. B. Linn, the brother of his wife, in
one of the most elegant and interesting biographical sketches
with which we are acquainted. It is, indeed, in our appre-
hension, a model of its kind. The facts, though few, are
judiciously arrranged, and the character is gradually and dis-
tinctly developed with singular correctness and felicity. His
taste and skill in this department of composition, as well as
in others, were frequently exercised in the columns of the
"Portfolio," to which, from its commencement, he was a
large contributer.
Unwearied in his efforts to promote knowledge, he com-
menced in the year 1806 a new annual publication deToted
to history, politics, and science, under the title of the
"American Register." This work, the only one of the kind
yet attempted, we believe, in this country, was successfully
and vigorously continued by him until the close of the
year 1809.
When it is considered that the" Magazine" and" Register"
were both conducted by him at the same time for a consider-
able period after the commencement of the latter, an opinion
favourable to his zeal and application will readily be admitted.
But he deserves other and higher praise.
In the " American Register" the powers of this admirable
writer are displayed in a new and more imposing manner.
This work exhibits him to his countrymen as a historian.
Though his own modesty named that merely annals which
impartial criticism will scarcely hesitate to call history, we
cannot but declare the conviction that his narrative of
European and American affairs from the year 1806 to the
year 1809 is not surpassed, if equalled, by any contemporary
sketch of the same period that has hitherto been presented
to the public. It proves the author to have possessed the
essential qualities uf an able historian,-sound conlprehen-

CHARLES BROCKDEN ERO
VN.

19

sive judgnlcnt, keen discriminating saga.city, independence
and vigour of Inind, rigid impartiality, comlnand of language,
and ample knowledge. Its tendencies are in the highest
degree favourable to the cause of national virtue and enlight-
ened freedom. *
Of the other portions of this work, though valuable and
the result of great labour, it is unnecessary to speak. This
and the pamphlet before mentioned on "Commercial Re-
strictions" were the last of his publications.
Thus, from 1804 till the summer of 1809, was he almost
incessantly employed. He had in this interval nearly com-
pleted an extensive system of "General Geography,"t and
made considerable progress in a work on "Rome during the
Age of the Antonines," similar to "Anacharsis' Travels in
Greece," when disease invaded his frame so seriously that he
was compelled to desist from his labours, and go in search of
that health which it was now almost hopeless to find.
In the summer of 1809, he left home for this purpose, and
passed a short time with some friends in New Jersey and
New York. He says, in a letter written upon this occasion,
"When have I known that lightness and vivacity of mind
which the divine flow of health, even in calamity, produces in
some men? Never I-scarcely ever! Not longer than half an
hour at a time since I have called myself man." It is hardly
necessary to say that he returned without benefit to the home
he had left with great reluctance.
He was naturally inclined to consunlption, and his appli-

· The historical part of the '.'American Register," written by Mr. Brown,
would make an octavo of about four hundred pages, and the republication
of it might be useful.
t This able work was entirely completed at his decease, except the part
relating to the United States. The full original ma.nuscript is now in the
possession of , Villi am Linn Brown, Esq., of this city, 8Ï1zce perfected in the
part relating to the United States, and at some early day will be presented
to the public. A gentleman, who was a native of Britain, and perfectly
acquainted with the subject, and who had read the manuscript of the
account of London contained in this work, declared it to be, be} ond com-
parison, the best history of that ci ty which he had ever seen.

20

MEl1fOIR OF

cation only confirmed the predisposition. His friends were
alarmed, and urged the necessity of a sea-voyage for the
benefit of his health; but home was too dear to him to be
left for so long a time as this would require. The disease
now began to assume a more threatening aspect, and his
friends again became importunate for him to try a voyage to
Europe. He at last consented, and the spring of 1810 was
fixed upon as the period of his departure for England.
The disease, however, did not abate. On the 10th of
November, 1809, he was attacked with a violent pain in his
side, for which he was bled. He was now confined to his
chamber, and his situation became evidently more alarming.
Day after day passed away, but there was no symptom of
amendment. The malady was making fearful progress, and
the hearts of his friends sunk within them at the bare con-
ception of the catastrophe that was rapidly approaching.
His sufferings were acute and severe, but his patience and
fortitude were superior to calamity. lIe was aware of his
danger from the beginning, and perfectly conscious of the
fate that awaited him. In his long confinement he was
scarcely ever free fron1 pain; but the saIne gentleness and
sill1plicity of .Dlanners, the same sweetness of conversation,
which distinguished hilll in health shone conspicuously in
sickness. He was the same gentle, forbearing, humble being
he bad ever been.
One who was bound to him by the strongest ties, and who
will ever revere his memory, thus describes his deportment
at this trying season :-" lIe always felt for others more than
for himself; and the evidences of sorrow in those around
him, which could not at all times be suppressed, appeared to
affect him more than his own sufferings. 'Vhenever he
spoke of the probability of a fatal termination to his disease,
it was in an indirect and covert lnanner; as, 'Y ou must do
so-and-so when I am absent,' or, 'when I aln asleep.' lIe
surrendered not up one faculty of his soul but with his last
breath lIe sa,v death in every step of his 3pproach, and
received hini as a messenger that brought with him no

CH.ARLES BROCKDEiV BAJOWN.

21

terrors. He frequently expressed his resignation; but his
resignation was not produced by apathy or pain, for, while he
bowed with submission to the divine will, he felt, with the
keenest sensibility, his separation from those who lllade thIs
world but too dear to him. Towards the last, he spoke of
death without disguise, and appeared to wish to prepare his
friends for the event which he fe]t to be approaching. A few
days previous to his change, while sitting up in bed, he fixed
his eyes on the sky, and desired not to be spoken to until he
should first speak. In this position, and with a serene coun-
tenance, he continued some minutes, and then said to his
wife, 'When I desired you not to speak to me, I had the
most transporting and sublime feelings I ever experienced. I
wanted to enjoy them, and to know how long they would
last.' He concluded with requesting her to remember the
circumstance."
His sufferings were protracted till February, 1810. On
the morning of the 19th of that month, his anxious family
saw with emotions not to be expressed that a fatal change had
taken place. He thought himself dying, and, at his request,
his family and friends were asselnbled round his bed. He
addressed them successively with the utmost tenderness and
affection. He lingered, however, for three days longer, con-
versing as usual with perfect composure and self-possession.
On the 22d, the final SUU1mons came, and, with clear and
unclouded faculties, he yielded up his soul to Hitn who
gave it.
Thus died, at the early age of thirty-nine, a martyr to
letters, CHARLES BROOKDEN BROWN, who to eminence in
knowledge and strength of genius added a moral purity
and elevation of sentiment above all praise; whose character
exhibited the rare union of intellectual superiority and un-
feigned modesty, and whose whole life was radiant with
virtue and goodness. He was one of the most disinterested
of men, and to the base and malignant passions he was an
utter stranger. Distinguished for genius hitnself, he wag the
enthusiastic adu1Ïrcr of it in others lIe kn
w not how to

22

lIfElIIOIR Or

envy. Intellectu:11 exercise of every kind was perfectly
faluiliar to him, and he could, with equal ease and without
premeditation, enter into solid and elaborate argument or
sport in all the luxuriance of fiction. lVlild, retiring, and
amiable, his manners had a simplicity and unobtrusiveness
and his conversation a sweetness that cannot soon be for-
gotten by his friends. With great colloquial powers and
inexhaustible stores of knowledge, he would frequently listen
and modestly receive from others what he was much better
qualified to give. No one enjoyed with a keener relish the
delights of social intercourse; but it was in the converse
of the domestic circle that his gratification was complete.
He enjoyed the singular felicity of nnnlbering among his best
friends his relations by marriage as well as by birth, by whom
bis lllemory is cherished with the warmest affection and
reverence. The literature of America owes him much, and
our countrymen will do justice to the merits of one equally
entitled to the admiration of the mind and the homage of
the heart.

NOTE.-Mr. Brown left four children. The youngest son, Eugene Linn
Brown, died of consumption on the 1st of April, 1824, in the seventeenth
year of his age. Of this boy much could be told. In love of knowledge,
in capacity for acquiring it, and in every endearing virtue of the heart, he
resembled his futjer. He is now mingling with kindred spirits.

ADVERTISEMENT.

THE following work is delivered to the world as the first of
a series of performances, which the favourable reception of
this will induce the writer to publish. His purpose is neither
selfish nor temporary, but aims at the illustration of some
important branches of the n10ral constitution of man. Whe-
ther this tale will be classed with the ordinary or frivolous
sources of ailluseinent, or be ranked with the few productions
whose usefulness secures to them a lasting reputation, the
reader must be permitted to decide.
The incidents related are extraordinary and rare. Some of
them, perhaps, approach as nearly to the nature of miracles
as can be done by that which is not truly miraculous. It is
hoped that intelligent readers will not disapprove of the
manner in which appearances are solved, but that the solu-
tion will be found to correspond with the known principles
of human nature. The power which the principal person is
said to possess can scarcely be denied to be real. It must
be acknowledged to be extremely rare; but no fact, equally
unCOlnmon, is supported by the S3me strength of historical
evidence.

23

24

AD P'ER TISElJ,fENT.

Some readerH Inay think the conduct of the younger Wie-
land impQssible. In support of its possibility the writer must
appeal to physicians, and to men conversant with the latent
springs and occasional perversions of the human mind. It
will not be objected that the instances of similar delusion are
rare, because it is the business of moral painters to exhibit
their subject in its most instructive and memorable forms.
If history furnishes one parallel fact, it is a sufficient vindica-
tion of the writer; but most readers will probably recollect
an authentic case, remarkably similar to that of Wieland.
It will be necessary to add, that this narrative is addressed,
in an epistolary form, by the lady whose story it contains, to a
smal] number of friends, whose curiosity, with regard to it,
had been greatly awakened. It may likewise be mentioned,
that these events took place between the conclusion of the
French and the beginning of the Revolutionary War. The
ll1emoirs of Carwin, alluded to at the conclusion of the work,
will be published or suppressed according to the reception
which is given to the present attempt.

c. B. B.

September 3, 1798.

W I E LAN D.

CHAPTER I.

--

I FEEL little reluctance in complying with your request.
You know not fully the cause of my sorrows. You are
a stranger to the depth of my distresses. Hence your
efforts at consolation must necessarily fail. Yet the tale
that I am going to tell is not intended as a claim upon
your sympathy. In the midst of my despair, I do not
disdain to contribute what little I can to the benefit of
mankind. I acknowledge your fight to be informed of
the events that have lately happened in my family. Make
what use of the tale you shall think proper. If it be com-
municated to the world, it will inculcate the duty of avoid-
ing deceit. It will exemplify the force of early impres-
sions, and show the in1measurable evils that flow from an
erroneous or imperfect discipline.
l\1y state is not destitute of tranquillity. The senti-
ment that dictates my feelings is not hope. Futurity has
no power over my thoughts. To all that is to come I am
perfectly indifferent. With regard to myself, I have no-
thing more to fear. Fate has done its worst. Hence-
forth, I am callous to misfortune.
I address no supplication to the Deity. The power that
governs the course of human affairs has chosen his path.
The decree that ascertained the condition of my life ad-
mits of no recall. No doubt it squares with the maxims
of eternal equity. That is neither to be questioned nor
denied by me. It suffices that the past is exempt from
mutation. The storm that tore up our happiness, and
changed into dreariness and desert the blooming scene
of our existence, is lulled into grim repose; but not until
the victim was transfixed and mangled; till every ob-
25

26

WIELAND,. OR,

stacIe was dissipated by its rage; till every remnant of
good was wrested from our grasp and exterminated.
Ilow will your wonder, and that of your companions, be
excited by my story! Every sentiment will yield to your
amazement. If my testimony were without corrobora-
tions, you would reject it as incredible. The experience
of no human being can furnish a parallel: that I, beyond
the rest of mankind, should be reserved for a destiny
without alleviation and without example! Listen to my
narrative, and then say what it is that has made me de-
serve to be placed on this dreadful eminence, if, indeed,
every faculty be not suspended in wonder that I am still
alive and am able to relate it. ,
My father's ancestry was noble on the paternal side;
but his mother was the daughter of a merchant. My
grandfather was a younger brother, and a native of
Saxony. He was placed, when he had reached the suit-
able age, at a German college. During the vacations, he
employed himself in traversing the neighbouring terri-
tory. On one occasion it was his fortune to visit Ham-
burg. He formed an acquaintance with Leonard Weise,
a merchant of that city, and was a frequent guest at his
house. The merchant had an only daughter, for whom
his guest speedily contracted an affection; and, in spite
of parental menaces and prohibitions, he, in due season,
became her husband.
By this act he mortally offended his relations. Thence-
forward he was entirely disowned and rejected by them.
They refused to contribute any thing to his support. All
intercourse ceased, and he received from them merely
that treatment to ,vhich an absolute stranger, or detested
enemy, would be entitled.
He found an asylum in the house of his new father,
whose temper was kind, and whose pride was flattered by
this alliance. The nobility of his birth was put in the
balance against his poverty. Weise conceived himself, on
the whole, to have acted with the highest discretion in thus
disposing of his child. My grandfather found it inc
m-
bent on him to search out some mode of independent sub..
Bistence. Ilis youth had been eagerly devoted to litera...
ture and music. These had hitherto Leen cultivated

TUB' TRANSFORflIA TION.

27

merely a.s sources of amusement. They were now con..
verted into the means of gain. At this period there
were few works of taste in the Saxon dialect. My an-
cestor may be considered as the founder of the German
Theatre. The modern poet of the same name is sprung
from the same family, and, perhaps, surpasses but little,
in the fruitfulness of his invention, or the soundness of
his taste, the elder 'Vieland. His life was spent in the
composition of sonatas and dramatic pieces. They were
not unpopular, but merely afforded him a scanty subsist-
ence. He died in the bloom of his life, and was quickly
follo,ved to the grave by his wife. Their only child was
taken under the protection of the merchant. At an
early age he was apprenticed to a London trader, and
passed seven years of mercantile servitude.
l\iy father was not fortunate in the character of him
under "hose care he was now placed. He ,vas treated
with rigour, and full employment ,vas provided for every
hour of his time. His duties were laborious and mechani-
cal. lIe had been educated with a vie,v to this profession,
and, therefore, was not tormented with unsatisfied desires.
He did not hold his present occupations in abhorrence
because they ,vithheld him from paths more flowery and
more smooth, but he found in unintermitted labour, and
in the sternness of his master, sufficient occasions for
discontent. No opportunities of recreation were allowed
him. He spent all his time pent up in a gloomy apart-
ment, or traversing narrow and crowded streets. His
food ,vas coarse, and his lodging humble.
His heart gradually contracted a habit of morose and
gloomy reflection. He could not accurately define what
was wanting to his happiness. He was not tortured by
comparisons drawn between his own situation and that of
others. His state was such as suited his age and his
views as to fortune. He did not imagine himself treated
with extraordinary or unjustifiable rigour. In this respect
he supposed the condition of others, bound like himself
to mercantile service, to resenlble his own; yet every en-
gagement was irksome, and every hour tedious in its lapse.
In this state of lllind he chanced to light upon a book
written by one of the teachers of the Albigenses, or

28

WIELAND,. OR,

French Protestants. lIe entertained no relish for booI{s.
and was wholly unconscious of any power they possessed
to delight or instruct. This volume had lain for years
in a corner of his garret, half buried in dust and rubbish.
He had marked it as it lay; had thrown it, as his occa-
sions required, from one spot to another; but had felt no
inclination to examine its contents, or even to inquire
what was the subject of which it treated.
One Sunday afternoon, being induced to retire for a
few minutes to his garret, his eye was attracted by a page
of this book, which, by some accident, had been opened
and placed full in his view. He was seated on the edge
of his bed, and was employed in repairing a rent in some
part of his clothes. II is eyes were not confined to his
work, but, occasionally wandering, lighted at length upon
the page. The words "Seek and ye shall find," were
those that first offered then1selves to his notice. His
curiosity was roused by these so far as to prompt him to
proceed. As soon as he finished his work, he took up
the book and turned to the first page. The further he
read, the more inducement he found to continue, and he
regretted the decline of the light which obliged him for
the present to close it.
The book contained an exposition of the doctrine of
the sect of Camisards, and an historical account of its
origin. His mind was in a state peculiarly fitted for the
reception of devotional sentiments. The craving which
had haunted him was no"\v supplied with an object. His
mind was at no loss for a theme of meditation. On days
of business, he rose at the dawn, and retired to his
chamber not till late at night. He now supplied himself
with candles, and employed his nocturnal and Sunday
hours in studying this book. It, of course, abounded
with allusions to the Bible. All its conclusions were
deduced from the sacred text. This was the fountain,
beyond which it was unnecessary to trace the stream of
religious truth; but it was his duty to trace it thus far.
A Bible was easily procured, and he ardently entered on
the study of it. Ilia understanding had received a par-
ticular direction. All his reveries were fashioned in the
same mould. Ilis progress towards the formation of his

THE TRANSFOR1JIATION.

29

.

creed was rapid. Every fact anrl Rcntiment in this book
were viewed through a medium which the writings of the
Camisard apostle had suggested. His constructions of
the text were hasty, and formed on a narrow scale.
Every thing was vie"Ted in a disconnected position. One
action and one precept "Were not employed to illustrate
and restrict the meaning of another. Hence arose a
thousand scruples to which he had hitherto been a stranger.
He was alternately agitated by fear and by ecstasy. He
imagined himself beset by the snares of a spiritual foe,
and that his security lay in ceaseless watchfulness and
prayer.
His morals, which had never been loose, were now
modelled by a stricter standard. The empire of religious
duty extended itself to his looks, gestures, and phrases.
All levities of speech, and negligences of behaviour,
,vere proscribed. His air was mournful and contempla-
tive. He laboured to keep alive a sentiment of fear, and
a belief of the awe-creating presence of the Deity. Ideas
foreign to this were sedulously excluded. To suffer their
intrusion was a crime against the Divine ßlajesty, in-
expiable but by days and weeks of the keenest agonies.
No material variation had occurred in the lapse of two
years. Every day confirmed him in his present modes of
thinking and acting. It was to be expected that the tide
of his em9tions would sometimes recede, that intervals of
despondency and doubt would occur; but these gradually
were more rare, and of shorter duration; and he, at last,
arrived at a state considerably uniform in this respect.
His apprenticeship was now almost expired. On his
arrival at age he became entitled, by the will of my grand-
father, to a small SUfi. This sum ,vould hardly suffice to
set him afloat as a trader in his present situation, and he
had nothing to expect from the generosity of his master.
Residence in England had, besides, become almost im-
possible, on account of his religious tenets. In addition
to these motives for seeking a new habitation, there was
another of the most imperious and irresistible necessity.
He had imbibed an opinion that it "
as his duty to dis-
seminate the truths of the gospel among the unbelieving
nations. lIe ,vas terrified at first hy the perils and hard-

3 0

WIEL
4ND; OR,

ships to ,yhich the life of a missionary is exposed. This
cowardice made him diligent in the invention of objec..
tions and excuses; but he found it impossible wholly to
shake off the belief that such was the injunction of his
duty. The belief, after every new conflict with his pas-
sions, acquired new strength; and, at length, he formed
a resolution of complying with what he deemed the will
of heaven.
The North American Indians naturally presented them-
selves as the first objects for this species of benevolence.
As soon as his servitude expired, he converted his little
fortune into money, and embarked for Philadelphia. IIere
his fears were revived, and a nearer survey of savage man..
ners once more shook his resolution. For a while he re-
linquished his purpose, and, purchasing a farm on the
Schuylkill, within a few miles of the city, set himself down
to the cultivation of it. The cheapness of land, and the
service of African slaves, which were then in general use,
gave him, who was poor in Europe, all the advantages of
wealth. He passed fourteen years in a thrifty and labo-
rious manner. In this time new objects, new employ..
ments, and new associates appeared to have nearly oblite..
rated the devout impressions of his youth. He now be-
came acquainted with a woman of a meek and quiet dis-
position, and of slender acquirements like himself. He
proffered his hand and was accepted.
His previous industry had now enabled him to dispense
wIth personal labour, and direct attention to his own con-
cerns. He enjoyed leisure, and ,vas visited afresh by de-
votional contemplation. The reading of the Scriptures,
and other religious books, became once more his favour-
ite employment. His ancient belief relative to the con- (
version of the savage tribes was revived with uncommon
energy. To the former obstacles ,vere now added the
pleadings of parental and conjugal love. The struggle
was long and vehement; but his sense of-duty would not
be stifled or enfeebled, and finally triumphed over every I'
impediment.
IIis efforts were attended with no permanent success.
His exhortations had sometimes a temporary power, but
more frequently were repelled with insult anù derisioll. In

THE TR.ANSFOR.J.
IA 7701Y.

3 1

pursuit of this object he encountered the most iU11ninent
perils, and underwent incredible fatigues, hunger, sickness,
and solitude. The license of savage passion, and the ar-
tifices of his depraved countrymen, all opposed themselves
to his progress. His courage did not forsake him till there
appeared no reasonable ground to hope for success. He
desisted not till his heart was relieved from the supposed
obligation to persevere. With a constitution somewhat de-
cayed, he at length returned to his family. An interval of
tranquillity succeeded. He was frugal, regular, and strict
in the performance of domestic duties. He allied himself
with no sect, because he perfectly agreed with none. So-
cial worship is that by which they are all distinguished;
but this article found no place in his creed. He rigidly
interpreted that precept which enjoins us, when we worship,
to retire into solitude, and shut out every species of
society.' According to him, devotion was not only a silent
office, but must be performed alone. An hour at noon
and an hour at midnight were thus appropriated.
At the distance of three hundred yards from his house, ....
on the top of a rock whose sides were steep, rugged, and
encumbered with dwarf cedars and stony asperities, he
built ,vhat to a common eye would have seemed a summer-
house. The eastern verge of this precipice was sixty feet.
above the river ,,
hich flowed at its foot. The vie,v before it
consisted of a transparent current, fluctuating and rippling
in a rocky channel, and bounded by a rising scene of corn-
fields and orchards. The edifice ,vas slight and airy. It
was no more than a circular area, twelve feet in diameter,
whose flooring ,vas the rock, cleared of moss and shrubs, !
and exactly levelled, edged by twelve Tuscan columns,
and covered by an undulating dome. lVly father furnished
the dimensions and outlines, but allo,ved the artist, whom
he employed, to complete the structure on his own plan.
It ,vas without seat, table, or ornalnent of any kind.
This was the temple of his Deity. ) T,vice in t,venty-four
hours he repaired hither, unaccompanied by any human
being. Nothing but physical inability to move ,vas allowed
to obstruct or postpone this visit. lIe did not exact from
his family compliance \vith his example. Fe,v men, equally
sincere in their faith, \vere as sparing in their censures and

it

3 2

WIEL
4ND,. OR,

restrictions, with respect to the conùuct of others, as ID)I
father. The character of my mother 'V3S no less devout;
but her education had habituated her to a different mode
of worship. The loneliness of their d,velling prevented her
from joining any established congregation; but she was
punctual in the offices of prayer, and in the performance
of hymns to her Saviour, after the manner of the disciples
of Zinzendorf. My father refused to interfere in her
arrangements. His own system was embraced not, accu-
rately speaking, because it was the best, but because it
had been expressly prescribed to him. Other modes, if
practised by other persons, might be equally acceptable.
His deportment to others was full of charity and mild-
ness. A sadness perpetually overspread his features,
but was unmingled ,vith sternness or discontent. The tones
of his voice, his gestures, his steps, were all in tranquil
uniform. IIis conduct ,vas characterized by a certain
forbearance and hunlility, which secured the esteem of
those to whom his tenets were most obnoxious. They
might call him a fanatic and a dreamer, but they could
not deny their veneration to his invincible candour and
invariable integrity. IIis own belief of rectitude was
the foundation of his happiness. This, however, was
destined to find an end.
Suddenly the sadness that constantly attended him was
deepened. Sighs, and even tears, sometimes escaped him.
To the expostulations of his wife he seldom answered
any thing. When he designed to be communicative, he
hinted that his peace of mind was flo,vn, in consequence
of deviation fro"m his duty. A command had been laid
upon him, which he had delayed to perform. He felt as
if a certain period of hesitation and reluctance had been
allowed him, but that this period was passed. He was
no longer permitted to obey. The duty assigned to him
was transferred, in consequence of his disobedience, to
another, and all that remained was to endure the penalty.
He did not describe this penalty. It appeared to be
nothing more for some time than a sense of wrong. This
was sufficiently acute, and was aggravated by the belIef
that his offence W3S incapable of expiation. No one could
contenlplate the agonies which he seemed to suffer with.

THE TRA.t.VSFORMA TION.

33

out the deepest compassion. Time, instead of lightening
the burden, appeared to' add to it. At length he hinted
to his wife that his end was near. His imagination did
not prefigure the mode or the time of his decease, but was
fraught with an incurable persuasion that his death was
at hand. He was likewise haunted by the belief that the
kind of death that awaited him was strange and terrible.
His anticipations were thus far vague and indefinite; but
they sufficed to poison every moment of his being and
devote him to ceaseless anguish.
3

CHAPTER II.

EARLY in the morning of a sultry day in August he
left Mettingen to go to the city. He had seldom passed
a day from home since his return from the shores of the
Ohio. Some urgent engagements at this time existed,
which would not admit of further delay. He returned in
the evening, but appeared to be greatly oppressed with
fatigue. His silence and dejection were likewise in a
more than ordinary degree conspicuous.
iy mother's
brother, whose profession was that of a surgeon, chanced
to spend this night at our house. It was from him that
I have frequently received an exact account of the
mournful catastrophe that followed.
As the evening advanced, my father's inquietudes in-
creased. lIe sat with his family as usual, but took no
part in their conversation. He appeared fully engrossed
by his own reflections. Occasionally his countenance ex-
hibited tokens of alarm; he gazed steadfastly and wildly
at the ceiling; and the exertions of his companions ,vere
scarcely sufficient to interrupt his reverie. On recover-
ing from these fits, he expressed no surprise, but, prèSS-
ing his hand to his head, complained, in a tremulous and
terrified tone, that his brain was scorched to cinders. lIe
would then betray marks of insupportable anxiety.
My uncle perceived by his pulse that he ,vas indispose(l,
but in no alarming degree, and ascribed appearances
chiefly to the workings of his mind. He exhorted him
to recollection and composure, but in vain. At the hour
of repose he readily retired to his chamber. At the per-
suasion of my mother he even undressed and went to bed.
Nothing could abate his restlessness. He checked hor
tender expostulations with some stern,ness. "Be silent,"
34

THE TRANSF/OR1J1A TION.

35

said he; "for that ,vhich I feel there is but one cure,
and that ,vill shortly COIne. You can hclp me nothing.
Look to your o,vn condition, and pray to God to I
strengthen you under the calamities that await you."
"What am I to fear?" she answered. "'Vhat terrible
disaster is it that you think of?" " Peace !-as yet I
know it not myself, but come it will, and shortly." She
repeated her inquiries and doubts; but he suddenly put
an end to the discourse, by a stern comInand to be silent.
She had never before known him in this mood. Hither-
to all was benign in his deportment. lIer heart was
pierced with sorrow at the contemplation of this change.
She was utterly unable to account for it, or to figure to
herself the species of disaster that was lnenaced.
Contrary to custom, the lamp, instead of being placed
on the hearth, was left upon the table. Over it, against
the wall, there hung a small clock, so contriyed as to
strike a very hard stroke at the end of every sixth hour.
That ,vhich was. now approaching was the signal for re-
tiring to the fane at ,vhich he addressed his devotions.
Long habit had occasioned him to be al,vays a,vake at
this hour, and the toll ,yas instantly obeyed.
Now frequent and anxious glances were cast at the
clock. Not a single movement of the index appeared to
escape his notice. As the hour verged towards twelve,
his anxiety visibly augmented. The trepidations of my
mother kept pace with those of her husband; but she
was intimidated into silence. All that was left to her
was to watch every change of his features and give vent
to her sympathy in tears.
At length the hour was spent, and the clock tolled.
The sound appeared to communicate a shock to every
part of my father's frame. lIe rose immediately, and
threw over himself a loose gown. Even this office was
performed with difficulty, for his joints trembled and
his teeth chattered with dismay. At this hour his duty
called him to the rock, and my mother naturally con-
cluded that it ,vas thither he intended to repair . Yet
these incidents were so uncommon as to fill her with
astonishment and foreboding. She saw him leave the
room, and heard his s.teps as they hastily descended the

3 6

WIELAND,. OR,

stairs. She half resolved to rise and pursue him, but
ihe wildness of the scheme quickly suggested itself. lIe
was going to a place ,vhither no power on earth could
induce him to suffer an attendant.
The window of her chamber looked towards the rock.
The atmosphere was clear and calm, but the edifice could
not be discovered at that distance through the dusk. My
mother's anxiety would not allow her to remain where
she was. She rose, and seated herself at the windo,v.
She strained her sight to get a view of the dome, and
of the path that led to it. The first painted itself with
sufficient distinctness on her fancy, but was undistin-
guishable by the eye from the rocky mass on which it
was erected. The second could be imperfectly seen; but
her husband had already passed, or had taken a different
direction.
What was it that she feared? Some disaster impended
over her husband or herself. He had predicted evils,
but professed himself ignorant of what nature they were.
When were they to cOIne? Was this night, or this hour,
to witness the accomplishment? She was tortured with
impatience and uncertainty. All her fears were at pre.
sent linked to his person, and she gazed at the clock,
with nearly as much eagerness as my father had done,
in expectation of the next hour.
A half hour passed away in this state of suspense.
Her eyes ,vere fixed upon the rock; suddenly it was illu..
minated. A light proceeding from the edifice made
every part of the scene visible. A gleam diffused itself
over the intermediate space, and instantly a loud report,
like the explosion of a mine, followed. She uttered an
involuntary shriek, but the new sounds that greeted her
ear quickly conquered her surprise. They were piercing
shrieks, and uttered without intermission. The gleams,
which had diffused themselves far and wide, ,vere in a
moment withdrawn; but the interior of the edifice was
filled with rays.
The first suggestion was that a pistol was discharged,
and that the structure was on fire. She did not allow
herself time to meditate a second thought, but rushed
into the entry and knocked loudly at the door of her

THE TRANSFORlJL4 TION.

37

brother's chamber.
Iy uncle had been previously roused
by the noise, and instantly fle,v to the window. He also
ima.gined what he saw to be fire. The loud and vehe-
ment shrieks vlhich succeeded the first explosion seemed
to be an invocation of succour. The incident was inex-
plicable; but he could not fail to perceive the propriety
of hastening to the spot. He was unbolting the door,
when his sister's voice was heard on the outside conjuring
him to come forth.
He obeyed the summons with all the speed in his
power. He stopped not to question her, but hurried
down-stairs and across the meadow which lay between
the house and the rock. The shrieks were no longer to
be heard; but a blazing light was clearly discernible be-
tween the columns of the temple. Irregular steps, hewn
in the stone, led him to the summit. On three sides this
edifice touched the very verge of the cliff. On the fourth
side, which might be regarded as the front, there was an
area of small extent, to ,vhich the rude staircase con-
ducted you.
Iy uncle speedily gained this spot. His
strength was for a moment exhausted by his haste. He
paused to rest himself. lVlean,vhile he bent the most
vigilant attention towards the object before him.
f 'Vithin the columns he beheld "\vhat he could no better
describe than by saying that it resembled a cloud im-
pregnated with light. It had the brightness of flame, but 1
was without its upward motion. It did not occupy the I
,,-hole area, ana rose but a few feet above the floor. No
part of the building ,,-as on fire. This appearance was
astonishing. He approached the temple. As he went
forward the light retired, and, ,,
hen he
ut his feet
,,-ithin the apartment, utterly vanished. The sudden-
ness of this transition increased the darkness that
succeeded in a tenfold degree. Fear and wonder ren-
dered him powerless. An occurrence like this, in a
place assigned to devotion, was adapted to intimidate the
stoutest heart.
Ilis wanacring thoughts were recalled by the groans of
one near him. Ilis sight gradually recDvered its po,ver,
and he ,va') able to discern my father stretched on th0
floor.
\.t that 1llolllcnt lilY lllother and servants arrjyccl,

\

3 8

WIELAND; OR,

with a lantern, and ë nabled my uncle to examine more
closely this scene. My father, ,vhen he left the hous-e,
besides a loose upp r vest and slippers, ,vore a shirt and
drawers. Now he was naked; his skin throughout the
greater part of his body ,vas scorched and bruised. Ilis
right arm exhibited marks as of having been struck
by some heavy body. Ilis clothes had been removed,
and it was not immediately perceived that they were
reduced to ashes. Ilis slippers and his hair were un-
touched.
He was removed to his chamber, and the requisite
attention paid to his wounds, which gradually became
more painful. A mortification speedily sho,ved itself in
the arm, ,vhich had been most hurt. Soon after, the
other wounded parts exhibited the like appearance.
In1111ediately subsequent to this disaster, my father
seelned nearly in a state of insensibility. He ,vas passive
under every operation. lIe scarcely opened his eyes, and
was ,vith difficulty prevailed upon to answer the questions
that were put to him. By his imperfect account, it ap-
peared, that while engaged in silent orisona, with thoughts
full of confusion and anxiety, a faint gleam suddenly
shot athwart the apartment. Ilis fancy immediately
pictured to itself a person bearing a lan1p. It seemed
to come from behind. He was in the act of turning to
examine the visitant, when his right arm received a blow
from a heavy club. At the same instant, a very bright
spark was seen to light upon his clothes. In a moment,
the ,vhole was reduced to ashes. This was the sum of
the information which he chose to give. There was
somewhat in his manner that indicated an imperfect tale.
My uncle was inclined to believe that half the truth had
been suppressed.
Meanwhile, the disease thus ,vonderfully generated
betrayed more terrible symptoms. Fever and. delirium
terminated in lethargic slumber, which, in the course of
two hours, gave place to death; yet not till insupport..
able exhalations and cra,vling putrefaction had driven
from his chalnber and the house every Olle whom their
duty did not detain.
Such was the end of my father. None, Eurely, was

THE TR liVS./-/ORiJIA TION.

39

ever more nlysterious. 'Vhûn ,ve recollect his gloomy
anticipations and unconquerable anxiety, the security
from hun1an malice which his character, the place, and
the condition of the times might be supposed to confer,
the purity and cloudlessness of the atmosphere, which
rendered it impossible that lightning was the cause, what
are the conclusions that we must form?
The prelusive gleam, the blo,v upon his arm, the fatal
spark, the explosion heard so far, the fiery cloud that
environed him, without detriment to the structure, though
composed of combustible materials, the sudden vanishing
of this cloud at my uncle's approach :-what is the in-
ference to be drawn from these facts? Their truth
cannot be doubted. l\Iy uncle's testimony is peculiarly
worthy of credit, because no man's temper is more
skeptical, and his belief is unalterably attached to natural
causes. *
I was at this time a child of six years of age. The
impressions that were then made upon me can never be
effaced. I was ill qualified to judge respecting what was
then passing; but, as I advanced in age and became more
fully acquainted with these facts, they oftener became the
subject of my thoughts. Their resemblance to recent
events revived them with ne,v force in my memory, and
made me more anxious to explain them. Was this the ,
penalty of disobedience ?-this the stroke of a vindictive
and invisible hand? Is it a, fresh proof that the Divine
Ruler interferes in human affairs, meditates an end, selects
and commissions his agents, and enforces, by unequivocal
sanctions, submission to his will? Or was it merely the
irregular expansion of the fluid that imparts warmth to
our heart and our blood, caused by the fatigue of the
preceding day, or flowing, by established laws, from the
condition of his thoughts.

* A case in its symptoms exactly parallel to this is published in one
of the Journals of Florence. See, likewise,
imilar ca8es reported by
!Iessrs. l\lerrille and :\Iuraire, in the ,. Journal de l\ledicine" for Febru-
ary and
Iay, 1783. The researches of
Iaffei and Fontana have thrown

omc light upon thiR subject.

CHAPTER III.

THE Bhock which this disastrous occurrence occasioned
to my mother was the foundation of a disease which carried
her, in a few months, to the grave. l\iy brother and my-
self were children at this time, and were now reduced to
the condition of orphans. The property ,vhich our parents
left ,vas by no means inconsiderable. It was intrusted
to faithful hands till we should arrive at a suitable age.
Meanwhile our education was assigned to a maiden aunt
who resided in the city, and whose tenderness made us in
a short time cease to regret that ,ve had lost a mother.
The years that succeeded were tranquil and happy.
Our lives were molested by fe,v of those cares that are
incident to childhood. By accident 1110re than design,
the indulgence and yielding temper of our aunt was
mingled with resolution and steadfastness. She seldom
deviated into either extreme of rigour or lenity. Our
social pleasures were subject to no unreasonable restraints.
We were instructed in most branches of useful kno,vledge,
and were saved from the corruption and tyranny of
colleges and boarding-schools.
Our companions were chiefly selected from the children
of our neighbours. Between one of these and my brother
there quickly grew the most affectionate intin1acy. IIer
name ,vas Catharine Pleyel. She was rich, beautiful, and
contrived to blend the most bewitching softness with the
most exuberant vivacity. The tie by which my brother
and she were united seemed to add force to the love which
I bore her, and ,vhich ,vas amply returned. Bet,veen her
and myself there was every circuIllstance tending to pro-
duce and foster friendship. Our sex and age were the
same. 'Ve lived ,vi thin sight of each other's abode.
40

THE TR.ANSFORlJIA TION.

4 1

Our tempers ,vere remarkably congenial, and the super-
intendents of our education not only prescribed to us the
Bame pursuits, but allo,ved us to cultivate them together.
Every day added strength to the triple bonds that
united us. We gradually withdrew ourselves from the
society of others, and found every moment irksome that
was net devoted to each other. l\Iy brother's advance in
age made no change in our situation. It ,vas determined
that his profession should be agriculture. His fortune
exempted him from the necessity of personal labour.
The task to be performed by him was nothing more than
superintendence. The skill that was demanded by this
was merely theoretical, and ,vas furnished by casual in-
spection, or by closet study. The attention that was
paid to this subject did not seclude him for any long time
from us, on whol11 time had no other effect than to aug-
ment our impatience in the absence of each other and of
him. Our tasks, our lralks, our music, ,vere seldom per-
formed but in each other's company.
It ,vas easy to see that Catharine and my brother ,vere
born for each other. The passion which they mutually
entertained quickly broke those bounds which extreme
youth had set to it; confessions were made or extorted,
and
heir union was postponed only till my brother had
passed his minority. The previous lapse of t,vo years
,vas constantly and usefully employed.
Oh, my brother! But the task I have set myself let
me perform with steadiness. The felicity of that period
was marred by no gloomy anticipations. The future, like
the present, ,vas serene. Til11e ,vas supposed to have only
new delights in store. I mean not to d,,"ell on previous
incidents longer than is necessary to illustrate or explain
the great events that have since happened. The nuptial
day at length arrived. 1\ly brother took possession of
the house in which he was born, and here the long-pro-
tracted marriage ,vas solemnized.

Iy father's property ,vas equally divided between us.
A neat d,velling, situated on the bank of the river, three-
quarters of a 111ile from my brother's, ,yas no,voccupied
by IHe. These dOlnains were called, from the name of
the fir
t possessor, l\iettingen. I can scarcely account

42

WIELAND,. OR,

for my refusing to take up my abode ,vith him, unless it
were from a disposition to be an economist of pleasure.
Self-denial, seasonably exercised, is one means of en-
hancing our gratifications. I was, besides, desirous of
administering a fund and regulating a household of my
own. The short distance allowed us to exchange visits
as often as \ve pleased. The walk from one mansion to
the other was no undelightful prelude to our interviews.
I was sometimes their visitant, and they as frequently
were my guests.
Our education had been modelled by no religious
standard. W e were left to the guidance of our o,vn un-
derstanding and the casual impressions which society
might make upon us. My friends' temper, as ,veIl as
my own, exempted us from much anxiety on this account.
It must not be supposed that we were without religion;
but with us it was the product of lively feelings, excited
by reflection on our own happiness, and by the grandeur
of external nature. We sought not a basis for our
faith in the weighing of proofs and the dissection of
creeds. Our devotion ,vas a mixed and casual senti-
ment, seldom verbally expressed, or solicitously sought,
or carefully retained. In the midst of present enjoy-
ment, no thought was besto,ved on the future. As a
consolation in calamity, religion is dear. But calamity
was yet at a distance; and its only tendency was to
heighten enjoyments which needed not this addition to
satisfy every craving.
My brother's situation was somewhat different. His
deportment was grave, considerate, and thoughtful. I
will not say whether he ,vas indebted to sublimer views
for this disposition. Human life, in his opinion, \vas
made up of changeable elements, and the principles of
duty were not easily unfolded. The future, either as
anterior or subsequent to death, ,vas a scene that required
some preparation and provision to be made for it. These
positions we could not deny; but what distinguished him
was a propensity to ruminate on these truths. The images
that visited us were blithesome and gay, but those with
which he was most familiar were of an opposite hue.
rrhey did not generate affliction and fear, but they dif.

THE TRANSFOR.L1/A TION.

43

fused over his behaviour a certain air of forethought and
sobriety. The principal effect of this temper was visible
in his features and tones. These, in general, bespoke a
sort of thrilling melancholy. I scarcely ever knew him
to laugh. lIe never accompanied the lawless mirth of
his companions with more than a smile, but his conduct
was the same as ours.
He partook of our occupations and amusements with
a zeal not less than ours, but of a different kind. The
diversity in our temper was never the parent of discord,
and was scarcely a topic of regret. The scene was va-
riegated but not tarnished or disordered by it. It hin-
dered the element in ,vhich we moved from stagnating.
Some agitation and concussion is requisite to the due ex-
ercise of human understanding. In his studies, he pur-
sued an austerer and more arduous path. He was much
conversant with the history of religious opinions, and
took pains to ascertain their validity. He deemed it in-
dispensable to examine the ground of his belief, to settle
the relation between motives and actions, the criterion
of merit, and the kinds and properties of evidence.
There was an obvious resemblance bet,veen him and
my father in their conceptions of the importance of cer-
tain topics, and in the light in which the vicissitudes of
human life were accustomed to be viewed. Their cha-
racters were similar; but the mind of the son was en-
riched by science and embellished with literature.
The temple was no longer assigned to its ancient use.
From an Italian adventurer, who erroneously imagined
that he could find employment for his skill and sale for
his sculptures in America, my brother had purchased a
bust of Cicero. He professed to have copied this piece
from an antique dug up with his own hands in the envi-
rons of l\'Iodena. Of the truth of his assertions we were
not qualified to judge; but the marble was pure and
polished, and we were contented to admire the perform..
ance, without waiting for the sanction of connoisseurs.
'Ve hired the same artist to hew a suitable pedestal from
a neighbouring quarry. This was placed in the temple,
and the bust rested upon it. Opposite to this was a harp-

ichord, sheltered by a temporary roof from the ,veather.

44

WIELAND; OR,

This was the place of resort in the evenings of summer.
Here we sung, and talked, and read, and occasionally
banqueted. Every joyous and tender scene most dear to
my memory is connected ,vith this edifice. Here the
performances of our musical and poetical ancestors were
rehearsed.. Here my brother's children received the rudi-
ments of their education; here a thousand conversations,
pregnant ,vith delight and improvement, took place; and
here the social affections were accustomed to expand, and
the tear of delicious sympathy to be shed.
My brother was an indefatigable student. The authors
,vhom he read were nUI11erOUS; but the chief object of
his veneration was Cicero. He was never tired of con-
ning and rehearsing his productions. To understand
them was not sufficient. He ,vas anxious to discover the
gestures and cadences with which they ought to be de-
livered. He was very scrupulous in selecting a true
scheme of pronunciation for the Latin tongue, and in
adapting it to the words of his darling "\vriter. His fa-
vourite occupation consisted in embellishing his rhetorio
with all the proprieties of gesticulation and utterance.
Not contented with this, he was diligent in settling and
restoring the purity of the text. For this end, he collected
all the editions and commentaries that could be pro-
cured, and employed months of severe study in exploring
and comparing them. lIe never betrayed more satisfac-
tion than when he made a discovery of this kind.
It was not till the addition of IIenry Pleyel, my
fi-iend's only brother, to our society, that his passion for
Roman eloquence ,vas countenanced and fostered by a
sympathy of tastes. This young Inan had been some
years in Europe. We had separated at a very early age,
and he was now returned to spend the remainder of his
days among us.
Our circle ,vas greatly enlivened by the accession of a
new member. His conversation abounded ,vith novelty.
His gayety ,vas ahnost boisterous, but was capable of
yielding to a grave leportment when the occasion re-
quired it. IIis discernment was acute; but he was prone
to view every object merely as supplying Inaterials for
mirth. Ilis conceptions ,vere ardent hut ludicrous, and

THE TRANSFORltfATION.

45

his memory, aided, as he honestly acknowledged, by his
invention, was an inexhaustible fund of entertainment.
His residence ,vas at the same distance below the city
as ours was above, but there seldom passed a day ,vith-
out our being favoured with a visit. 1\ly brother and he
were endo,ved with the same attachment to the Latin
writers; and Pleyel was not behind his friend in his
knowledge of the history and metaphysics of religion.
Their creeds, ho,vever, were in many respects opposite.
Where one discovered only confirmations of his faith,
the other could find nothing but reasons for doubt. l\ioral
necessity and Calvinistic inspiration ,vere the props on
which my brother thought proper to repose. Pleyel was
the champion of intellectual liberty, and rej ected all
guidance but that of his reason. Their discussions were
frequent, but, being managed with candour as well as
with skill, they were always listened to by us with avidity
and benefit.
Pleyel, like his new friends, was fond of music and
poetry. Henceforth our concerts consisted of two vio-
lins, a harpsichord, and three voices. We were frequently
reminded how much happiness depends upon society.
This ne,v friend, though before his arrival ,ye ,vere sen-
sible of no vacuity, could not now be spared. His de-
parture would. occasion a void ,vhich nothing could fill,
and which would produce insupportable regret. Even
my brother, though his opinions were hourly assailed,
and even the divinity of Cicero contested, was captivated
with his ftiend, and laid aside SOlne part of his ancient
gravity at Pleyel's approach.

CHAPTER IV.

SIX years of uninterrupted happiness had rolled aw
y
since my brother's marriage. The sound of war had
been heard, but it was at such a distance as to enhance
our enjoyment by affording objects of comparison. The
Indians were repulsed on the one side, and Canada was
conquered on the other. Revolutions and battles, how..
ever calamitous to those who occupied the scene, contri..
buted in some sort to our happiness, by agitating our
minds with curiosity and furnishing causes of l)atriotic
exultation. Four chi]
ren, three of ,vhom were of an age
to compensate, by their persùnal and mental progress,
the cares of which they had been, at a more helpless age,
the objects, exercised my brother's tenderness. The
fourth was a charming babe that promised to display the
image of her mother, and enjoyed perfect health. To
these were added a sweet girl fourteen years old, who was
loved by all of us with an affection more than parental.
Her mother's story was a mournful one. She had come
hither from England when this child was an infant, alone,
without friends, and without money. She appeared to
have embarked in a hasty and clandestine manner. She
passed three years of solitude and anguish under my
aunt's protection, and died a martyr to woe the source of
which she could by no importunities be prevailed upon to
unfold. IIer education and manners bespoke her to be

f no mean birth. Her last moments were rendered
serene by the assurances she received from my aunt that
her daughter should experience the same protection that
had been extended to herself.
On my brother's marriage it was agreed that she
should make a part of his family. I cannot do justice
46

THE TRANSFORlIIA TION.

47

to the attractions of this girl. Perhaps the tenderness
she excited might partly originate in her personal re-
semblance to her mother, whose character and misfortunes
were still fresh in our remembrance. She was habitually
pensive, and this circumstance tended to remind the
spectator of her friendless condition; and yet that epi-
thet was surely misapplied in this case. This being was
cherished with unspeakable fondness by those with whom
she now resided. Every exertion was made to enlarge
and improve her mind. Her safety was the object of a
solicitude that almost exceeded the bounds of discretion.
Our affection, indeed, could scarcely transcend her merits.
She never met my eye or occurred to my reflections
without exciting a kind of enthusiasm. Her softness,
her intelligence, her equanimity, never shall I see sur-
passed. I have often shed tears of pleasure at her
approach and pressed her to my bosom in an agony of
fondness.
While every day was adding to the charms of her person
and the stores of her mind, there occurred an event which
threatened to deprive us of her. An officer of some
rank, who had been disabled by a wound at Quebec, had
employed himself, since the ratification of peace, in travel-
ling through the colonies. He remained a considerable
period at Philadelphia, but was at last preparing for his
departure. No one had been more frequently honoured
with his visits than Mrs. Baynton, a worthy lady with
whom our family were intimate. He went to her house
with a view to perform a farewell visit, and was on the
point of taking his leave when I and my young friend
entered the apartment. It is impossible to describe
the emotions of the stranger when he fixed his eyes
upon my companion. He was motionless with surprise.
He was unable to conceal his feelings, but sat silently
gazing at the spectacle before him. At length he turned
to 1\1rs. Baynton, and, more by his looks and gestures
than by words, besought her for an explanation of the
scene. He seized the hand of the girl, who, in her turn,
was surprised by his behaviour, and, drawing her forward,
said, in an eagpr and faltering tone, "'Vho is she? whence
does sbe cOIne? what is her name 1"

4 8

WIELAND,. OR,

The answers that were given only increased the con.
fusion of his thoughts. He was successively told that she
was the daughter of one whose name ,vas Louisa Conway,
who arrived among us at such a time, who sedulously con...
cealed her parentage and the motives of her flight, whose
incurable griefs had finally destroyed her, and who had left
this child under the protection of her friends. Having
heard the tale, he melted into tears, eagerly clasped the
young lady in his arms, and called himself her father.
When the tumults excited in his breast by this unlooked..
for meeting were somewhat subsided, he gratified our
curiosity by relating the following incidents:-
"Miss Conway was the only daughter of a banker in
London, who discharged t01rards her every duty of an
affectionate father. He had chanced to fall into her
company, had been subdued by her attractions, had
tendered her his hand, and been joyfully accepted both
by parent and child. His wife had given him every
proof of the fondest attachment. Her father, who pos..
sessed immense wealth, treated him with distinguished
respect, liberally supplied his wants, and had made one
condition of his consent to their union a resolution to
take up their abode ,vith him.
"They had passed three years of conjugal felicity,
which had been augmented by the birth of this child,
when his professional duty called him into Germany. It
was not without an arduous struggle that she was per...
suaded to relinquish the design of accompanying him
through all the toils and perils of war. No parting
was ever more distressful. They strove to alleviate, by
frequent letters, the evils of their lot. Those of his
wife breathed nothing but anxiety for his safety and im-
patience of his absence. At length a new arrangement
was made, and he was obliged to repair from 'Vestphalia
to Canada. One advantage attended this change: it
afforded him an opportunity of meeting his family. His
wife anticipated this interview with no less rapture than
himself. He hurried to London, and, the moment he
alighted from the stage-coach, ran with all speed to
Mr. Conway's house.
"It was a house of mourning. IIis father was over..

...

THE TRANSFORMA TION.

49

whelmed with grief and incapable of answering his in..
qUlrles. The servants, sorro\vful and mute, were equally
refractory. He explored the house, and called on the
names of his wife and daughter; but his summons were
fruitless. At length this new disaster was explained.
Two days before his arrival, his wife's chamber was found
empty. No search, however diligent and anxious, could
trace her steps. No cause could be assigned for her dis-
appearance. The mother and child had fled away together.
" New exertions were made; her chamber and cabinets
were ransacked; but no vestige was found serving to
inform them as to the motives of her flight, whether it had
been voluntary or otherwise, and in what corner of the
kingdom or of the world she was concealed. \Vho shall
describe the sorrow and amazement of the husband,-his
restlessness, his vicissitudes of hope and fear, and his
ultimate despair? His duty called him to America. He
had been in this city, and had frequently passed the door
of the house in which his wife at that moment resided.
Her father had not remitted his exertions to elucidate this
painful mystery; but they had failed. This disappoint-
ment hastened his death; in consequence of which Louisa's
father became possessor of his immense property."
This tale ,vas a copious theme of speculation. A
thousand questions were started and discussed in our
domestic circle respecting the motives that influenced
Mrs. Stuart to abandon her country. It did not appear
that her proceeding was involuntary. We recalled and
reviewed every particular that had fallen under our own
observation. By none of these were we furnished ,vith
a clue. Her conduct, after the most rigorous scrutiny,
still remained an impenetrable secret. On a nearer view,
Major Stuart proved himself a man of most amiable
character. His attachment to Louisa appeared hourly
to increase. She was no stranger to the sentiments suit-
able to her new character. She could not but readily
embrace the scheme which was proposed to her,-to re-
turn with her father to England. This scheme his regard
for her induced him, however, to postpone. Some time
was nece
sary to prepare her for so great a change and
4

50

WIELAND; OR,

enable her to think without a.gony of her separation
from us.
I was not without hopes of prevailing on her father
entirely to relinquish this un,velcome design. l\Ieanwhile,
he pursued his travels through the southern colonies, and
his daughter continued with us. Louisa and my brother
frequently received letters from him which indicated a
mind of no common order. They were filled with amusing
details and profound reflections. While here, he often
partook of our evening conversations at the temple; and
since his departure his correspondence had frequently
supplied us with topics of discourse.
One afternoon in May, the blandness of the air and
brightness of the verdure induced us to assemble earlier
than usual in the temple. We females were busy at the
needle, while my brother and Pleyel were bandying
quotations and syllogisms. The point discussed was the
merit of the oration for Cluentius, as descriptive, first,
of the genius of the speaker, and, secondly, of the man-
ners of the times. Pleyel laboured to extenuate both
these species of lnerit, and tasked his ingenuity to show
that the orator had embraced a bad cause, or, at least, a
d.oubtfulone. He urged that to rely on the exaggerations
of an advocate, or to make the picture of a single family
a model from which to sketch the condition of a nation,
was absurd. The controversy was suddenly diverted into
a new channel, by a misquotation. Pleyel accused his
companion of saying "polliciatur" when he should have
said "polliceretur." Nothing ,vould decide the contest
but an appeal to the volume. My brother was returning
to the house for this purpose, ,vhen a servant met him
with a letter from Major Stuart. lIe immediately re-
turned to read it in our company.
Besides affectionate compliments to us and paternal
benedictions on Louisa, his letter contained a description
of a waterfall on the Monongahela. A sudden gust of rain
falling, we were compelled to remove to the house. The
storm passed away, and a radiant moonlight succeeded.
There was no motion to resume our scats in the temple.
We therefore remained where we were, and engaged in
sprightly conversation. The letter lately received natu..

THE TRANSFORlJfA TION.

51

rally suggested the topic. A parallel ,vas drawn het";veen
the cataract there described and one ,vhich Pleyel had
discovered anlong the Alps of Glarus. In the state of
the former, some particular was mentioned the truth of
which was questionable. To settle the dispute which
thence arose, it was proposed to have recourse to the
letter. My brother searched for it in his pocket. It was
nowhere to be found.' At length he remembered to have
left it in the temple, ann. he determined to go in search
for it. His wife, Pleyel, Louisa, and myself, remained
where we were.
In a few minutes he retm"ned. I was somewhat inte-
rested in the dispute, and was therefore impatient for his
return; yet, as I heard him ascending the stairs, I could
not but remark that he had executed his intention with
remarkable despatch. My eyes were fixed upon him on
his entrance. Methought he brought with him looks con-
siderably different from those with ,vhich he departed.
'Vonder and a slight portion of anxiety "Tere mingled in
theIne His eyes seelned to be in search of some object.
They passed quickly from one person to another, till they
rested on his wife. She was seated in a careless attitude
on the sofa, in the same. spot as before. She had the
same muslin in her hand by ,vhich her attention was
chiefly engrossed.
The moment he saw her, his perplexity visibly in-
creased. lIe quietly seated himself, and, fixing his eyes
on the floor, appeared to be absorbed in meditation.
These singularities suspended the inquiry which I was
preparing to make respecting the letter. In a short time,
the company relinquished the subject ,vhich engaged
them, and directed their attention to "Tieland. They
thought that he only ,yaited for a pause in the discourse
to produce the letter. The pause was uninterrupted by
him. At length Pleyel said, " "Tell, I suppose you have
found the letter ?"
"No," said he, without any abatelnent of his gravity,
and looking steadfastly at his wife; "I did not mount the
hill."-" 'Vhy not ?"-" Catharine, have you not moved
from that spot since I left the rOOln ?"-She was affected
with the solemnity of his manner, and, laying do,yn her

52

WIELAND,' OR,

work, answered, in a tone of surprise, " No. '\Vhy do
you ask that question ?"-His eyes were again fixed upon
the floor, and he did not immediately ans,ver. At length
he said, looking round upon us, "Is it true that Catha-
rine did not follow me to the hill ?-that she did not just
now enter the room ?" We assured him, with one voice,
that she had not been absent for a moment, and inquired
into the motive of his questions.
" Your assurances," said he, "are solemn and unani-
mous; and yet I must deny credit to your assertions, or
disbelieve the testimony of my eenses, which informed
me, when I was half-way up the hill, that Catharine was
at the bottom."
We were confounded at this declaration. Pleyel ral-
lied him with great levity on his behaviour. He listened
to his friend with calmness, but without any relaxation
of features.
" One thing," said he, with emphasis, "is true: either
I heard my wife's voice at the bottom of the hill, or I do
not hear your voice at present."
" Truly," returned Pleyel, "it is a sad dilemma to
which you have reùuced yourself. Certain it is, if our
eyes can give us certainty, that your ,vife has been sitting
in that spot during every llloment of your absence. You
have heard her voice, you say, upon the hill. In general,
her voice, like her temper, is all softness. To be heard
across the room, she is obliged to exert herself. While
you were gone, if I mistake not, she did not utter a
word. Clara and I had all the talk to ourselves. Still,
it may be that she held a whispering conference with you
on the hill; but tell us the particulars." I
" The conference," said he, ",vas short, and far from
being carried on in a whisper. You know with ,vhat in-
tention I left the house. IIalf-way to the rock, the moon
was for a moment hidden from us by a cloud. I never
knew the air to be more bland and more calm. In this
interval I glanced at the temple, and thought I saw a,
glimmering between the colulnns. It was so faint that
it would not perhaps have been visible if the moon had
not been shrouded. I looked again, but Raw nothing. I
never visit this Luilùing alone, or at night, ,yithout being

THE TRANSFORJIA TION.

53

reminded of the fate of ll1Y father. There was nothing
wonderful in this appearance; yet it suggested something
more than mere sólitucle and darlness in the same place
,,"ould have done.
"I kept on my 'lay. The images that haunted me
were solemn; and I entertained an imperfect curiosity,
but no fear, as to the nature of this object. I had as-
cended the hill little more than half way, "hen a voice
called me from behind. The accents were clear, distinct,
powerful, and were uttered, as I fully believed, by my
wife. Her voice is not commonly so loud. She has seldom
occasion to exert it; but, nevertheless, I have sometimes
heard her call with force and eagerness. If my ear was
not deceived, it was her voice which I heard :- ,
'" Stop! go no farther. There is danger in your path.'
The suddenness and unexpectedness of this "yarning, the
tone of alarm with "Which it was given, and, above all, the
persuasion that it was my ,,-ife who spoke, "\rere enough
to disconcert and make me pause. I turned, and listened
to assure myself that I was not mistaken. The deepest
silence succepded. At length I spoke in my turn:-
, "Tho calls? Is it you, Catharine?' I stopped, and pre-
sently received an ans",ver :-' Yes, it is I; go not up;
return instantly; you are "\yanted at the house.' Still
the voice ,yas Catharine's, and still it proceeded from the
foot of the stairs.
,,"That could I do? The warning was mysterious. To
be uttered by Catharine at a place and on an occasion like
this enhanced the mystery. I could do nothing but obey.
Accordingly, I trod back my steps, expecting that she
waited for me at the bottom of the hill. "Then I reached
the bottom, no one" as visible. The moonlight "
as once
more universal and brilliant, and yet, as far 3S I could
see, no human or moving figure was discernible. If she
had returned to the house, she must have used '\'rondrouB
expedition to have passed already beyond the I-each of
my eye. I exerted my voice, but in vain. To my re..
peated exclamations no ans"er was returned.
"Ruminating on these incidents, I returned hither.
There ,yas no rcom to doubt that I had heard my "ife's
voice; attending incident
,,-ere not easily eXplained; but

54

WIEL
4ND,. OR,

you no,v assure 1.1C that nothing extraordinary has hap-
pened to urge my return, and that my wife has not
moved from her seat."
Such was my brother's narrative. It was heard by UB
with different emotions. Pleyel did not scruple to regard
the whole as a deception of the senses. Perhaps a voice
had been heard; but "\Vieland's imagination had misled
him in supposing a resemblance to that of his ,vife and
giving such a signification to the sounds. According to
his custom, he spoke what he thought. Sometimes he
made it the theme of grave discussion, but more fre-
quently treated it with ridicule. lIe did not believe that
sober reasoning would convince his friend; and gayety,
he thought, was useful to take away the solemnities which,
in a mind like 'Vieland's, an accident of this kind was
calculated to produce.
Pleyel proposed to go in search of the letter. He
went, and speedily returned, bearing it in his hand. He
had found it open on the pedestal; and neither voice nor
visage had risen to impede his design.
Catharine was endowed with an uncommon portion of
good sense; but her mind ,vas accessible, on this quarter,
to "
onder and panic. That her voice should be thus
i
Jexplicably and un,varrantably assumed was a source
of no small disquietude. She admitted the plausibility
of the arguments by which Pleyel endeavoured to prove
that this was no 1110re than an auricular deception; but
this conviction was sure to be shaken when she turned her
eyes upon her husband and perceived that Pleyel's logic
was far from having produced the same effect upon him.
As to myself, my attention ,vas engaged by this oc-
currence. I could not fail to perceive a shadowy resem-
blance between it and my father's death. On the latter
event I had frequently reflected; my reflections never
conducted Ine to certainty, but the doubts that existeù
were not of a tormenting kind. I could not deny that
the event was miraculous, and yet I was invincibly averse
to that methorl of solution. Ivly ,yonùer ,vas excited by
the inscrutableness of the cause, but Iny ,vonùer was
unmixed with sorrow or fear. It bcgat in me a thrilling

THE TRANSFORlIIA TION.

5S

and not unpleasing solemnity. Similar to these were
the sensations produced by the recent adventure.
But its effect upon my brother's imagination was of
chief moment. All that was desirable ,vas that it should
be regarded by him with indifference. The worst effect
that could flow was not indeed very formidable. Yet I
could not bear to think that his senses should be the
victims of such delusion. It argued a diseased condi.
tion of his frame, ,vhich might show itself hereafter in
more dangerous symptoms. The will is the tool of the
understanding, which must fashion its conclusions on the
notices of sense. If the senses be depraved, it is im-
possible to calculate the evils that may flow from the
consequent deductions of the understanding.
I saiel, This man is of an ardent and melancholy cha-
racter. Those ideas which, in others, are casual or
obscure, which are entertained in moments of abstraction
and solitude and easily escape when the scene is changed,
have obtained an immovable hold upon his mind. The
conclusions which long habit have rendered familiar and,
in some sort, palpable to his intellect, are drawn from
the deepest sources. All his actions and practical senti-
ments are linked ,vith long and abstruse deductions from
the system of divine government and the laws of our
intellectual constitution. He is in some respects an
enthusiast, but is fortified in his belief by innumerable
arguments and subtleties.
His father's death was always regarded by him as
flowing from a direct and supernatural decree. It visited
his meditations oftener than it did mine. The traces
which it left were more gloomy and permanent. This
new incident had a visible effect in augmenting his
gravity. lIe was less disposed than formerly to con-
verse and reading. When we sifted his thoughts, they
were generally found to have a relation more or less
direct with this incident. It was difficult to ascertain
the exact species of impression ,yhich it made upon him.
lIe never introduced the subject into conversation, and
listened with a silent and half-serious smile to the satiri-
cal effusions of Pleyel.
One evening ,ve chanced to be alone together in the

56

WIELAND,. OR,

ten1ple. I seized that opportunity of investigating the
state of his thoughts. After a pause, which he seemed
in no wise inclined to interrupt, I spoke to him :-" IIow
almost palpable is this dark! yet a ray from above would
dispel it." " Ay," said Wieland, with fervour; "not
only the physical but moral night would be dispelled."
"But why," said I, "must the divine will address its
precepts to the eye ?" He smiled significantly. " True,"
said he; "the understanding has other avenues." " You
have never," said I, approaching nearer to the point,-=-
"you have never told me in ,vh:1t way you considered
the late extraordinary incident." "There is no de-
terminate way in ,vhich the subject can be viewed. Here
is an effect; but the cause is utterly inscrutable. To
suppose a deception will not do. Such is possible, but
there are twenty other suppositions more probable.
They must all be set aside before we reach that point."
"What are these twenty suppositions ?" "It is needless
to mention them. They are only less improbable than
Pleyel's.

ime may convert one of them into certainty.
Till then, it is useless to expatiate on them."

CHAPTER V.

SO)IE time had elapsed when there happened another
occurrence, still more remarkable. Pleyel, on his return
from Europe, brought information of considerable im-
portance to my brother. l\Iy ancestors were noble
Saxons, and possessed large domains in Lusatia. The
Prussian wars had destroyed those persons .w.hose right
to these estates precluded my brother's. Pleyel had
been exact in his inquiries, and had discovered that, by
the law of male-primogeniture, my brother's claims were
superior to those of any other person now living. No-
thing was wanting but his presence in that country, and
a legal application, to establish this claim.
Pleyel strenuously recommended this measure. The
advantages he thought attending it were numerous, and
it would argue the utmost folly to neglect them. Con-
trary to his expectation, he found my brother averse to
the scheme. Slight efforts, he at first thought, would
subdue his reluctance; but he found this aversion by no
means slight. The interest that he took in the happi-
ness of his friend and his sister, and his own partiality to
the Saxon soil, from which he b.ad like\vise sprung, and
where he had spent several years of his youth, made him
redouble his exertions to win'Vieland's consent. For
this end he employed every argument that his invention
coulrl suggest. He painted, in attractive colours, the
state of manners and government in that country, the
security of civil rights, and the freedom of religious senti-
ments. lIe d\velt on the privileges of wealth and rank,
and drew from the servile condition of one class an argu-
57

58

WIEL.A1VD,. OR,

ment in favour of his scheme, since the revenue and
power annexed to a German principality afford so large
a field for benevolence. The evil flowing from this
power, in malignant hands, was proportionecl to the good
that would arise from the virtuous use of it. Hence,
Wieland, in forbearing to claim his own, withheld all the
positive felicity that would accrue to his vassals from his
success, and hazarded all the misery that would redound
from a less enlightened proprietor.
It was easy for my brother to repel these arguments,
and to show that no spot on the globe enjoyed equal
security and liberty to that which he at present in-
habited :-that, if the Saxons had nothing to fear from
misgovernment, the external causes of havoc and alarm
were numerous and manifest. The recent devastations
committed by the Prussians furnished a specimen of
these. The horrors of war would al,vays impend over
them, till Germany ,vere seized and divided by Austrian
and Prussian tyrants; an event which he strongly sus-
pected ,vas at no great dista.nce. But, setting these con-
siderations aside, was it laudable to grasp at wealth and
power even when they were within our reach ? Were
not these the two great sources of depravity? 'That
security had he that in this change of place and con-
dition he should not degenerate into a tyrant and volup-
tuary? Power and riches were chiefly to be dreaded on
account of their tendency to deprave the possessor. He
held them in abhorrence, not only as instruments of
misery to others, but to him on whom they were con
ferrcd. Besides, riches "Tere comparative; and was he
not rich already? He lived at present in the bosom of
security and luxury. All the instruments of pleasure
on which his reason or imagination set any value were
within his reach. But these he must forego, for the sake
of advantages which, ,vhatever were their value, were as
yet uncertain. In pursuit of an imaginary addition to
his wealth, he must reduce himself to poverty; he must
exchange present certainties for what was distant and
contingent; for who knows not that the la,v is a system
of expense, delay, and uncertainty? If he should em-
brace this scheme, it would lay him under the neces
ity

THE TRANSFORMA TION.

59

of making a voyage to Europe, and remaining for a
certain period separate from his family. lIe must
undergo the perils and discomforts of the ocean; he
must divest hiulself of all domestic pleasures; he must
deprive his wife of her companion, and his children of a
father and instructor: and all for what? For the am-
biguous advantages which overgrown wealth and flagi-
tious tyranny have to bestow? For a precarious pos-
session in a land of turbulence and ,var? Advantages
which will not certainly be gained, and of which the ac-
quisition, if it ,vere sure, is necessarily distant.
Pleyel was enaInoured of his scheme on account of its
intrinsic benefits, but likewise for other reasons. His
abode at Leipsic made that country appear to him like
home. He was connected with this place by many social
ties. 'Vhile there, he had not escaped the amorous con-
tagion. But the lady, though her heart was impressed
in his favour, was compelled to besto,v her hand upon
another. Death had removed this impediment, and he
was now invited by the lady herself to return. This he
was of course determined to do, but ,vas anxious to obtain
the cOInpany of "\Vieland: he could not bear to think of
an eternal separation froIn his present associates. Their
interest, he thought, would be no less proInoted by the
change than his own. lIcnce he was importunate and
indefatigable in his arguments and solicitations.
He knew that ho could not hope for mine or his sister's
ready concurrence in this schemo. Should the subject
be Incn tionc(l to us, ,ve should loague our efforts against
him anù strengthen that reluctance in Wieland which
already ,vas sufficiently difficult to conquer. He there-
fore anxiously concealed from us his purpose. If Wieland
,,"ore previously enlisted in his cause, he woul(l find it a
loss difficult task to overcome our aversion. l\Iy brother
was silent on this subject, because he believed himself in
no danger of changing his opinion, and he was willing to
save us from any uneasiness. The mere mention of such
a scheme, and the possibility of his embracing it, he
knew, would considcrably ÏInpair our tranquillity.
One day, about thrce ,veeks subsequcnt to the myste-
riou
call, it was agreed tha t the family should be my

60

TVIELAND,o OR,

guests. Seldon1 had a day been passed by us of lnorc
serene enjoYIllent. Pleyel had promised us his company;
but we did not see him till the sun had nearly declined.
He brought ,vith him a countenance that betokened dis-
appointment and vexation. lIe did not wait for our in-
quiries, but immediately eXplained the cause. T,vo days
before a packet had arrived from Hamburg, by ,vhich he
had flattered himself with the expectation of receiving
letters; but no letters had arrived. I never saw him
so much subdued by an unto,vard event. His thoughts
were employed in accounting fOl
the silence of his friends.
He was seized ,vith the torments of jealousy, and suspected
nothing less than the infidelity of her to whom he had
devoted his heart. The silence must have been con-
certed. Her sickness, or absence, or death, would have
increased the certainty of some one's having written.
No supposition could be forIned but that his mistress had
gro,vn indifferent, or that she had transferred her affections
to another. The miscarriage of a letter was hardly
within the reach of possibility. FraIn Leipsic to Ham-
burg, and from Hamburg hither, the conveyance was
exposed to no hazard.
He had been so long detained in America chiefly in
consequence of Wieland's aversion to the scheme which
he proposed. He n01V became more impatient than ever
to return to Europe. When he reflected that by his
delays he had probably forfeited the affections of his
mistress, his sensations amounted to agony. It only re-
mained by his speedy departure to repair, if possible, or
prevent, so intolerable an evil. Already he had half
resolved to embark in this very ship, which, he was in-
formed, would set out in a fe1v weeks on her return.
Mean,vhile he determined to make a new attempt to
shake the resolution of 'Vieland. The evening was some-
what advanced when he invited the latter to walk abroad
with him. The invitation was accepted, and they left
Catharine, Louisa, and me, to amuse ourselves by the
best means in our power. During this walk, Pleyel re-
newed the subject that ,vas n
arest his heart. lIe re-
urged all his former arguments and placed them in more
forcible lights.

THE TRAiVSfi'ORfiL4 TION.

61

They promised to return shortly; but hour after hour
passed, and they made not their appearance. Engaged
in sprightly conversation, it ,vas not till the cIcek struck
twelve that we ,vere reminded of the lapse of time. The
absence of our friends excited some uneasy apprehensions.
We were expressing our fears, and comparing our con-
jectures as to what might be the cause, when they entered
together. There were indications in their countenances
that struck me mute. These were unnoticed by Catha-
rine, who was eager to express her surprise and curiosity
at the length of their ,yalk. As they listened to her, I
remarked that their surprise was not less than ours.
They gazed in silence on each other and on her. I
watched their looks, but could not understand the emo-
tions that were written in them.
These appearances diverted Catharine's inquiries into a
new channel. What did they mean, she asked, by their
silence, and by their thus gazing wildly at each other
and at her? Pleyel profited by this hint, and, assuming
an air of indifference, framed some trifling excuse, at the
same time darting significant glances at Wieland, as if to
caution him against disclosing the truth. My brother said
nothing, but delivered himself up to meditation. I like-
wise was silent, but burned with impatience to fathom this
mystery. Presently my brother, and his ,vife, and Louisa,
returned home. Pleyel proposed, of his own accord, to
be my guest for the night. This circumstance, in addi-
tion to those which preceded, gave ne,v edge to my wonder.
As soon as we were left alone, Pleyel's countenance
assumed an air of seriousness, and even consternation,
which I had never before beheld in him. The steps with
which he measured the floor betokened the trouble of his
thoughts. My inquiries ,vere suspended by the hope that
he would give me the information that I ,vanted without
the importunity of questions. I waited some time, but
the confusion of his thoughts appeared in no degree to
abate. At length I mentioned the apprehensions which
their unusual absence had occasioned, and ,vhich were
increased by their bcha viour since their return, and
solicited an explanation. lIe stoppcd ,vhen I began to
speak, and looked steadfastly at Inc. 'Vilen I had done,

62

WIELAND,' OR,

he said to me, in a tone which faltered through the vehe.
mence of his eIllotions, "IIow were you employed during
our absence?" "In turning over the Della Crusca dic-
tionary and talking on different subjects; but just be-
fore your entrance we were tormenting ourselves with
o
ens and prognostics relative to your absence." "Catha-
rine was with you the "Thole time?" "Yes."" But are
you sure ?U "Most sure. She was not absent a moment."
lIe stood, for a time, as if to assure himself of n1Y sincerity.
Then, clenching his hands and wildly lifting them above
his head, "Lo," cried he, " I have news to tell you. The
Baroness de Stolberg is dead I"
This was her whom he loved. I was not surprised at
the agitation which he betrayed. "But how was the
information procured? How was the truth of this news
connected with the circumstance of Catharine's remain-
ing in our company?" lIe was for some time inattentive
to my questions. When he spoke, it seemed merely a
continuation of the reverie into ,vhich he had been plunged.
"And yet it might be a mere deception. But could
both of us in that case have been deceived? A rare and
prodigious coincidence I Barely not impossible. And
yet, if the accent be oracular, Theresa is dead. No, no I"
continued he, covering his face ,vith his hands, and in a tone
half broken into sobs, "I cannot believe it. She has not
written; but, if she were dead, the faithful Bertrand would
have given me the earliest information. And yet, if he
knew his master, he must have easily guessed at the effect
of such tidings. In pity to me he was silent.
"Clara, forgive me; to you this behaviour is mysterious.
I will explain as well as I am able. But say not a word
to Catharine. lIeI' strength of mind is inferior to yours.
She will, besides, have more reason to be startled. She
is Wieland's angel."
Pleyel proceeded to inform me, for the first time, of the
scheme which he had pressed with so much earnestness
on my brother. lIe enumerated the objections which
had been made, and the industry with which he had
endeavoured to confute theIne lIe mentioned the effect
upon his resolutions proùuced by the failure of a letter.
"During our late ,v31k," continued he, "I introduced

THE TRA.lVSlf
ORjJIA 7'lO.l\Z

63

the subject that was nearest my heart. I rcurgE d all
my former arguments, and placed them in more forcible
lights. 'Vieland was still refractory. lIe expatiated on
the perils of wealth and power, on the sacredness of con-
jugal and parental duties, and the happiness of mediocrity.
" No wonder that the time passed unperceived away.
Our ,vhole souls were engaged in this cause. Several
times we came to the foot of the rock: as soon as we
perceived it we changed our course, but never failed to
terminate our circuitous and devious ramble at this spot.
At length your brother observed, "V e seem to be led
hither by a kind of fatality. Since we are so near, let
us ascend and rest ourselves a ,vhile. If you are not
weary of this argument we will resume it there.'
"I tacitly consented. 'Ve mounted the stairs, and,
drawing the sofa in front of the river, we seated ourselves
upon it. I took up the thread of our discourse where we
had dropped it. I ridiculed his dread of the sea, and
his attachment to home. I kept on in this strain, so con-
genial with my disposition, for some time, uninterrupted
by him. At length he said to me, 'Suppose, no,v, that
I, ,vhom argument has not convinced, should yield to ridi-
cule, and shoula agree that your scheme is eligible: what
will you have gained? Nothing. You have other ene-
mies besides myself to encounter. 'Vhen you have van-
quished me, your toil has scarcely begun. There are my
sister and ,vife, with whom it will remain for you to main-
tain the contest. And, trust me, they are adversaries
whom all your force and stratagem ,vill never subdue.'
I insinuated that they would model themselves by his
will; that Catharine ,vould think obedience her duty.
lIe ans,vercd, ,vith some quickness, , You mistake. Their
concurrence is indispensable. It is not my custom to
exact sacrifices of this kind. I live to be their protector
and friend, and not their tyrant and foe. If my wife
shall deem her happiness and that of her children most
consulted by relnaining where she is, here she shall re-
main.' , But,' said I, 'when she knows your pleasure,
will she not conforln to it ?' Before my friend had time
to answer this question, a negative 'vas clearly and dis-
tinctly uttered froln another quarter. It did not come

64

WIF LA.lVD,. OR,

from onc side or the other, from before us OJ behind.
Whence then did it cOlne? By whose organs was it
fashioned ?
"If any uncertainty had existed with regard to these
particulars, it would have been removed by a deliberate
and equally-distinct repetition of the same monosyllable,
'No.' The voice was my sister's. It appeared to come
from the roof. I started from my seat. ' Catharine,'
exclaimed I, '"There are you ?' No answer was returned.
I searched the room and the area before it, but in vain.
, Your brother was motionless in hiB scat. I returned to
him, and placed myself again by his side. My astonish-
ment was not less than his.
" , Well,' said he at length, 'what think you of this?
This is the selfsame voice which I formerly heard: you
are now convinced that my ears were well informed.'
" , Yes,' said I, 'this, it is plain, is no fiction of the
fancy.' We again sunk into mutual and thoughtful
silence. A recollection of the hour, and of the length of
our absence, made me at last proposc to return. 'Ve rose
up for this purpose. In doing this, my mind reverted to
the contemplation of my own condition. 'Yes,' said I,
aloud, but without particularly addressing myself to 'Vie-
land, 'my resolution is taken. I cannot hope to prevail
with my friends to accompany me. They may doze away
their days on the banks of Schuylkill; but, as to me, I
go in the next vessel; I will fly to her presence and de-
mand the reason of this extraordinary silence.'
"I had scarcely finished the sentence, when the same
mysterious voice exclaimed, , You shall not go. The seal
of death is on her lips. lIeI' silence is the silence of the
tomb.' Think of the effects which accents like these
must have had upon me. I shuddered as I listened. As
soon as I recovered from my first amazement, 'vVho is it
tha t speaks?' said I; 'whence did you procure these
dislnal tidings?' I did not wait long for an answer.
'From a source that
annot fail. Be satisfied. She is
dead.' You may justly be surprised that, in the circum-
stances in ,vhich I heard the tidings, and notwithstand-
ing the mystery which environed him by ,vhom they,vere
ilnpartcd, I could give an uTHlivid(\(t attention to the facts

THE TRA.iVSFOR1IIATION.

65

which were the subject of our dialogue. I eagerly in-
quired, When and where did she die? 'Vhat was the
cause of her dèath? 'Vas her death absolutely certain?
An answer was returned only to the last of these ques-
tions ' Yes,' was pronounced by the same voice; but it
now sounded from a greater distance, and the deepest
silence was all the return made to my subsequent inter-
rogatories.
"It was my sister's voice; but it could not be uttered
by her; and yet, if not by her, by "Thorn was it uttered?
'Vhen we returned hither and discovered you together,
the doubt that had previously existed was removed. It
was manifest that the intimation came not from her.
Yet, if not from her, from ,,-horn could it come? Are
the circuIllstances attending the imparting of this news
proof that the tidings are true? God forbid that they
should be true!"
Here Pleyel sunk into anxious silence, and gave me
leisure to ruminate on this inexplicable event. I am at a
loss to describe the sensations that affected me. I am not
fearful of shadows. The tales of apparitions and enchant-
ments did not possess that power over my belief which
could even render them interesting. I saw nothing in
them but ignorance and folly, and was a stranger even to
that terror which is pleasing. But this incident was dif-
ferent frorq. any that I had ever before kno",-u. Here
were proofs of a sensible and intelligent existence, which
could not be denied. Here was information obtained and
imparted by means unquestionably superhuman.
That there are conscious beings besides ourselves in
existence, whose modes of activity and information sur-
pass our own, can scarcely be denied. Is there a glimpse
afforded us into a ,,-orld of these superior beings? 1\Iy
heart was scarcely large enough to give admittance to so
swelling a thought. An awe, the sweetest and most so-
lemn that imagination can conceive, pervaded my whole
frame. It forsook me not when I parted from Pleyel and
retired to my chamber. An impulse was given to my
spirits utterly incompatible with sleep. I passed the night
wakeful and full of meditation. I ,vas impressed with
the belief of mysterious but not of malignant agency.
5

66

WIELAND,. OR,

Hitherto nothing had occurred to persuade me that thi

airy minister ,vas busy to evil rather than to good pur-
poses. On the contrary, the idea of superior virtue had
always been associated in my mind ,vith that of superior
power. The warnings that had thus been heard appeared
to have been prompted by beneficent intentions. l\Iy
brother had been hindered by this voice from ascending
the hill. He ,vas told that danger lurked in his path,
and his obedience to the intimation had perhaps saved
him from a destiny similar to that of my father.
Pleyel had been rescued from tormenting uncertainty,
and from the hazards and fatigues of a fruitless voyage,
by the same interposition. It had assured him of the
death of his Theresa.
This woman was, then, dead. A confirmation of the
tidings, if true, would speedily arrive. Was this con-
firmation to be deprecated or desired? By her death, the
tie that attached him to Europe was taken away. Hence-
forward every motive would combine to retain him in his
native country, and we were rescued from the deep re-
grets that would accompany his hopeless absence from us
Propitious was the spirit that imparted these tidings.
Propitious he would perhaps have been, if he had been
instrum43ntal in producing as well as in communicating
the tidings of her death. Propitious to us, the friends
of Pleyel, to whom has thereby been secured the enjoy-
ment of his society; and not unpropitious to himself;
for, though this object of his love be snatched away, is
there not another who is able and willing to console hÍIn
for her loss?
T,yenty days after this, another vessel arrived from the
same port. In this interval, Pleyel for the most part
estranged himself from his old companions. lIe was be-
come the prey of a gloomy and unsociable grief. IIi

walks were limited to the bank of the Delaware. This
bank is an artificial one. Reeds and the river are on
one side, and a watery marsh on the other, in that part
which bounded his lands, and which extended from the
mouth of Hollander's Creek to that of Schuylkill. No
scene can be imagined less enticing to a lover of the pic-
turesque than this. The shore is deformed with mud

THE TRANSFOR1l1A TION..

67

/
and enCllI11Lered ,vith a' forest of reeds. The fields, in
most seasons, a.re mire; but, when they afford a firm foot-
ing, the ditches by ,vhich they are bounded and inter..
sected are mantled with stagnating green, and emit the
most noxious exhalations. IIealth is no less a stranger
to those seats than ple3sure. Spring and autun1n are
sure to be accompanied ,vith agues and bilious relnittents.
The scenes which environed our dwellings at Mettingen
constituted the reverse of this. Schuylkill was here a
pure and translucid current broken into wild and cease-
less music by rocky points, murInuring on a sandy mar-
gin, and reflecting on its surface banks of all varieties
of height and degrees of declivity. These banks were
checkered by patches of dark verdure and shapeless
Inasses of white Inarble, and crowned by copses of cedar,
or by the regular magnificence of orchards, ,vhich, at
this season, were in blossom, and were prodigal of odours.
The ground which receded from the river ,vas scooped
into valleys and dales. Its beauties were enhanced by
the horticultural skill of my brother, who bedecked this
exquisite asseInblage of slopes and risings with every
species of vegetable ornalnent, fro In the giant arms of
the oak to the clustering tendrils of the honeysuckle.
To screen hitn froln the unwholesome airs of his o\vn
residence, it had been proposed to Pleyel to spend the
months of spring with us. lIe had apparently acqui-
esced in this proposal; but the late event induced him
to change his purpose. He was only to be seen by visit-
ing hiln in his retirelnents. IIis gayety had flown, and
every passion was absorbed in eagerness to procure tid-
ings from Saxony. I have mentioned the arrival of an-
other vessel from the Elbe. lIe descried her early one
Inorning as he was passing along the skirt of the river.
She ,vas easily recognised, being the ship in which he
had perforlned his first voyage to GerInany. He im-
mediately went on board, but found no letters directed to
hiln. This olnission was in some degree cOInpensated by
meeting with an ola acquaintance alnong the passengers,
who had till lately been a resident iR Leipsic. This person
put an end to all suspense respecting the fate of Theresa,
by relating the particulars of her death and funeral.

68

WIELAND,. OR,

Thus was the truth uf the forn1er intin1ation attested.
No longer deyoured by suspense, the grief of Pleyel ,vue
not long in yielding to the influence of society. lIe gave
himself up once more to our company. His vivacity had
indeed been damped; but even in this respect he was
a more acceptable companion than formerly, since his
seriousness was neither incommunicative nor sullen.
These incidents for a time occupied all our thoughts.
In me they produced a sentiment not unallied to pleasure,
and more speedily than in the case of my friends were in-
termixed with other topics. )\try brother was particularly
affected by them. It was easy to perceive that most of his
meditations were tinctured from this source. To this was
to be ascribed a design in which his pen was at this period
engaged, of collecting and investigating the facts which re-
late to that mysterious personage, the Dæmon of Socrates.
My brother's skill in Greek and Roman learning was
exceeded by that of few, and no doubt the world would
have accepted a treatise upon this subject from his hand
with avidity; but, alas! this and every other scheme of
felicity and honour were doomed to sudden blast and
hopeless extermination.

CHAPTER VI.

I NOW come to the mention of a person with whose
name the most turbulent sensations are connected. It is
with a shuddering reluctance that I enter on the province
of describing him. N ow it is that I begin to perceive
the difficulty of the task ,vhich I have undertaken; but
it would be ,veakness to shrink from it. l\iy blood is
congealed and my fingers are palsied when I call up his
image. Shame upon my co,vardly and infirm heart!
Hitherto I have proceeded with some degree of com..
posure; but now I must pause. I mean not that dire
remembrance shall subdue my courage or baffie my
design; but this weakness cannot be immediately con..
quered. I must desist for a little while.
I have taken a few turns in my chamber, and have
gathered strength enough to proceed. Yet have I not
projected a task beyond my power to execute? If thus,
on the very threshold of the scene, my knees falter and
I sink, how shall I support myself ,vhen I rush into the
midst of horrors such as no heart has hitherto conceived
nor tongue related? I sicken and recoil at the prospect;
and yet my irresolution is momentary. I have not formed
this design upon slight grounds; and, though I may at times
pause and hesitate, I will not be finally diverted from it.
And thou, 0 most fatal and potent of mankind, in what
terms shall I describe thee? "\Vhat words are adequate
to the just delineation of thy character? How shall I
detail the means \vhich rendered the secrecy of thy pur-
poses unfathomable? But I will not anticipate. Let me
recover, if possible, a sober strain. Let me keep down
the flood of passion that would render me precipitate or
powerless. Let me stifle the agonies that are a wakcncc 1
69

7 0

WIELAND; OR,

by thy name. Let me for a time regard thee as a being
of no terrible attributes. Let me tear myself from con-
templation of the evils of which it is but too certain that
thou wast the author, and limit my view to those harlnless
appearances which attended thy entrance on the stage.
r One sunny afternoon I was standing in the door of my
house, when I marked a person passing close to the edge
of the bank that was in front. His pace was a careless
and lingering one, and had none of that gracefulness and
ease which distinguish a person with certain advantages
of education from a clown. His gait ,vas rustic and
awkward. His form was ungainly and disproportioned.
Shoulders broad and square, breast sunken, his head
drooping, his body of uniform breadth, supported by
long and lank legs, were the ingredients of his frame.
His garb was not ill adapted to such a figure. A slouched
hat, tarnished by the weather, a coat of thick gray cloth,
cut and wrought, as it seemed, by a country tailor, blue
worsted stockings, and shoes fastened by thongs and
deeply discoloured by dust, which brush had never d is- j
turbed, constituted his dress.
There was nothing remarkable in these appearances:
they were frequently to be met with on the road and in
the harvest-field. I cannot tell why I gazed upon them,
on this occasion, with more than ordinary attention,
unless it were that such figures ,vere seldom seen by
me except on the road or field. This lawn was only
traversed by men whose views were directed to the plea-
sures of the walk or the grandeur of the scenery.
He passed slo,vly along, frequently pausing, as if to
examine the prospect more deliberately, but never turning
his eye towards the house, so as to allow me a view of his
countenance. Presently he entered a copse at a small
distance, and disappeared. My eye followed him while
he remained in sight. If his image remained for any
duration in my fancy after his departure, it was because
no other object occurred sufficient to expel it.
I continued in the same spot for half an hour, vaguely,
and by fits, contcnlplating the image of this ,vanderer,
and drawing from out,varrl appeara.nces those inferenceR,
"rith respect to the intellectual history of this persun,

THE TRA1VSFORlJIA TION.

i l

which experience affords us. I reflected on the alliance
which commonly subsists between ignorance and the
practice of agriculture, and indulged myself in airy
speculations as to the influence of progressive knowledge
in dissolving this alliance and embodying the dreams of
the poets. I asked why the plough and the hoe might
not become the trade of every human being, and how
this trade might be made conducive to, or at least con-
sistent with, the acquisition of wisdom and eloquence.
'Veary with these reflections, I returned to the kitchen
to perform some household office. I had usually but one
servant, and she was a girl about my own age. I was
busy near the chimney, and she ,vas employed near the
door of the apartment, when some one knocked. The
door was opened by her, and she was immediately
addressed with, "Pr'ythee, good girl, canst thou supply
a thirsty man with a glass of buttermilk?" She answered
that there was none in the house. "Ay, but there is
some in the dairy yonder. Thou knowest as well as I,
though Hermes never taught thee, that, though every
dairy be a house, every house is not a dairy." To this
speech, though she understood only a part of it, she re-
plied by repeating her assurances that she had none to
give. " Well, then," rejoined the stranger, "for charity's
sweet sake, hand me forth a cup of cold water." The
girl said she would go to the spring and fetch it. " Nay,
give me the cup, and suffer me to help myself. Neither
manacled nor lame, I should merit burial in the ma"'
of
carrion-crows if I laid this task upon thee." She ga ye
him the cup, and he turned to go to the spring.
I listened to this dialogue in silence. The word;:)
uttered by the person without affected me as sOlne,vhat
9ingular; but what chiefly rendered them remarkable was
the tone that accompanied them. It was ,vholly nev{.
My brother's voice and Pleyel's were musical and ener-
getic. I had fondly imagined that, in this respect, they
were surpassed by none. Now my mistake ,vas detected.
I cannot pretend to communicate the impression that was
made upon me by these accents, or to depict the degree
in ,vhich force and sweetness ,vere blended in them.
rrhcy ,\ erc articulatctl ,vith a tlistinctnc

that v{a
UlI.-

7 2

WIELAND I' OR,

exampled in my experience. But this ,vas not all. The
voice was not only mellifluent and clear, but the emphasis
was so just, and the Inodulation so impassioned, that it
seemed as if a heart of stone could not fail of being
moved by it. It imparted to me an emotion altogether
involuntary and incontrollable. When he uttered the
words, "for charity's sweet sake," I dropped the cloth
that I held in my hand; my heart overflowed with sym-
pathy and my eyes ,vith unbidden tears.
This description will appear to you trifling or incredi-
ble. The Ï1nportance of these circumstances will be ma-
nifested in the sequel. The manner in ,vhich I was affected
on this occasion was, to my own apprehension, a subject
of astonishment. The tones were indeed such as I never
heard before; but that they should in an instant, as it
were, dissolve me in tears, will not easily be believed by
others, and can scarcely be comprehended by myself.
It will be readily supposed that I was somewhat inqui
sitive as to the person and demeanour of our visitant.
After a moment's pause, I stepped to the door and looked
after him. Judge my surprise when I beheld the self-
same figure that had appeared a half-hour before upon
the bank. My fancy had conjured up a very different
image. A fòrm and attitude and garb ,vere instantly
created worthy to accompany such elocution; but this
person was, in all visible respects, the reverse of this
phantom. Strange as it may seem, I could not speedily
reconcile myself to this disappointment. Instead of re-
turning to my employment, I threw n1yself in a chair
that. was placed opposite the door, and sunk into a fit of
musIng.
My attention was in a few minutes recalled by the
stranger, who returned with the empty cup in his hand.
I had not thought of the circumstance, or should cer-
tainly have chosen a different seat. lIe no sooner showed
himself, than a confused sense of in1propriety, added to
the suddenness of the interview, for ,vhicb, not having
foreseen it, I had made no preparation, threw me into a
state of the most painful embarrassment. lIe brought
with him a placid brow; but no sooner had he cast his
eyes upon me than his face was as glo,vingly suffused as

THE TRANSFOR.I.'J,IA TION.

73

my own. lIe placed the cup upon the bench, stammered
out thanks, and retired.
It was SaIne time before I could recover my wonted
composure. I ad snatched a view of the stranger's
countenance. he impression that it made was vivid
and indelible. His cheeks were pallid and lank, his eyes
sunken, his fo head overshadowed by coarse straggling
hairs, his teeth large and irregular, though sound anù
brilliantly white, and his chin discoloured by a tetter.
His skin ,vas of coarse grain and sallow hue. Every
feature was wide of beauty, and the 0 tline of his face
reminded you of an inverted cone.
And yet his forehead, so far as s ggy locks would
allow it to be seen, his eyes lustrously black, and pos-
sessing, in the midst of haggardness, a radiance inex-
pressibly serene and potent, and something in the rest
of his features which it would be in vain to describe, but
which served to betoken a mind of the highest order,
were essential ingredients in the portrait. This, in the
effects which Ílnmediately flowed from it, I count among
the most extraordinary incidents of my life. This face,
seen for a moment, continued for hours to occupy my
fancy, to the exclusion of almost every other image. I
had proposed to spend the evening with my brother; but
I could not resist the inclination of forming a sketch
upon paper of this memorable visage. Whether my
hand was aided by any peculiar inspiration, or I was de-
ceived by my own fond conceptions, this portrait, though
hastily executed, appeared unexceptionable to my own
taste.
I placed it at all distances and in all lights; my eyes
were riveted upon it. Half the night passed away in
wakefulness and in contemplation of this picture. So
flexible, and yet so stubborn, is the human mind! So
obedient to impulses the most transient and brief, and
yet so unalterably observant of the direction which is
given to it ! How little did I then foresee the termina-
tion of that chain of which this may be regarded as the
first link!
Next day arose in darkness and storm. Torrents of
rain fell during the whole day, attended \yith incessant

74

WIELAND,. OR,

thunder, which reverberated in stunning echoes from the
opposite declivity. The inclemency of the air would not
allow me to ,valk out. I had, indeed, no inclination to
leave my apartment. I betook myself to the contempla-
tion of this portrait, whose attractions time had rather
enhanced than diminished. I laid aside my usual occu-
pations, and, seating lllyself at a. window, consumed the
day in alternately looking out upon the storm and gazing
at the picture which lay upon a table before me. You
will perhaps deelll this conduct somewhat singular, and
ascribe it to certain peculiarities of temper. I am not
aware of any such peculiarities. I can account for my de-
votion to this image no other,vise than by supposing that
its properties were rare and prodigious. Perhaps you will
suspect that such were the first inroads of a passion inci-
dent to every female heart, and which frequently gains a
footing by means even more slight and more improbable
than these. I shall not controvert the reasonableness of
the suspicion, but leave you at liberty to draw from my
narrative what conclusion
you please.
Night at length returned, and the storm ceased. The
air was once more clear and calm, and bore an affecting
contrast to that uproar of the elements by which it had
been preceded. I spent the darksome hours, as I spent
the day, contemplative and seated at the window. Why
was my mind absorbed in thoughts ominous and dreary?
Why did my bosom heave with sighs and my eyes over-
flow with tears ? Was the tempest that had just passed
a signal of the ruin which impended over me? lVIy soul
fondly dwelt upon the images of my brother and his
children; yet they only increased the mournfulness of
my contemplations. The smiles of the charming babes
were as bland as formerly. The same dignity sat on the
brow of their father, and yet I thought of them with
anguish. Something whispered that the happiness we at
present enjoyed was set on mutable foundations. Death
must happen to all. Whether our felicity was to be sub-
verted by it to-morrow, or ,vhether it was ordained that
we should lay down our heads full of years and of honour,
,vas a question that no human being could solve. At other
times these ideas seldom intruded. I either fore10ro to

THE TRANSFORMATION.

75

reflect upon the destiny that is reserved for all men, or
the reflection was mixed up with images that disrobed it
of terror; but now the uncertainty of life occurred to me
without any of its usual and alleviating accompanimentse
I said to myself, "\Ve must die. Sooner or later, we must
. disappear forever from the face of the earth. Whatever
be the links that hold us to life, they must be broken. This
scene of existence is, in all its parts, calamitous. The
greater number is oppressed with immediate evils,
nd
those the tide of whose fortunes is full, how small is their
portion of enjoyment, since they know that it will terminate! \
For some time I indulged myself, without reluctance
in these gloomy thoughts; but at length the dejection
which they produced became insupportably painful. I
endeavoured to dissipate it with music. I had all my
grandfather's melody as well as poetry by rote. I now
lighted by chance on a ballad which commemorated the
fate of a German cavalier who fell at the siege of Nice
under Godfrey of Bouillon. My choice was unfortunate;
for the scenes of violence and carnage which were here
wildly but forcibly portrayed only suggested to my
thoughts a new topic in the horrors of war.
I sought refuge, but ineffectually, in sleep. My mind
,vas thronged by vivid but confused images, and no effort
that I made was sufficient to drive them away. In this
lituation I heard the clock, which hung in the room, give
the signal for twelve. It was the same instrument which
ftrmerly hung in my father's chamber, and which, on ac-
count of its being his workmanship, was regarded by every
one of our family with veneration. It had fallen to me
in the division of his property, and was placed in this
asylum. The sound awakened a series of reflections re-
specting his death. I was not allowed to pursue them;
for scarcely had the vibrations ceased, when my attention
was attracted by a whisper, which, at first, appeared to
proceed from lips that were laid close to my ear.
No wonder that a circumstance like this startled mc.
In the first impulse of my terror, I uttered a slight scream
and. shrunk to the opposite side of the bed. In a moment,
hO"'tvever, I recovered from my trepidation. I was habi-
tually indifferent to all the causes of fear by ,vhich the

7 6

WIELAND,. OR,

majority are afflicted. I entertained no apprehension of
either ghosts or robbers. Our security had never been
molested by either, and I made use of no means to pre-
vent or counterwork their machinations. My tranquillity
on this occasion was quickly retrieved. The whisper
evidently proceeded from one who was posted at my bed..
side. The first idea that suggested itself was that it
was uttered by the girl who lived with me as a servant.
Perhaps somewhat had alarmed her, or she was sick, and
had come to request my assistance. By whispering in
my ear she intended to rouse without alarming me.
Full of this persuasion, I called, " Judith," said I, "is
it you? What do you ,vant? Is there any thing the
matter with you ?" No answer was returned. I repeated
my inquiry, but equally in vain. Cloudy as was the
atmosphere, and curtained as my bed was, nothing was
visible. I withdrew the curtain, and, leaning my head
on my elbow, I listened with the deepest attention to
catch some new sound. l\ieanwhile, I ran over in my
thoughts every circumstance that could assist my con-
jectures.
My habitation was a wooden edifice, consisting of two
stories. In each story were two rOOlns, separated by an
entry, or middle passage, with which they communicated
by opposite doors. The passage on the lower story had
doors at the two ends, and a staircase. Windows answered
to the doors on the upper story. Annexed to this, on
the eastern side, were wings, divided in like manner into
an upper and lower room; one of them comprised a
kitchen, and chamber above it for the servant, and com-
municated on both stories with the parlour adjoining it
below and the chamber adjoining it above. The opposite
wing is of smaller dimensions, the roon1S not being above
eight feet square. The lo,ver of those ,vas used as a de-
pository of household implements; the upper was a closet
in which I deposited my books and papers. They had
but one inlet, which was from the room adjoining. There
,vas no window in the lower one, and in the upper a small
aperture whjch communicated light and air, but would
scarcely aùn1Ït the body. The door ,vhich led into this
Was cìose to Iny l)e\.l-hea<1, and was al\vays locked but

T.lIE TRANSFORAfA TION.

77

\vhen I myself ,vas within. The avenues below were
accustomed to be closed and bolted at nights.
The maid ,vas my only companion; and she could not
reach my chanlber without previously passing through the
opposite chaluber and the middle passage, of which, how-
ever, the doors ,vere usually unfastened. If she had oc-
casioned this noise, she would have answered my repeated
calls. No other conclusion, therefore, was left me, but
that I had mistaken the sounds, and that my imagination
had transforlned some casual noise into the voice of a
human creature. Satisfiea with this solution, I ,vas pre-
paring to relinquish my listening attitude, when my ear
was again saluted ,vith a new and yet louder whispering.
It appeared, as before, to issue from lips that touched my
pillow. A second effort of attention, however, clearly
showed me that the sounds issued from within the closet,
the door of ,yhich was not more than eight inches from
my pillow.
This second interruption occasioned a shock less vehe-
ment than the former. I started, but gave no audible
token of alarm. I was so much mistress of my feelings
as to continue listening to what should be said. The
whisper was distinct, hoarse, and uttered so as to show
that the speaker was desirous of being heard by some
one near, but, at the same time, studious to avoid being
overheard by any other:-
" Stop! stop, I say, madman as you are! there are
better means than that. Curse upon your rashness!
There is no need to shoot."
Such were the words uttered, in a tone of eagerness and \
anger, within so small a distance of my pillow. What con-
struction could I put upon them? My heart began to pal-
pitate with dread of some unknown danger. Presently,
another voice, but equally near me, was heard whispering
in answer, "Why not? I will dra w a trigger in this
business; but perdition be my let if I do more!" To this
the first voice returned, in a tone ,vhich rage had heightened
in a small degree above a ,vhisper, " Coward! stand aside,
and see me do it. I will grasp her throat; I ,viII do her
business in an instant; she shall not have time so much as
to groan." What wonder that I was petrified by sounds

7 8

WIELAND,. OR,

so dreadful! Murderers lurked in my closet. They,vere
planning the means of my destruction. One resolved to
shoot, and the other menaced suffocation. Their means
being chosen, they would forthwith break the door. Flight
instantly suggested itself as most eligible in circumstances
so perilous. I deliberated not a moment; but, fear adding
\vings to my speed, I leaped out of bed, and, scantily robed
a
I was, rushed out of the chamber, do,vn-stairs, and into
the open air. I can hardly recollect the process of turn-
ing keys and withdrawing bolts. My terrors urged me
forward with almost a mechanical impulse. I stopped not
till I reached my brother's door. I had not gained the
threshold, when, exhausted by the violence of my emo-
tions and by my speed, I sunk down in a fit.
How long I remained in this situation I know not.
When I recovered, I found myself stretched on a bed,
surrounded by my sister and her felnale servants. I was
astonished at the scene before me, but gradually recovered
the recollection of what had happened. I ans,vered
their importunate inquiries as well as I was able. My
brother and Pleyel, whom the storm of the preceding day
chanced to detain here, informing themselves of every
particular, proceeded with lights and ,veapons to my de-
serted habitation. They entered my chamber and my
closet, and found every thing in its proper place and
customary order. The door of the closet was locked, and
appeared not to have been opened in my absence. They
went to Judith's apartment. They found her asleep and
in safety. Pleyel's caution induced him to forbear alarm-
ing the girl; and, finding her wholly ignorant of what
had passed, they directed her to return to her chamber.
They then fastened the doors and returned.
1\iy friends were disposed to regard this transaction as
a dream. That persons should be actually immured in
this closet, to which, in the circumstances of the time,
access from without or within was ap.parently impossible,
they could not seriously believe. That any human beings
had intended murder, unless it were to cover a scheme of
pillage, was incredible; but that no such design had been
formed was evident from the security in which the furni-
ture of the house and the closet remained.

t M

THE TRA.LVSFORlIfA TION.

79

I revolved every incident and expression that had
occurred. My senses assured me of the truth of them;
and yet their abruptness and in1probability made me, in
my turn, somewhat incredulous. The adventure harl
made a deep ilnpression on my fancy; and it was not till
after a week's abode at my brother's that I resolved to
resume the possession of my own d,velling.
There was another circumstance that enhanced tbe
mysteriousness of this event. After my recovery, it was
obvious to inquire by what means the attention of the
family had been drawn to my situation. I had fallen
before I had reached the threshold or was able to give any
signal. My brother related that, while this was transact-
ing in my chamber, he himself was awake, in consequence
of some slight indisposition, and lay, according to his
custom, musing on some favourite topic. Suddenly the
silence, ,vhich was remarkably profound, was broken by
a voice of most piercing shrillness, that seemed to. be
uttered by one in the hall below his chamber. "Awake!
arise!" it exclaimed; "hasten to succour one that is
dying at your door!"
This sunlIDons was effectual. There was no one in the
house who was not roused by it. Pleyel was the first to
obey, and my brother overtook him before he reached
the hall. 'Vhat was the general astonishment when your
friend ,vas discovered stretched upon the grass before the
door, pale, ghastly, and with every mark of death!
This was the third instance of a voice exerted for the
benefit of this little community. The agent was no less
inscrutable in this than in the former case. "'\Vhen I
ruminated upon these events, my soul was suspended in
wonder and awe. 'Vas I really deceived in imagining that
I heard the closet conversation? I ,vas no longer at
liberty to question the reality of those accents which had
formerly recalled my brother froIn the hill, which had
imparted tidings of the death of the German lady to Pleyel,
and which had lately summoned them to my assistance.
But how was I to regard this midnight conversation?
Hoarse and manlike voices conferring on the means of
death, so near my bed, and at such an hour! Ho,v had
my ancient security vanished! That d\velling which had

'-,

80

WIELAND; OR,

hitherto been an inviolate asylum was now beset with
danger to my life. That solitude formerly so dear to
me could no longer be endured. Pleyel, who had con-
sented to reside ,vith us during the months of spring,
lodged in the vacant chamber, in order to quiet my
alarms. He treated my fears ,vith ridicule, and in a
short time very slight traces of them remained; but, as
it was wholly indifferent to him whether his nights were
passed at my house or at my brother's, this arrange-
ment gave general satisfaction.

CHAPTER VII.

I WILL enumerate the various inquiFies and conjec-
tures which these incidents occasioned. After all our
efforts, we came no nearer to dispelling the mist in which
they were involved; and time, instead of facilitating a
solution, only accumulated our doubts.
In the midst of thoughts excited by these events, I was
not unmindful of my interview with the stranger. I
related the particulars, and showed the portrait to my
friends. Pleyel recollected to have met with a figure
resembling my description in the city; but neither his
face or garb made the same impression upon him that it
made upon me. It was a hint to rally me upon my pre-
possessions, and to amuse us ,vith a thousand ludicrous
anecdotes which he had collected in his travels. He
made no scruple to charge me ,vith being in love; and
threatened to inform the swain, when he met him, of
his good fortune.
Pleyel's temper made him susceptible of no durable
impressions. His conversation was occasionally visited
by gleams of his ancient vivacity; but, though his im-
petuosity was sometimes inconvenient, there was nothing
to dread from his malice. I had no fear that my cha-
racter or dignity would suffer in his hands, and was not
heartily displeased ,yhen he declared his intention of
profiting by his first meeting. with the stranger to intro-
duce him to our acquaintance.
Some weeks after this I had spent a toilsome day, and,
as the sun declined, found myself disposed to seek relief
in a ,valk. The river-bank is, at this part of it and for
some considerable space upward, so rugged and steep as
not to be easily descended. In a recess of this declivity,
6 81

82

WIELAND; OR,

near the southern verge of my little dClnesne, was placed
a slight building, with seats and lattices. From a crevice
of the rock to which this edifice was attached there burst
forth a stream of the purest water, ,vhich, leaping from
ledge to ledge for the space of sixty feet, produced a
freshness in the air, and a murmur, the most delicious
and soothing imaginable. These, added to the odours
of the cedars which embowered it, and of the honey-
suckle which clustered among the lattices, rendered this
my favourite retreat in summer.
On this occasion I repaired hither. My spirits drooped
through the fatigue of long attention, and I threw myself
upon a bench, in a state, both mentally and personally,
of the utmost supineness. The lulling sounds of the water-
fall, the fragrance, and the dusk, combined to becalm my
spirits, and, in a short time, to sink me into sleep. Either
the uneasiness of my posture, or some slight indisposition,
molested my repose with dreams of no cheerful hue. After
various incoherences had taken their turn to occupy my
fancy, I at length imagined myself walking, in the evening
twilight, to my brother's habitation. A pit, methought, had
been dug in the path I had taken, of which I was not aware.
As I carelessly pursued my walk, I thought I saw my
brother standing at some distance before me, beckoning
and calling me to make haste. He stood on the opposite
edge of the gulf. I mended my pace, and one step more
would have plunged me into this abyss, had not some one
from behind caught suddenly my arm, and exclaimed, in
a voice of eagerness and terror, "Hold! hold!"
The sound broke my sleep, and I found myself, at the
next moment, standing on my feet, and surrounded by the
deepest darkness. Images so terrific and forcible disabled
me for a time from distinguishing between sleep and wakc-
fulness, and withheld from me the knowledge of my actual
condition. My first panic was succeeded by the perturba-
tions of surprise to find myself alone in the open air and
immersed in so deep a gloom. I slowly recollected the
incidents of the afternoon, and how I came hither. I could
not estimate the time, but saw the propriety of returning
with speed to the house. l\Iy faculties were still too con-
fused, and the darkness too intense, to allow me imIDc.

THE TRANSl/ORA:L17'ION.

83

diately to find Iny ,yay up the steep. I sat do,vn, there..
fore, to recover myself, and to reflect upon my situation.
This was no sooner done, than a low voice was heard
from behind the lattice, on the side where I sat. Bet,veen
the rock and the lattice was a chasm not wide enough to
admit a human body; yet in this chasm he that spoke
appeared to be stationed. " Attend! attend! but be
not terrified."
I started, and exclaimed, "Good heavens! what is
that? "Vho are you ?"
"A friend; one come not to injure but to save you:
fear nothing."
This voice ,vas imu1ediately recognised to be the same
with one of those which I had heard in the closet; it was
the voice of hinl ,vho had proposed to shoot rather than
to strangle his victim.
Iy terror made me at once mute
and motionl
ss. He continued, "I leagued to murder
you. I repent. Mark my bidding, and be safe. Avoid
this spot. The snares of death encompass it. Elsewhere
danger will be distant; but this spot, shun it as you
value your life.
Iark me further: profit by this warn-
ing, but divulge it not. If a syllable of what has passed
escape you, your doom is sealed. Remember your father,
and be faithful."
Here the accents ceased, and left me overwhelmed with
dismay. I was fraught with the persuasion that during
every moment I reluained here my life was endangered;
but I could not take a step without hazard of falling to
the bottom of the precipice. The path leading to the
summit was short, but rugged and intricate. Even sta.r-
light was excluded by the un1brage, and not the faintest
gleam was afforded to guide my steps. "\Vhat should I do ?
o depart or remain was equally and eminently perilous.
In this state of uncertainty, I perceived a ray flit
across the gloom and disappear. Another succeeded,
which was stronger, and remained for a passing moment.
It glittered on the shrubs that ,vere scattered at the
entrance, and gleam continued to succeed gleam for a
fe,v seconds, till they finally give place to unintermittcd
darkness.

'he first visitings of this light called up a train of hor-

84

WIELAND,. OR,

rors in my mind; destruction impended over this spot;
the voice which I had lately heard had warned me to re-
tire, and had menaced me with the fate of my father if I
( refused. I was desirous, but unable to obey; these gleams
were such as preluded the stroke by which he fell; the
hour, perhaps, was the same. I shuddered as if I had
beheld suspended over me the ext
rm.inating sword.
Presently a new and stronger illumination burst through
the lattice on the right hand, and a voice from the edge
of the precipice above called out my name. It was Pleyel.
Joyfully did I recognise his accents; but such was the
tuml.Ùt of my thoughts that I had not power to answer
him till he had frequently repeated his summons. I
hurried at length from the fatal spot, and, directed by
the lantern which he bore, ascended the hill.
Pale and breathless, it was ,,
ith difficulty I could sup-
port myself. lIe anxiously inquired into the cause of
my affright and the motive of my unusual absence. lIe
had returned from my brother's at a late hour, and was
informed by Judith that I had walked out before sunset
and had not yet returned. This intelligence ,vas some-
what alarming. He waited some time; but, my absence
continuing, he had set out in search of me. He had ex-
plored the neighbourhood with the utmost care, but, re-
ceiving no tidings of me, he was preparing to acquaint
my brother with this circumstance, when he recollected
the summer-house on the bank, and conceived it possible
that some accident had detained me there. He again
inquired into the cause of this detention, and of that
confusion and dismay which my looks testified.
I told hÏIn that I had strolled hither in the afternoon,
that sleep had overtaken me as I sat, and that I had
awakened a few minutes before his arrival. I could tell
him no more. In the present impetuosity of my thoughts,
I was almost dubious whether the pit into which my bro-
ther had endeavoured to entice me, and the voice that
talked through the lattice, 1vere not parts of the same
dream. I remelnbered, likewise, the charge of secrecy,
and the penalty denounced if I should rashly divulge
what I had heard. For these reasons I was silent on

THE TRANSFOR1JIA TION.

85

that subject, and, shutting myself in my chamber, de-
livered myself up to contelnplation.
'Vhat I have related will, no doubt, appear to you a
fable. You will believe that calamity has subverted my
reason, and that I am amusing you with the chimeras of
my brain instead of facts that have really happened. I
shall not be surprised or offended if these be your sus
picions. I know not, indeed, ho,v you can deny them
admission. For, if to me, the immediate witness, they
were fertile of perplexity and doubt, how must they affect
another to whom they are recommended only by my
testimony? It was only by subsequent events that I
was fully and incontestably assured of the veracity of
my senses.

Ieanwhile, what ,vas I to think? I had been assured
that a design had been formed against my life. The ruf-
fians had leagued to murder mc. 'Vhom had I offended?
"\Vho was there, with whom I had ever maintained inter-
course, who was capable of harbouring such atrociouB
purposes?

Iy temper was the reverse of cruel and imperious.
1\ly heart was touched with sympathy for the children of
misfortune. But this sympathy ,vas not a barren senti-
ment. My purse, scanty as it was, was ever open, and
my hands ever active, to relieve distress. l\Iany were
the wretches ,vhom my personal exertions had extricated
from want and disease, and who rewarded me with their
gratitude. There ,vas no face which lo,vered at my ap-
proach, and no lips which uttered imprecations in my
hearing. On the contrary, there was none, over whose
fate I had exerted any influence or to whom I was known
by reputation, who did not greet me with smiles and dis-
miss me with proofs of veneration: yet did not my senses
assure me that a plot was laid against my life?
I am not destitute of courage. I have shown myself
deliberative and calm in the midst of peril. I have
hazarded my own life for the preservation of another;
but now ,yas I confused and panic-struck. I have not
lived so as to fear death; yet to perish by an unseen and
secret stroke, to be mangled by the knife of an assassin,

86

WIELAND ,. OR,

was a thought at which I shuddered: "'hat had I done
to deserve to be nlaae the victim of malignant passions?
But soft! was I not assured that my life was safe in
all places but one? And why was the treason limited to
take effect in this spot? I ,vas everywhere equally de-
fenceless. My house and chamber were at all times
accessible. Danger still impended over me; the bloody
purpose was still entertained, but the hand that was to
execute it ,va.s po,verless in all places but one!
IIere I had remained for the last four or five hours,
without the means of resistance or defence; yet I had not
been attacked. A human being was at hand, who was
conscious of my presence, and warned me hereafter to
avoid this retreat. His voice was not absolutely new,
but had I never heard it but once before? But why did
he prohibit me froln relating this incident to others, and
what species of death )vill be awarded if I disobey?
lIe talked of my father. He intimated that disclosure
would pull upon my head the S<tllle destruction. Was
then the death of my father, portentous and inexplicable
as it was, the consequence of human machinations? It
should seem that this being is apprized of the true na-
ture of this event, and is conscious of the means that led
to it. "\Vhether it shall likewise fall upon me depends
upon the observance of silence. "\\T as it the infraction
of a similar command that brought so horrible a penalty
upon my father?
Such were the reflections that haunted me during the
night, and which effectually deprived me of sleep. Next
morning, at breakfast, Pleyel related an event ,vhich my
disappearance had hindered him from mentioning the
night before. Early the preceding morning, his occa-
sions called him to the city: he had stepped into a coffee-
house to 1vhile away an hour; here he had met a person
,vhose appearance instantly bespoke him to be the same
whose hasty visit I have mentioned, and whose extraor-
dinary visage and tones had so powerfully affected Ine.
On an attentive survey, ho,vever, he proved, like,vise, to
be one with 1vholl1 my fricnfl had had SUlne intercourse in
Europe. This authorized the liberty of accosting him,
and after some conversation, mindful, as Pleyel said, of

THE TRANSFOR1IIA TION.

8j

the footing which this stranger had gained in DlY heart,
he had ventured to invite him to l\lettingen. The invi-
tation had been cheerfully accepted, and a visit promised
on the afternoon of the next day.
This information excited no sober emotions in my
breast. I ,vas, of course, eager to be informed as to the
circumstances of their ancient intercourse. When and
\vhere had they met? What knew he of the life and
character of this man ?
In ans'ver to my inquiries, he informed me that, three
years before, he was a traveller in Spain. He had made
an excursion from Valencia to l\Iurviedro, with a view to
inspect the remains of Roman magnificence scattered in
the environs of that town. While traversing the site of
the theatre of old Saguntum, he alighted upon this man,
seated on a stone, and deeply engaged in perusing the
,york of the deacon J\tlarti. A short conversation ensued,
,vhich proved the stranger to be English. They returned
to Valencia together.
His garb, aspect, and deportment were wholly Spanish.
A residence of three years in the country, indefatigable
attention to the language, and a studious conformity with
the customs of the people, had made him indistinguish-
able from a native when he chose to assume that charac-
ter. Pleyel found him to be connected, on the footing
of friendship and respect, with many eminent merchants
in that city. lIe had embraced the Catholic religion,
and adopted a Spanish name instead of his own, which
,vas CARWIN, and devoted himself to the literature and
religion of his new country. He pursued no profession,
but subsisted on remittances from Eng]and.
"\Vhile Pleyel remained in Valencia, Carwin betrayed
no aversion to intercourse, and the former found no small
attractions in the society of this new acquaintance. On
general topics he ,vas highly intelligent and communica-
tive. He had visited every corner of Spain, and could
furnish the most accurate details re8pecting its ancient
and present state. On topics of religion and of his own
history, previous to his transformation into a Spaniard,
he was invariably silent. You could merely gather from

88

WIELAND,. OR,

his discourse that he was English, and that he was weU
acq uainted ,rith the neighbouring countries.
Ilis character excited considerable curiosity in the
observer. It was not easy to reconcile his conversion to
the Romish faith with those proofs of knowledge. and
capacity that were exhibited by him on different occa-
sions. A suspicion was sometimes admitted that his be-
lief Vlas counterfeited for some political purpose. The
most careful observation, however, produced no discovery.
His manners were at all times harmless and inartificial,
and his habits those of a lover of contemplation and
seclusion. He appeared to have contracted an affection
for Pleyel, who was not slow to return it.
lVly friend, after a month's residence in this city,
returned into France, and, since that period, had heard
nothing concerning Carwin till his appearance at Met-
tingen.
On this occasion Carwin had received Pleyel's greet-
ing with a certain distance and solemnity to which the
latter had not been accustomed. He had waived no-
ticing the inquiries of Pleyel respecting his desertion of
Spain, in ,vhich he had formerly declared that it ,vas his
purpose to spend his life. He had assiduously diverted
the attention of the latter to indifferent topics, but was
still, on every theme, as eloquent and judicious as
formerly. Why he had assumed the garb of a rustic
Pleyel was unable to conjecture
"erhaps it might be
poverty; perhaps he was swayed by motives which it was
his interest to conceal, but which W i
onnected with
consequences of the utmost moment.
Such was the sum of my friend's information. I was
not sorry to be left alone during the greater part of this
day. Every employment was irksome which did not
leave me at liberty to meditate. I had now a new sub-
ject on ,vhich to exercise my thoughts. Before evening
I should be ushered into his presence, and listen to those
tones ,vhose magical and thrilling po,ver I had already
experienced. But with what new ima.ges would he then
be accolnpanied ?
Car,vin ,vas an adherent to the Romish faith, yet was
an Englishman by birth, and, perhaps, a Protestant by

THE TRANSFORMA TION.

89

education. lIe had adopted Spain for his c01lntry, and
had intimated a design to spend his days there, yet now
,vas an inhabitant of this district, and disguised by the
habiliments of a clown! "\Vhat could have obliterated
the impressions of his youth and made him abjure his
religion and his country? "\Vhat subsequent events had
introduced so total a change in his plans? In withdraw-
ing from Spain, had he reverted to the religion of his
ancestors? or ,vas it true that his former conversion was
deceitful, and that his conduct had been swayed by
motives ,vhich it was prudent to conceal?
Hours were consumed in revolving these ideas. My
meditations were intense; and, when the series was
broken, I began to reflect with astonishment on my
situation. From the death of my parents till the com-
mencement of this year my life had been serene and
blissful beyond the ordinary portion of humanity; but
now my bosom was corroded by anxiety. I ,vas visited
by dread of unknown dangers, and the future was a scene
over which clouds rolled and thunders muttered. I com-
pared the cause with the effect, and they seemed dispro-
portioned to each other. All una,vare, and in a manner
which I had no power to explain, I was pushed from my im-
movable and lofty station and cast upon a sea of troubles.
I determined to be my brother's visitant on this even-
ing; yet my resolves were not unattended ,vith wavering
and reluctance. Pleyel's insinuations that I was in love
affected in no degree my belief; yet the consciousness
that this was the opinion of one ,vho ,yould probably be
present at our introduction to each other would excite
all that confusion which the passion itself is apt to pro-
duce. This would confirm him in his error and call forth
new railleries. His mirth, when exerted upon this topic,
was the source of the bitterest vexation. Had he been
aware of its influence upon my happiness, his temper
would not have allowed him to persist; but this influence
it was my chief endeavour to conceal. That the belief
of my having bestowed my heart upon another produced
in my friend none but ludicrous sensations was the true
cause of my distress; but if thi
had been discovered by
hinl my distress would have been unspeakably aggravated.

CHAPTER VIII.

As soon as evening arrived, I performed my visit.
Carwin made one of the company into ,vhich I was
ushered. Appearances were the saIne as when I before
beheld him. His garb was equally negligent and rustic.
I gazed upon his countenance with new. curiosity. My
situation was such as to enable Ine to bestow upon it a
deliberate examination. Viewed at more leisure, it lost
none of its wonderful properties. I could not deny my
homage to the intelligence expressed in it, but was
wholly uncertain whether he were an object to be
dreaded or adored, and whether his powers had been
exerted to evil or to good.
He was sparing in discourse; but whatever he said
was pregnant with meaning, and uttered with rectitude
of articulation and force of emphasis of which I had en-
tertained no conception previously to my knowledge of
him. Notwithstanding the uncouthness of his garó, his
manners were not unpolished. All topics were handled
by him with skill, and without pedantry or affectation.
He uttered no sentiment calculated to produce a dis-
advantageous impression; on the contrary, his observa-
tions denoted a mind alive to every generous and heroic
feeling. They were introduced without parade, and ac-
companied with that degree of earnestness which indi-
cates sincerity.
lIe parted from us not till late, refusing an invitation
to spend the night here, but readily consented to repeat
his visit. Ilis visits were frequently repeated. Each
day introduced us to a more intinlate acquaintance with
his sentiments, but left us wholly in the dark concerning
that about ,vhich ,ve were most inquisitive. lIe stll-
90

THE TRANSFORIlIATION.

9 1

diously avoided aU mention of his past or present situa..
tion. Even the place of his abode in the city he con-
cealed from us.
Our sphere in this respect being somewhat limited,
and the intellectual endo,vments of this man being indis-
putably great, his deportment was more diligently marked
and copiouslJ commented on by us than you, perhaps,
will think the circumstances warranted. Not a gesture,
or glance, or accent, that was not, in our private assem-
blies, discussed, and inferences deduced from it. It may
well be thought that he modelled his behaviour by an
unCOlnmon standarù, when, with all our opportunities and
accuracy of observation, we were able for a long time to
gather no satisfactory information. He afforded us no
ground on which to build even a plausible conjecture.
There is a degree of falniliarity which takes place be-
tween constant associates, that justifies the negligence
of many rules of which, in an earlier period of their in-
tercourse, politeness requires the exact observance. In-
quiries into our condition are allowable ,,
hen they are
prompted by a disinterested concern for our welfare;
and this solicitude is not only pardonable, but may justly
be demanùed from those who choose us for their com-
panions. This state of things was more slow to arrive
at on this occasion than on most others, on account of
the gravity and loftiness of this man's behaviour.
Pleyel, ho,vever, began at length to employ regular
means for this end. lIe occasionally alluded to the cir-
cumstances in which they had formerly met, and re-
marked the incongruousness between the religion and
habits of a Spaniard ,vith those of a native of Britain.
lIe expressed his astonishment at meeting our guest in
this corner of the globe, especially as, when they parted
in Spain, he was taught to believe that Carwin should
never leave that country. lIe insinuated that a change
so great must have been prompted by motives of a sin-
gular and momentous kind.
No answer, or an answer wide of the purpose, was
generally made to these insinuations. Britons and
Spaniards, he said, are votaries of the same Deity, and
sq uare their faith by the same precepts; th('ir ideas are

9 2

WIELAND,. OR,

drawn from the same fountains of literature, and they
speak dialücts of the same tongue, their government
and laws have more resemblances than differences; they
were formerly provinces of the same civil, and, till
lately, of the same religious, empire.
As to the motives which induce men to change the
place of their abode, these must unavoidably be fleeting
and mutable. If not bound to one spot by conjugal or
parental ties, or by the nature oÎ that employment to
which we are indebted for subsistence, the inducements
to change are far more numerous and powerful than
opposite inducements.
He spoke as if desirous of showing that he was not
aware of the tendency of Pleyel's remarks; yet certain
tokens were apparent that proved him by no means want-
ing in penetration. These tokens were to be read in his
countenance, and not in his ,vords. When any thing was
said indicating curiosity in us, the gloom of his counte-
nance was deepened, his eyes sunk to the ground, and
his wonted air was not resumed without visible struggle.
Hence, it was obvious to infer that some incidents of his
life were reflected on by hin1 ,yith regret; and that, since
these incidents ,yere carefully concealed, and even that
regret which flowed from them laboriously stifled, they
had not been merely disastrous. The secrecy that was
observed appeared not designed to provoke or baffle the
inquisitive) but was prompted by the shame or by the
prudence of guilt.
These ideas, which were adopted by Pleyel and my
brother as well as myself, hindered us from employing
more direct means for accomplishing our wishes. Ques-
tions might have been put in such terms that no room
should be left for the pretence of misapprehension; and,
if modesty merely had been the obstacle, such questions
would not have been wanting; but we considered that,
if the disclosure were productive of pain or disgrace, it
was inhuman to extort it.
Amidst the various topics that were discussed in his
presence, all nsions ,vere, of course, maùe to the inexpli-
cable events that had lately happened. At those times
the words and looks of this man were objects of my par-

THE TRANSFORIrIA TION.

93

ticular attention. The subject was extraordinary; and
anyone whose experience or reflections could throw any
light upon it "
as entitled to TI1Y gratitude. As this man
,vas enlightened by reading and travel, I listened with
eagerness to the remarks which he should make.
At first I entertained a kind of apprehension that the
tale would be heard by him with incredulity and secret
ridicule. I had formerly heard stories that resembled this
in some of their mysterious circumstances; but they were
commonly heard by me with contempt. I was doubtful
whether the same impression would not now be made on
the mind of our guest; but I was mistaken in my
fears. .
He heard them ,vith seriousness, and ,vithout any marks
either of surprise or incredulity. lIe pursued with visible
pleasure that kind of disquisition ,vhich was naturally
suggested by them. His fancy 'vas eminently vigorous
and prolific; and, if he did not persuade us that human
beings are sometimes admitted to a sensible intercourse
with the Author of nature, he at least won over our in-
clination to the cause. lIe merely deduced, from his own
reasonings, that such intercourse was probable, but con-
fessed that, though he ,vas acquainted ,vith many instances
somewhat similar to those which had been related by us,
none of them were perfectly exempted from the suspicion
of human agency.
On being requested to relate these instances, he amused
us with many curious details. Ilis narratives were con-
structed with so much skill, and rehearsed with so much
energy, that all the effects of a dramatic exhibition were
frequently produced by them. Those that were most co-
herent and most minute, and, of consequence, least entitled
to credit, were yet rendered probable by the exquisite art
of this rhetorician. For every difficulty that was sug-
gested a ready and plausible solution was furnished.
Mysterious voices had always a share in producing the
catastl"ophe; but they were always to be eXplained on
some known principles, either as reflected into a focus or
communicated through a tube. I could not but remark
that his narratives, ho,,'"ever complex or marvellous, con..
tained no instance sufficiently parallel to those that had

94

1VIELAND; OR,

befallen ourselves, and in which the solution was applicable
to our own case.
J\Iy brother was a much more sanguinE. reasoner than
our guest. Even in some of the facts which were related
by Carwin, he maintained the probability of celestial in-
terference, when the latter was disposed to deny it, and
had found, as he imagined, footsteps of 3, human agent.
Pleyel was by no means equally credulous. He scrupled
not to deny faith to any testimony but that of his senses,
and allowed the facts which had lately been supported by
this testimony not to mould his belief, but merely to give
birth to doubts.
It was soon observed that Car,vin adopted, in some de-
gree, a similar distinction. A tale of this kind, related
by others, he would believe, provided it was explicable upon
known principles; but that such notices were actually
communicated by beings of a higher order he would believe
only when his own ears were assailed in a manner which
could not be otherwise accounted for. Civility forbade
him to contradict my brother or myself, but his under-
standing refused to acquiesce in our testimony. Besides,
he was disposed to question whether the voices heard in
the temple, at the foot of the hin, and in my closet, were
not really uttered by human organs. On this supposition
he was desired to explain ho,v the effect was produced.
lIe answered that the power of mimicry was very com-
mon. Catharine's voice might easily be imitated by one
at the foot of the hill, ,vho would find no difficulty in
eluding by flight the search of "\Vieland. The tidings of
the death of the Saxon lady were uttered by one near at
hand, who overheard the conversation, who conjectured
her death, and whose conjecture happened to accord with
the truth. That the voice appeared to COlne from the
ceiling was to be considered as an illusion of the fancy.
The cry for help, heard in the hall on the night of my
adventure, was to be ascribed to a human creature, who
actually stood in the hall when he uttered it. It was of
no moment, he said, that we could not explain by what
motives he that made the signal ,vas led hither. IIow
imperfectly acquainted ,vere we with the condition and
designs of the beings that surrounded us ! The city was

THE TRANSFORfiIA TIOJ.Y.

95

near at hand, and thousanùs might there exist ,vhose
powers and purposes might easily explain ,,,hatever ,vas
mysterious in this transaction. As to the closet dialogue,
he was obliged to adopt one of t,vo suppositions, and
affirnl either that it was fashioned in my o,yn fancy, or that
it actually took place between two persons in the closet.
Such ,vas Car,vin's mode of eXplaining these appear-
ances. It is such, perhaps, as would commend itself as
most plausible to the most sagacious minds; but it was
insufficient to impart convictioIJ. to us. As to the treason
that was meditated against me, it ,vas doubtless just to
conclude that it was either real or imaginary; but that
it was real was attested by the mysterious warning in the
Bummer-house, the secret of which I had hitherto locked
up in my own breast.
A month passed a,vay in this kind of intercourse. As
to Car,vin, our ignorance was in no degree enlightened re-
specting his genuine character and views. Appearances
,vere uniform. No man possessed a larger store of know-
ledge, or a greater degree of skill in the communication of
it to others; hence he was regarded as an inestimable ad-
dition to our society. Considering the distance of my
brother's house from the city, he was frequently prevailed
upon to pass the night where he spent the evening. Two
days seldom elapsed without a visit froll1 him; hence he
was regarded as a kind of inmate of the house. He
entered and departed without ceremony. 'Vhen he
arrived he received an unaffected ,velcome, and when he
chose to retire no importunities were used to induce him
to remain.
The temple wa.s the principal scene of our social enjoy-
ments; yet the felicity that we tasted when assembled in
this asylum was but the gleam of a former sunshine.
Carwin never parted with his gravity. The inscrutable-
ness of his character, and the uncertainty whether his
fellowship tended to good or to evil, ,vere seldom absent
from our minds. This circumstance powerfully con-
tributed to sadden us.
My heart was the seat of growing disquietudes. This
change in one who had formerly been characterize,d by all
the exuberances of soul coulù Hot fail to be remarked by

9 6

WIELAND.

my friends. l\Iy brother ,vas al"\vays a pattern of solemnity
l\Iy sister was clay, moulded by the circuIIJstances in which
she happened to be placed. There ,vas but one whose de-
portment remains to be described as being of importance
to our happiness. IIad Pleyel like"\vise dismissed his
vivacity?
He was as whimsical and jestful as ever, but he was not
happy. The truth in this respect was of too much im-
portance to me not to make me a vigilant observer. His
mirth was easily perceived to be the fruit of exertion.
When his thoughts wandered from the company, an air
of dissatisfaction and Ï1npatience stole across his features.
Even the punctuality and frequency of his visits were some-
what lessened. It may be supposed that my own uneasi-
ness was heightened by these tokens; but, strange as
it may seem, I found, in the present state of my
mind, no relief but in the persuasion that Pleyel was
unhappy.
That unhappiness, indeed, depended for its value in my
eyes on the cause that produced it. It did not arise from
the death of the Saxon lady; it was not a contagious ema.
nation from the countenances of Wieland or Carwin.
There was but one other source whence it could flow. A
nameless ecstasy thrilled through my frame ,vhen any
new proof occurred that the ambiguousness of my be-
àaviour was the cause.

CHAPTER IX.

My brother had received a new book from Germany.
It was a tragedy, and the first attempt of a Saxon poet
of whom my brother had been taught to entertain the high-
est expectations. The exploits of Zisca, the Bohemian
hero, were woven into a dramatic series and connection.
According to German custom, it ,vas minute and diffuse,
and dictated by an adventurous and lawless fancy. It
was a chain of audacious acts and unheard-of disasters.
The moated fortress and the thicket, the ambush and the
battle, and the conflict of headlong passions, ,vere
portrayed in wild numbers and ,vith terrific energy. An
afternoon was set apart to rehearse this performance.
The language was familiar to all of us but Carwin, whose
company, therefore, ,vas tacitly dispensed with.
The morning previous to this intended rehearsal I
spent at home.
Iy mind was occupied with reflections
relative to my o,vn situation. The sentiment ,vhich lived
with chief energy in my heart was connected 1yith the
image of Pleyel. In the midst of my anguish, I had not
been destitute of consolation. His late deportment had
given spring to my hopes. Was not the hour at handl
which should render me the happiest of human creatures?,
lIe suspected that I looked with favourable eyes upon
Car,vin. lIenee arose disquietudes ,vhich he struggled
in vain to conceal. lIe loved me, but was hopeless that
his love would be compensated. Is it not time, said I,
to rectify this error? But by what means is this to be ef-
fected? It can only be done by a change of deportment
in me; but how must I delnean myself for this purpose?
I must not speak. Neither eyes nor lips lnust in1part
the information. He must not be assured that my heart
is his, previous to the tender of his o,vn; but he must
7 97

9 8

WIELAND; OR,

be convinced that it has not been given to a.nother; he
must be supplied ,vith space whereon to build a doubt as
to the true state of my affections; he must be prolIlpted
to avow himself. The line of delicate propriety,-how
hard it is not to fall short, and not to overleap it ! .
This afternoon we shall meet at the temple. We shall
not separate till late. It will be his province to accom-
pany llle hon1e. The airy expanse is without a speck.
This breeze is usually steadfast, and its promise of a
bland and cloudless evening may be trusted. The moon
will rise at eleven, and at that hour we shall wind along
this bank. Possibly that hour may decide my fate. If
suitable encouragement be given, Pleyel will reveal his
soul to me; and I, ere I reach this threshold, will be
made the happiest of beings.
And is this good to be mine? Add ,vings to thy
speed, sweet evening; and thou, moon, I charge thee,
shroud thy beams at the moment when my Pleyel whis-
pers love. I would not for the world that the burning
blushes and the mounting raptures of that moment should
be visible.
But what encouragement is wanting? I must be re-
gardful of insurmountable limits. Yet, when minds are
imbued with a genuine sympathy, are not words and
looks superfluous? Are not motion and touch sufficient
to impart feelings such as mine? Has he not eyed me
at moments when the pressure of his hand has thrown
me into tun1ults, and was it impossible that he mistook
the impetuosities of love for the eloquence of indignation?
But the hastening evening will decide. Would it were
come! And yet 1. shudder at its near approach. An
interview that must thus terminate is surely to be wished
for by me; and yet it is not without its terrors. Would
to heaven it were come and gone!
I feel no reluctance, my friends, to be thus explicit.
Time was, ,vhen these emotions would be hidden with
immeasurable solicitude from every human eye. Alas!
these airy and fleeting impulses of shame are gone. My
scruples were preposterous and criminal. They are bred
in all hearts by a perverse and vicious education, and
they would still have maintained thcir place in my heart,

TifE l'l(Al\/SFORi}IATION.

99

had not my portion been set in misery. l\ly errors hav

taught me thus much wisdom :-that those sentiments
which ,ve ought not to disclose it is crin1inal to harbour.
It ,vas proposed to begin the rehearsal at four 0' clock.
I counted the minutes as they passed; their flight ,vas at
once too rapid and too slo,v: my sensations ,vere of an
excruciating kind; I could taste no food, nor apply to
any task, nor enjoy a moment's repose; when the hour
arrived I hastened to my brother's.
Pleyel was not there. He had not yet come. On
ordinary occasions he was eminent for punctuality. He
had testified great eagerness to share in the pleasures of
this rehearsal. He was to divide the task with my bro-
ther, and in tasks like these he always engaged with pe-
culiar zeal. His elocution was less sweet than sonorous,
and, therefore, better adapted than the n1cllifluences of
his friend to the outrageous vehemence of this dranla.
What could detain him? Perhaps he lingered through
forgetfulness. Yet this was incredible. N ever had his
memory been known to fail upon even more trivial occa-
sions. Not less impossible ,vas it that the schel11e had
lost its attractions, and that he stayed because his conling
would afford him no gratification. But why should we
expect him to adhere to the minute?
A half-hour elapsed, but Pleyel was still at a distance.
Perhaps he had misunderstood the hour which had been
proposed. Perhaps he had conceived that to-lllorrow,
and not to-day, had been selected for this purpose; but
no. A review of preceding circulllstances demonstrated
that such misapprehension was in1possible; for he had
himself proposed this day, and this hour. This day his
attention would not otherwise be occupied; but to-morrow
an indispensable engagement ,vas foreseen, by which all
his time would be engrossed; his detention, therefore,
must be owing to some unforeseen and extraordinary
event. Our conjectures were vague, tUlnultuous, and
sometimes fearful. Ilis sickness and his death might
po.ssibly have detaineù hiln.
Tortured with suspense, ,ve sat gazing at each other,
and at the path which led from the road. Every horse-
man that passed ,vas, for a mOlnent, imagined to be him.

100

IVIELAND; OR,

Hour succeeded hour, and the sun, gradually declining,
at length disappeared. Every signal of his cOIning
proved fallacious, and our hopes were at length dis-
missed. His absence affected my friends in no insup..
portable degree. They should be obliged, they said, to
defer this undertaking till the morrow; and perhaps
their impatient curiosity would compel them to dispense
entirely with his presence. No doubt some harmless
occurrence had diverted him from his purpose; and they
trusted that they should receive a satisfactory account of
him in the morning.
It may be supposed that this disappointment affected
me in a very different n1anner. I turned aside my head
to conceal my tears. I fled into solitude, to give vent to
my reproaches without interruption or restraint. My
heart was ready to burst with indignation and grief.
Pleyel was not the only object of my keen but unjust
upbraiding. Deeply did I execrate my own folly. Thus
fallen into ruins was the gay fabric ,vhich I had reared!
Thus had my golden vision melted into air!
How fondly did I dream that Pleyel was a lover! If
he were, would he have suffered any obstacle to hinder
his coming? "Blind and infatuated man!" I exclaimed.
" Thou sportest with happiness. The good that is offered
thee thou hast the insolence and folly to refuse. Well,
I will henceforth intrust my felicity to no one's keeping
but my own."
The first agonies of this disappointment would not
allow me to be reasonable or just. Every ground on
which I had built the persuasion that Pleyel was not
unimpressed in my favour appeared to vanish. It seemed
as if I had been misled into this opinion by the most
palpable illusions.
I made some trifling excuse, and returned, much earlier
than I expected, to my own house. I retired early to
my chamber, without designing to sleep. I placed my-
self at a windo,v, and gave the reins to reflection.
The hateful and degrading impulscs which had lately
controlled me were, in sonIC degrce, removed. New
dejection succeeded, but ,vas now proùuced by contem-
plating my late behaviour. Surely that passion is \vorthy

THE TRANSFOR.L1IA TION.

lOt

to be abhorred which obscures our understanding
and urges us to the comnlission of injustice. 1Vhat
right had I to expect his attendance
IIad I not de-
n1eaned myself like one indifferent to his happiness, and
as having bestowed my regards upon another? IIis ab-
sence might be prompted by the love ,,
hich I considered
his absence as a proof that he "ranted. He came not
because the sight of me, the spectacle of my coldness or
aversion, contributed to his despair. 1Vhy should I pro-
long, by hypocrisy or silence, hi8 misery as ,yell as my
own? "\Vhy not deal ,yith him explicitly, and assure
him of the truth?
You ,viII hardly believe that, in obedience to this sug-
gestion, I rose for the purpose of ordering a light, that
I might instantly make this confession in a letter. A
second thought sho,ved me the rashness of this scheme,
and I wondered by ,vhat infirnlity of mind I could be
betrayed into a momentary approbation of it. I saw
,vith the utmost clearness that a confession like that
would be the most remediless and unpardonable outrage
upon the dignity of my sex, and utterly un-worthy of
that passion ,,-hich controlled me.
r resunled my seat and my musing. To account for
the absence of Pleyel became once more the scope of 111Y
conjectures. Ho,v many incidents might occur to raise
an insuperable impediment in his way! 1Vhen I ,yas a
child, a schen1e of pleasure, in ,vhich he and his sister
,yere parties, had been in like nlanner frustrated by his
absence; but his absence, in that instance, had been occa-
sioned by his falling from a boat into the river, in conse-
quence of \vhich he had run the most imminent hazard
of being drowned. Here ,vas a second disappointment
endured by the same persons, and produced by his fail-
ure. 1\Iight it not originate in the same cause? Had
he not designed to cross the river that morning to make
some necés
ary purchases in N e,y Jersey? He had pre-
concerted to return to his o,yn house to dinner; but per-
haps some disaster had befallen him. Experience had
taught me the insecurity of a canoe, and that ,vas the
only kind of Loa t 'v hich Pleyel useù; I was, like1vise
actuated by an hereditary dread of ,yater. These cir

102

WIEL
4ND; OR,

cumstances combined to bestow consideráble plausibility
on this conjecture; but the
onsternation with which I
began to be seized was allayed by reflecting that, if this
disaster had happened, my brother would have received
the speediest information of it. The consolation which
this idea imparted was ravished from me by a new
thought. This disaster might have happened, and his
family not be apprized of it. The first intelligence of
his fate may be communicated by the livid corpse which
the tide may cast, many days hence, upon the shore.
Thus was I distressed by opposite conjectures; thus
was I tormented by phantoms of my own creation. It
was not al,vays thus. I can ascertain the date when my
mind became the victim of this imbecility; perhaps it
was coeval with the inroad of a fatal passion,-a passion
that ,viII never rank me in the number of its eulogists;
it was alone sufficient to the extermination of my peace;
it ,vas itself a plenteous source of calamity, and needed
not the concurrence of other evils to take away the at-
tractions of existence and dig for me an untimely grave.
The state of my mind naturally introduced a train of
reflections upon the dangers and cares which inevitably
beset a human being. By no violent transition was I led
to ponder on the turbulent life and mysterious end of
my father. I cherished with the utmost veneration the
memory of this man, and every relic connected with
his fate was preserved with the most scrupulous care.
Among these was to be numbered a manuscript contain-
ing memoirs of his own life. The narrative was by no
means recommended by its eloquence; but neither did
all its value fio,v from my relationship to the author. Its
style had an unaffected and picturesque simplicity. The
great variety and circumstantial display of the incidents,
together ,vith their intrinsic importance as descriptive
of human manners and passions, made it the most useful
book in my collection. It was late: but, being sensible
of no inclination to sleep, I resolved to betake myself
to the perusal of it.
To do this, it ,vas requisite to procure a light. The girl
had long since retired to her chamber: it was t]Jerefore
proper to ,vait upon n1ysclf. A lamp, and the lllean
of

THE TRAJ.VS1/ORJILl TION.

10 3

lighting it, "Tcre only to be found in the kitchen. Thither
I resolved forthwith to repair; but the light was of use
merely to enable me to read the book. I knew the shelf
and the spot where it stood. Whether I took down the
book, or prepared the lamp in the first place, apI>eared
to be a matter of no moment. The latter was preferred,
and, leaving my seat, I approached the closet in which,
as I mentioned formerly, my books and papers were
deposited.
Suddenly the remembrance of ,vhat had lately passed
in this closet occurred. 'Vhether midnight was ap-
proaching, or had passed, I knew not. I was, as then,
alone and defenceless. The ,vind was in that direction
in ,vhich, aided by the deathlike repose of nature, it
brought to me the murmur of the waterfall. This was
mingled ,vith that solemn and enchanting sound which a
breezc produces among the leaves of pines. The words
of that mysterious dialogue, their fearful import, and the
wild excess to which I was transported by my terrors,
filled my imagination anew. My steps faltered, and I
stood a moment to recover myself.
I prevailed on myself at length to move towards the
closet. I touched the lock, but my fingers were power-
less; I was visited afresh by unconquerable apprehen-
sions. A sort of belief darted into my mind that some
being was concealed ,vithin whose purposes were evil. I
began to contend witli' those fears, when it occurred to
Iue that I might,.. without impropriety, go for a lamp pre..
viously to opening the closet. I receded a few steps;
but before I reached the chamber door my thoughts took
a ne,v direction. Motion seemed to produce a Inechanical
influence upon me. I ,vas ashamed of my weakness.
Besides, ,vhat aid could be afforded me by a lamp?
l\Iy fears had pictured to themselves no precise object.
t ,vould be difficult to depict in words the ingredients
and hues of that phantom which haunted me. A hand
illVi
p a nl1 oL )reternatur

trength, lifted by-human
passIons, and selec 'g my life for its aim, were parts of
this terr" · c inlage. · II places 'vere alike accessible to
this fo
; or, if hi clnpirc ,vere restricted by local
LI.'uu\ Ll, l hOt\c OUUiH l
,,"ere utterly inscrutable by me.

10 4

WIELAND,. OR,

But had I not been told, by some one in league "\yith this
enemy, that every place but the recess in the bank was
exenlpt from da.nger ?
I returned to the closet, and once more put my hand
upon the lock. Oh, may my cars lose their sensibility
ere they be again assailed by a shriek so terrible ! Not
merely my understanding was subdued by the sound; it
acted on niy nerves like an edge of steel. It appeared
to cut asunder the fibres of IHY brain and rack every
j 'nt with agony. "
he cry, loud and piercing as it ,vas, was nevertheless
man. No articulation ,vas ever more distinct. The
breath which accompanied it did not fan my hair, yet
did every circumstance combine to persuade me that the
lips which uttered it touched my very shoulder.
" Hold! hold!" were the words of this tremendous
prohibition, in whose tone the whole soul seemed to be
wrapped up, and every energy converted into eagerness
nd terror.
Shuddering, I dashed myself against the wall, and,
by the same involuntary impulse, turned IllY face back-
ward to examine the mysterious monitor. The moon-
light streamed into each ,vindow, and every corner 0 he
room was conspicuous, and yet I beheld not . O'!
The interval was too brief to be artificla ly lneasured,
between the utterance of these ,vords and my scrutiny
directed to the quarter whence they came. Yet, if a
human being had been there, could he fail to have been
visible? 'Vhich of my senses was the prey of a fatal
illusion? The shock which the sound produced was still
felt in every part of my frame. The sound, therefore,
could not but be a genuine commotion. But that I
had heard it was not more true than that the being who
uttered it ,vas stationed at my fight ear; yet my attend-
ant was invisible.
I cannot describe the state of my thoughts at that
moment. Surprise had mastered my faculties. My
frame shook, and the vital current was congealed. I
,vas conscious only to the vehemence of my sensations.
This conùition could not be lasting. Like a tide, which
suddenly Inounts to an over,vhelrnillg height and then

T.l-IE TRAi'lSFORlJIA TION.

10 5

gradually subsides, Iny confusion slo,vly gave place to
order, and 111Y tun1ults to a cahn. I ,vas able to delibe-
rate andn10ve. I reslul1ed my feet, and advanced into
the midst of the 1'00111. U p,vard, and behind, and on
each side, I thre,v penetrating glances. I ,yas not satis-
fied .with one exan1ination. He that hitherto refused
to be seen might change his purpose, and on the next
survey be clearly distinguishable.
Solitude imposes least restraint upon the fancy. Dark
is less fertile of iIl1ages than the feeble lustre of the
moon. I was alone, and the ,valls ,vere checkered by
shado,vy forms. As the moon passed behind a cloud
and elnerged, these shadows seemed to be endow"ed with
life, and to move. The apartment ,vas open to the
breeze, and the curtain ,vas occasionally blown from its
ordinary position. This motion ",ras not unaccompanied
with sound. I failed not to snatch a look and to listen
when this motion and this sound occurred. 1\ly belief
that my monitor ,,'"as posted near was strong, and in-
stantly converted these appearances to tokens of his
presence; and yet I could dj:scern nothing.
"rhen my thoughts ,yere at length permitted to revert
to the past, the first idea that occurred was the resem-
blance between the ,vords of the voice which I had just
heard and those which had terminated my dream in the
sumlner-house. There are means by which we are able
to distinguish a substance from a shadow, a reality from
the phantom of a dream. The pit, my brother beckon-
ing me for,vard, the seizure of my arm, and the voice
behind, were surely imaginary. That these incidents
were fashioned in Iny sleep is supported by the same
indubitable evidence that compels me to believe myself
a,vake at present; yet the ,yordR and the voice were the
same. Then, by some inexplicable contrivance, I was
a,vare of the danger, ,vhile n1yactions and sensations
,vere those of one wholly unacquainted "ith it. Now,
was it not equally true that my actions and persuasions
,vere at ,val' '? IIad not the belief that evil lurked in
the closct gained a(hnittance, and had not n1Y actions
betokened an un,yarrantable security? To obviate the
effects of Iny infatuation, the saIne Incans had been used.

106

lYIELAND,. OR,

\

In my dream, he that tempted me to my destruction
was my brother. Death ,vas ambushed in my path.
From what evil ,vas I now rescued? What minister or
implement of ill was shut up in this recess? Who was
it whose suffocating grasp I was to feel should I dare
to enter it? What monstrous conception is this? 1\Iy
brother?
No; protection, and not injury, is his province.
Strange and terrible chimera ! Yet it would not be sud-
denly dismissed. It was surely no vulgar agency that
gave this form to my fears. lIe to whom all parts of
time are equally present, whom no contingency ap-
proaches, was the author of that spell which now seized
upon me. Life was dear to me. No consideration was
present that enjoined me to relinquish it. Sacred duty
combined with every spontaneous sentiment to endear to
me my being. Should I not shudder when my being
was endangered? But what emotion should possess me
when the arm lifted against me was Wieland's?
Ideas exist in our minds that can be accounted for by
no established laws.
d I dream that my brother
w as my foe? W
y þHt b ecau
e an o meli ofIn y fate was
or a alne (N o be o m111unic ated ? Yet "'That salutary end
did it serve? Did it arm me with caution to elude or
fortitude to bear the evils to "Thich I ,vas reserved? l\iy
present thoughts were, no doubt, indebted for their hue
to the similitude existing between these incidents and
those of my dream. Surely it was frenzy that dictated
my deed. That a ruffian ,vas hidden in the closet was
an idea the genuine tendency of which was to urge me
to flight. Such had been the effect formerly produced.
Had my mind been simply occupied with this thought at
present, no doubt the same impulse would have been ex-
perienced; but now it ,vas my brother whom I was irre-
sistibly persuaded to regard as the contriver of that ill
of which I had been forewarned. This persuasion did
not extenuate my fears or my danger. Why then did I
again approach the closet and withdraw the bolt? My
resolution ,vas instantly conceived, and executed without
faltering.
The door ,vas fornlcd of light lllatcrials. The lock, of

THE TRAl'lSFORJL-1 TION.

10 7

Bimple structure, easily fore,vent its hold. It opened into
the room, and commonly moved upon its hinges, after
being unfastened, ,vithout any effort of mine. This effort,
however, was besto,ved upon the present occasion. It
was my purpose to open it ,vith quickness; but the ex-
ertion which I made was ineffectual. It refused to open.
At another time, this circumstance would not have
looked with a face of mystery. I should have supposed
some casual obstruction and repeated my efforts to sur-
mount it. But now my mind was accessible to no con-
jecture but one. The door ,vas hindered from opening
by human force. Surely, here ,vas a ne,v cause for
affright. This ,vas confirmation proper to decide my
conduct. Now was all ground of hesitation taken away.
"That could be supposed but that I deserted the chamber
and the house? that I at least endeavoured no longer
to withdraw the door?
IIave I not said that my actions were dictated by
frenzy? l\iy reason had forborne, for a time, to suggest
or to s,vay my resolves. I reiterated my endeavours. I
exerted all my force to overcome the obstacle, but in
vain. The strength that was exerted to keep it shut ,vas
superior to mine.
A casual observer might, perhaps, applaud the auda-
ciousness of this conduct. 'fhence, but from a habitual
defiance of danger, could my perseverance arise? I have
already assigned, as distinctly as I am able, the cause of
it. The frantic conception that my brother was within,
that the resistance made to my design was exerted by
him, had rooted itself in my mind. You will compre.
hend the height of this infatuation, when I ten you that,
finding all my exertions vain, I betook myself to excla-
mations. Surely I was utterly bereft of understanding.
Now I had arrived at the crisis of my fate. "Oh,
hinder not the door to open," I exclaimed, in a tone
that had less of fear than of grief in it. "I know you
well. Come forth, but harm me not. I beseech you,
come forth."
I had taken my hand from tIje lock and removed to a
sm:tll distance from the door. \ I had scarce! y uttered
the
e worù:;, ,vhen the door s\\ uug upon it::; hinges and

108

TVIELAND,o OR,

displayed to my view the interior of the closet. vVho-
ever was within was shrouded in darkness. A few
seconds passed without interruption of the silence. I
knew not ,vhat to expect or to fear. My eyes ,vould
not stray from the recess. Presently, a deep sigh was
heard. The quarter from ,vhich it came heightened the
eagerness of my gaze. SOIne one approached from the
farther end. I quickly perceived the outlines of a human
figure. Its steps were irresolute and slow. I recoiled
as it advanced.
By con1ing at length within the verge of the roonl, his
form was clearly distinguishable. I had prefigured to
myself a very different personage. The face that pre-
sented itself was the last that I should desire to meet at
an hour and in a place like this. My ,vonder was stifled
by my fears. Assassins had lurked in this recess. Some
ivine voice warned me of danger that at this moment
waited me. I had spurned the intimation, and chal-
lenged my adversary.
il I recalled the mysterious countenance and dubious
haracter of Carwin. What motive but atrocious ones
could guide his steps hither? I ,vas alone. My habit

uited the hour, and the place, and the warmth of the
season. All succour was remote. He had placed him-
self between me and the door. My frame shook with
the vehenlence of my apprehensions.
Yet I was not wholly lost to myself; I vigilantly
marked his demeanour. IIis looks were grave, but not
.without perturbation. What species of inquietude it be-
trayed the light was not strong enough to enable me to
discover. He stood still; but his eyes wandered fronl
one object to another. vVhen these powerful organs were
fixed upon me, I shrunk into IIlyself. At length he broke
silence. Earnestness, and not enlbarrassment, was in his
tone. lIe advanced close to me while he spoke :-
" What voice ,vas that which lately addressed you ?"
He paused for an answer; but, observing n1Y trepida-
tion, he resumed, ,vith undiminished solemnity, "Be not
terrified. vVhoever he was, he has done you an import-
ant service. I nee.} not ask you if it ,vere the voice of
a companion.
rhat sound 'ra8 beyolul the CC1LlpaSS of

'l \
.J

THE TRANSFOR1JIA TION.

log

human organs. The knowledge that enabled him to tell
you ,vho ,vas in the closet was obtained by incoInpre-
hensible means.
" You knew that Carwin was there. Were you not
apprized of his intents? The same power could impart
the one as well as the other. Yet, knowing these, you
persisted. Audacious girl! But perhaps you confided in
his guardianship. Your confidence was just. With suc-
cour like this at hand you may safely defy me.
"He is my eternal foe; the Lailier of my best-con-
certed schemes. T,vice have you been saved by his ac-
cursed interposition. But for him I should long ere now
have borne away the spoils of your honour."
lIe looked at Ine with greater steadfastness than before.
I became every moment more anxious for my safety. It
,vas ,vith difficulty I stamlnered out an entreaty that he
,vould instantly depart, or suffer me to do so. lIe paid
no regard to my request, but proceeded in a more imp as.
sioned manner:-
" 'Vhat is it you fear? Havé I not told you you are
safe? Has not one in ,vhom you more reasonably place
trust assured you of it? Even if I execute my purpose,
,vhat injury is done ? Your prejudices will call it by that
naIne, but it mer.its it not.
"I was impelled by a sentiment that does you honour;
a sentiment that would sanctify my deed; but, whatever
it be, you are safe. Be this chimera still worshipped; I
,vill do nothing to pollute it." There he stopped.
The accents anù gestures of this man left me drained
of all courage. Surely, on no other occasion should I
have been thus pusillanimous. l\ly state I regarded as
a hopeless one. I ,vas ,vhollyat the mercy of this being.
'Vhichcver way I turned my eyes, I saw no avenue by
which I luight escape. The resourccs of my personal
strength, lllY ingenuity, and my eloquence, I estimated
at nothing. The dignity of virtue and the force of truth
J had been accustolned to celebrate, and had frequently
vaunted of the conquests ,vhich I
hould lnake ,vith their
assistance.
I used to suppose that ccrtain evils could never befall
a being iD pOdsession of a sound mind; that true virtue

lID

WIELAND,. OR,

supplies us ,vith energy which vice can never resist; that
it was always in our power to obstruct, by his own death,
the designs of an enemy ,vho aimed at less than our life.
Ilow was it that a sentiment like despair had now in-
vaded me, and that I trusted to the protection of chance,
or to the pity of my persecutor?
IIis words imparted some notion of the injury which
he had meditated. He talked of obstacles that had risen
in his way. He had relinquished his design. These
sources supplied me with slender consolation. There
was no security but in his absence. When I looked at
myself, when I refle
ted on the hour and the place, I was
overpowered by horror and dejection.
He was silent, museful, and inattentive to my situa-
tion, yet made no motion to depart. I was silent in my
turn. What could I say? I ,vas confident that reason
in this contest would be impotent. I must owe my safety
to his own suggestions. 'Vhatever purpose brought him
hither, he had changed it. Why then did he remain?
Ilis resolutions might fluctuate, and the pause of a few
minutes restore to him his first resolutions.
Yet was not this the man whom we had treated with
unwearied kindness? whose society ,vas endeared to us
by his intellectual elevation and accomplishments? who
had a thousand times expatiated on the usefulness and
beauty of virtue? Why should such a one be dreaded?
If I could have forgotten the circumstances in which our
interview had taken place, I might have treated his
words as jests. Presently, he resumed:-
"Fear me not: the space that severs us is small, and
all visible succour is distant. You believe yourself com-
pletely in my power; that you stand upon the brink of
ruin. Such are your groundless fears. I cannot lift a
finger to hurt you. Easier would it be to stop the moon
in her course than to injure you. The power that pro-
tects you would crumble my sinews and reduce me to a
heap of ashes in a moment, if I were to harbour a thought
hostile to your safety.
"Thus are appearances at length solved. Little did
I expect that they originated hence. What a portion is
assigned to you! Scanned by the eyes of this intelli-

THE TRANSFORfifA TION.

III

gence, your path will be without pits to swallow or
snares to entangle you. Environed by the arms of this
protection, all artifices will be frustrated and all malice
repelled. ".
Here succeeded a new pause. I ,vas still observant
of every gesture and look. The tranquil solemnity that
had lately possessed his countenance gave way to a new
expression. All now was trepidation and anxiety.
"I must be gone," said he, in a faltering accent.
""\Vhy do I linger here? I will not ask your forgiveness.
I see that your terrors are invincible. Your pardon will
be extorted by fear, and not dictated by compassion. I
must fly froln you forever. He that could plot against
your honour 111Ust expect from you and your friends
persecution and death. I must doom myself to end-
less exile."
Saying this, he hastily left the room. I listened while
he descended the stairs, and, unbolting the outer door,
went forth. I did not follow him with my eyes, as the
moonlight ,vould have enabled me to do. Relieved by
his absence, and exhausted by the conflict of my fears,
I threw myself on a chair, and resigned myself to those
bewildering ideas ,vhich incidents like these could not
fail to produce.

CHAPTER X.

ORDER could not readily be introduced into my
thoughts. The voice still rung in my ears. Every
3Jccent that was uttered by Carwin ,vas fresh in my re-
membrance. His unwelcome approach, the recognition
of his person, his hasty departure, produced a complex
impression on my mind ,vhich no words can delineate.
I strove to give a slower motion to my thoughts, and to
regulate a confusion which becan1e painful; but my
efforts were nugatory. I covered my eyes with my
hand, and sat, I know not ho,v long, without power to
arrange or utter my conceptions.
I had remained for hours, as I believed, in absolute
solitude. No thought of personal danger had molested
my tranquillity. I had made no preparation for defence.
What was it that suggested the design of perusing my
father's manuscript? If, instead of this, I had retired
to bed and to sleep, to what fate might I not have been
reserved. The ruffian, who must aln10st have suppressed
his breathings to screen himself from discovery, would
have noticed this signal, and I should have awakened
only to perish ,vith affright, and to abhor myself. Could
I have remained unconscious of 111Y danger? Could I
have tranquilly slept in the midst of so deadly a snare?
And who was he that threatened to destroy me? By
,vhat means could he hide himself in this closet? Surely
he is gifted with supernatural power. Such is the enemy
of whose attempts I was forewarned. Daily I had seen
him and conversed ,vith him. Nothing could be dis-
cerned through the impenetrable veil of his duplicity.
When busied in conjectures as to the author of the evil
that was threatened, my mind did not light for a mo-
112

THE TRA.i.VSFORi11A TION.

113

lllent upon his image. Yet has he not avo,ved hiulsclf
lUY enenlY? 'Vhy should he be here if he had not medi-
tated evil ?
He confesses that this has been his second attempt.
1Vhat was the scene of his forn1er conspiracy? 'Vas it
not he ",hose ,vhispers betrayed him? Am I deceived?
or ,vas there not a faint resemblance between the voice
of thi
luan and that ,vhich talked of grasping my throat
and extinguishing my life in a moment? Then he hatl
a colleague in his crime; now he is alone. Then death
'vas the scope of his thoughts; no,v an injury unspeak-
ably more dreadful. II ow thankful should I be to the
power that has interposed to save me !
That po,ver is invisible. It is subject to the cog-
nizance of one of n1Y senses. What are the means that
,vill inform me of what nature it is? He has set him-
self to counter,vork the n1achinations of this man, ,,-ho
h:1(1 Inenaced destruction to all that is dear to n1e, and
who
e coming had surmounted every hUll1an Í1upedilnent.
There was none to rescue Ille from his grasp. l\Iy rash..
ness even hastened the completion of his scheme, and
precluded him from the benefits of deliberation. I had
robbed him of the po,ver to repent and forbear. Had I
been apprized of the danger, I should have regarded my
conduct as the means of rendering my escape from it
impossible. Such, likewise, seem to have been the fears
of IllY invisible protector. Else ,vhy that startling en-
treaty to refrain from opening the closet? By ,vhat
inexplicable infatuation ,vas I cOlllpelled to proceed?
Yet Iny conduct was ,vise. Car\yin, unable to compre-
hend my folly, ascribed my behaviour to Iny kno,vledge.
lIe conceived himself previously detected, and, such de..
tection being possible to flow only from 'lny heavenly
friend and his enenlY, his fears acquired additiona]
strength.
lie is apprized of the nature and intentions of this
being. Perhaps he is a hUluan agent. Yet on that
supposition his achievements are incredible. )Vhy should
I be selected as the 0 bj ect of his care? or, if a mere
Inortal, should I not recognise sOlne one whom benefits
imparted and received had prompted to love llle? What
8

114

WIELAND,. OR,

were the limits and duration of his guardianship? 'V a

the genius of my birth intrusted by divine benignity with
this province? Are human faculties adequate to receive
stronger proofs of the existence of unfettered and bene-
ficent intelligences than I have received?
But who was this man's coadjutor? The voice that
acknowledged an alliance in treachery with Carwin
warned me to avoid the summer-house. lIe assured me
that there only my safety was endangered. His as-
surance, as it now appears, was fallacious. vVas there
not deceit in his admonition? 'Vas his compact really
annulled? Some purpose was, perhaps, to be accom-
plished by preventing my future visits to that spot.
Why was I enjoined silence to others on the subject of
this admonition, unless it were for some unauthorized
and guilty purpose?
Noone but myself was accustomed to visit it. Back-
ward it was hidden from distant view by the rock, and
in front it was screened from all exam
Jlation by creeping
plants and the branches of cedars. What recess could
be more propitious to secrecy? The spirit which haunted
it formerly was pure and rapturous. It was a fane sacred
to the memory of infantile days, and to blissful imagi-
nations of the future! What a gloomy reverse had suc-
ceeded since the ominous arrival of this stranger! Now,
perhaps, it is the scene of his meditations. Purposes
fraught with horror, that shun the light and contemplate
the pollution of innocence, are here engendered, and
fostered, and reared to maturity.
Such were the ideas that, during the night, were tumul-
tuously revolved by me. I reviewed every conversation
in which Carwin had borne a part. I studied to discover
the true inferences deducible from his deportment and
words with regard to his former adventures and actual
views. I pondered on the comments which he made on
the relation which I had given of the closet dialogue.
No new ideas suggested themselves in the course of this
review. My expectation had, from the first, been dis-
appointed on the small degree of surprise which this
narrative excited in him. lIe never explicitly declared
his opinion as to the nature of those voices, or decided

THE TRANSFOR/1fATION.

115

whether they were real or visionary. lIe reconnnended
no measures of caution or prevention.
But what measures were no\v to be taken? 'tVas the
danger which threatened me at an end? Had I nothing
Inore to fear? I was lonely, and "\vithout means of de-
fence. I could not calculate the nlotives and regulate the
footsteps of this person. 'Vhat certainty was there tha.t
he would not reassume his purposes and swiftly return to
the execution of them?
This idea covered me once more with dismay. How
deeply did I regret the solitude in which I was placed,
and how ardently did I desire the return of day! But
neither of these inconveniences were susceptible of
remedy. At first it occurred to me to summon my ser-
vant and make her spend the night in my chamber; but
the inefficacy of this expedient to enhance my safety was
easily seen. Once I resolved to leave the house and re-
tire to my brother's, but was deterred by reflecting on
the unseasonableness of the hour, on the alarm \vhich
my arrival and the account which I should be obliged to
give might occasion, and on the danger to ,vhich I might
expose myself in the way thither. I began, like\vise, to
consider Carwin's return to molest me as exceedingly
improbable. He had relinquished, of his own accord,
his design, and departed without compulsion.
" Surely," said I, "there is omnipotence in the cause
that changed the vie\vs of a man like Car\vin. The
divinity that shielded me from his attempts will take
suitable care of my future safety. Thus to yield to my
fears is to deserve thn t they should be real."
Scarcely had I uttered these words, when 111Y attention
,vas startled by the sound of footsteps. They denoted
some one stepping into the piazza in front of my house.
My new-born confidence \vas extinguished in a monlent.
Carwin, I thought, had. repented hiR departure, and ,vas
hastily returning. The possibility that his return was
prompted by intentions consistent with my safety found
no place in my mind. Images of violation and murder
assailed me anew, and the terrors which succeeded almost
incapacitated me frol11 taking any measures for my defence.
It ,vas an impulBe of \vhich I was scarcely conscious that

116

WIELAND,. OR,

made me fasten the lock and dra,v the bolts of my cham-
ber door. IIaving done this, I threw myself on a scat;
for I trembled to a degree which disabled me from stand-
ing, and Iny soul was so perfectly absorbed in the act of
li
ening, that almost the vital motions were stopped.
The door below creaked on its hinges. It was not again
t rust to, but appeared to remain open. Footsteps entered,
traversed the entry, and began to mount the stairs. Irow
I detested the folly of not pursuing the man when he ,vith-
drew, and bolting after hiIn the outer door! Might he not
conceive this omigsion to be a proof that my angel h.
deser ed me, and be thereby fortified in guilt?
E (, y step on the stairs which brought hil nearer to
my chamber added vigour to my desperation. The evil
with which I was menaced was to be at any rate eluded.
I llow little did I preconceive the conduct which, in an
exigence like this, I should be prone to adopt ! You will
I suppose that deliberation and despair would have sug-
gested the same course of action, and that I should have
unhesitatingly resorted t the best means of personal de-
fence within my power. A p enknife lay open upon my
table. I reme]nbered that it ,va
t h ere, and seized it.
For what purpose yo
cely inquire. It will be
immediately supposed that I Ineant it for my last refuge,
and that, if all other means should fail, I should plunge
\ it into the heart of my ravisher.
I have lost all faith in the steadfastness of human re-
solves. It was thus that in periods of calm I had de-
termined. to act. No cowardice had been held by me in
greater abhorrence than that which prolllpted an injured
female to destroy, not her injurer ere the injury was
perpetrated, but herself when it was ,vithout ren1edy.
Yet now this penknife appeared to me of no other use
than to baffile my assailant and prevent the crime by
destroying myself. To deliberate at such a time was
in1possible; but, among the tumultuous suggestions of
the moment, I do not recollect that it once occurred to me
to use it as an instrument of direct defence.
The steps had now reached the second floor. Every
footfall accelerated. the completion ,vitl1out augmenting
the certainty of evil. The consciousness that the door

fIlE TR.ANSFORJIA TEON.

IIJ

was fast, no,," that nothing but that ,,-as interposed
bet,veen me and danger, was a sourc of some consolation.
I cast my eye tow
ds the window. This, likewise, was
a ne,," suO'gestion. . If the door should give way, it was
my sudd
n resol .on to throw myself from the window. )
Its height from tie ground, which was covered beneath
by a brick pavement, would insure my de struction; but
I thought not of that. -
1Vhen QPj)QßÎte to my door the footsteps ceased. Was
he listening whether my fears were allayed and my caution
were asleep? Did he hope to take me by surprise ? Yet,
if so, why did he allow so many noisy signals to betray
his approach? Presently the steps were again heard to
approach the door.
Nf! wal'!--laj d upon the lock, and
the l
dlcd back. 1 he imagine it possible that I
should al to us e cure-1 h
door? A slight effort ""as made
to push it open, as if, all bolts being withdrawn, a slight
effort only was required.
I no sooner perceived this than I nloved swiftly to,vards
the window. Carwin's frame might be said to be all
muscle. His strength and activity hart appeared, in vari-
ous instances, to be prodigious. A slight exertion of his
force would delnolish the door. 'V ould not that exertion
be made? Too surely it would; but, at the same moment
that this obstacle should yield and he should enter the
apartment, my determination was formed to leap from
the window. :ßly senses were still bound to this object.
I gazed at the door in monlentary expectation that the
assault would be made. The pause continued. The
person without was irresolute and motionless.
Suddenly it occurred to me that Carwin might conceive
me to have fled. That I had not betaken myself to flight
was, indeed, the least probable of all conclusions. In this
persuasion he must have been confirmed on finding the
lower door unfastened and the chamber door 10 ':}kcd. 'Vas
it not ,vise to foster this persuasion? Should I maintain
deep silence, this, in addition to other circumstances, might
encourage the belief, and he would once more depart.
Every new reflection added plausibility to this reasoning.
It ,ras presently more strongly enforced ""hen I noticed
footsteps ,vithdra ,ving from the door. The -blood once

118

WIELAND,. OR,

more flo,ved bac]\. t.) my heart, and a da,vn of exultation
began to rise; but my joy ,vas short-lived. Instead of
descending the stairs, he passed to the door of the oppo-
site chamber, opened it, and, having entered, shut it after
him with a violence that shook the house.
IIow ,vas I to interpret this circumstance? For what
end could he have entered this chamber? Did the vio-
lence ,vith ,vhich he closed the door testify the depth of
his vexation? This room was usually occupied by Pleyel.
Was Carwin a ,yare of his absence on this night? Could
he be suspected of a design so sordid as pillage? If this
were his view, there were no means in my power to frus-
trate it. It behooved me to seize the first opportunity to
escape; but, if my escape were supposed by my enemy
to have been already effected, no asylum was more secure
than the present. lIow could my passage from the house
be accomplished ,vithout noises that Inight incite him to
pursue me?
Utterly at a loss to account for his going into Pleyel's
chamber, I waited in instant expectation of hearing him
come forth. All, however, was profoundly still. I lis..
tened in vain for a considerable period to catch the sound
of the door when it should again be opened. There
was no other avenue by which he could escape, but a
door which led into the girl's chamber. Would any evil
from this quarter befall the girl ?
lIence arose a new train of apprehensions. They
merely added to the turbulence and agony of my reflec-
tions. Whatever evil impended over her, I had no
power to avert it. Seclusion and silence were the only
means of saving myself frOin the perils of this fatal
night. What solemn vo,vs did I put up, that, if I should
once more behold the light of day, I would never trust
myself again ,vithin the threshold of this dwelling!
Minute lingered after minute, but no token was given
that Carwin had returned to the passage. \Vhat, I
again asked, could detain him in this roonl ? 'Vas it
possible that he had returned, and gliùed unperceived
away? I ,ras speedily aware of the difficulty that at-
tended an enterprise like this; and yet, as if by that

T.llE TRANSFORflIA TION.

119

means I were capable of gaining any information on

hat head, I cast anxious looks from the window.
The object that first attracted my attention was a
human figure standing on the edge of the bank. Per-
haps my penetration was assisted by my hopes. Be
that as it will, the figure of Carwin was clearly distin-
guishable. From the obscurity of my station, it was
impossible that I should be discerned by him; and yet he
scarcely suffered me to catch a glimpse of him. He
turned and went down the steep, which in this part was
not difficult to be scaled.
My conjecture, then, had been right. Carwin has
softly opened the door, descended the stairs, and issued
forth. That I should not have overheard his steps was
only less incredible than that my eyes had deceived me.
But what was now to be done? The house was at
length delivered from this detested inmate. By one
avenue might he again re-enter. Was it not wise to
bar the lower door? Perhaps he had gone out by the
kitchen door. For this end, he must have passed
through Judith's chamber. These entrances being closed
and bolted, as great security was gained as was com-
patible with my lonely condition.
The propriety of these measures was too manifest not
to make me struggle successfully with my fears. Yet I
opened my own door with the utmost caution, and de-
scended as if I were afraid that Car,vin had been still
immured in Pleyel's chamber. The outer door was ajar.
I shut it with trembling eagerness, and drew every bolt
that appended to it. I then passed vfith light and less
cautious steps through the parlour, but ,vas surprised to
discover that the kitchen door ,vas secure. I was com-
pelled to acquiesce in the first conjecture that Carwin
had escaped through the entry.
l\Iy heart was now somewh.at eased of the load of ap-
prehension. I returned once more to my chamber, the
door of which I was careful to lock. It was no time to
think of repose. The moonlight began already to fade
before the light of the day. The approach of morning
w
s betokened by the usual signals. I mused upon the
events of this night, anù dct
rmineù to take up my

120

WIELAND.

abode henceforth at my brother's. Whether I should
inform him of ,vhat had happened ,vas a question which
seemed to demand some consideration. My safety un..
questionably required that I should abandon my present
habitation.
As my thoughts began to flow with fewer impediments,
the image of Pleyel, and the dubiousness of his condi-
tion, again recurred to me. I again ran over the pos-
sible causes of his absence on the preceding day. My
mind ,vas attuned to melancholy. I dwelt, with an ob-
stinacy for which I could not account, on the idea of his
death. I painted to myself his struggles with the bil-
lo,vs, and his last appearance. I imagined myself a
midnight wanderer on the shore, and to have stumbled
on his corpse, which the tide had cast up. Thesc dreary
imagcs affected me even to tears. I endeavoured not to
restrain them. They imparted a relief which I had not
anticipated. The more copiously they flowed, the more
did my general sensations appear to subside into calm..
and a certain restlessness give way to repose.
Perhaps, reli
ved by this effusion, the slumber so
much wanted might have stolen on Iny senses, had there
been no new cause of alarm.

.

CI-IAPTER XI.

I 'v AS aroused from this stupor by sounds that evi-
dently arose in the next chamber. 'Vas it possible that
I had been mistaken in the figure which I had seen on
the bank? or had Car,vin, by some inscrutable means,
penetrated once more into this chamber? The opposite
door opened; footsteps came forth, and the person,
advancing to mine, knocked.
So unexpected an incident robbed me of all presence
of mind, and, starting up, I involuntarily exclaimed,
"'Vho is there?" An answer ,,"as immediately given.
The voice, to my inexpressible astonishment, was
Pleyel's.
"It is I. Have you risen? If you h:tve not, make
haste; I want three minutes' conversation ,vith you in
the parlour. I váll wait for you there." Saying this,
he retired from the door.
Should I confide in the testimony of my ears? If
that were true, it ,vas Pleyel that had been hitherto
immured in the opposite chamber; he whom my rueful
fancy had depicted in so many ruinous and ghastly
shapes; he whose footsteps had been listened to with
such inquietude! What is man, that knowledge is 80
sparingly conferred upon him! that his heart should be
,vrung ,vith distress, and his frame be exanimated \vith
fear, though his safety be encompassed ,vith impregnable
walls! 1Vhat are the bounds of human imbecility! lIe
that warned me of the presence of my foe refused tbe
intimation by which so many racking fears would have
been precluded.
Yet who would have imagined the arrival of Pleyel at
such an hour? His tone was desponding and anxious.
\Vhy this unseasonable summons? and why this hasty
121

122

WIELAND,. OR,

departure? Some tidings he, perhaps, bears of myste r
rious and unwelcome import.
My impatience would not allow me to consume much
time in deliberation; I hastened down. Pleyel I found
standing at a window, with eyes cast down as in medi-
tation, and arms folded on his breast. Every line in his
countenance was pregnant with sorrow. To this was
added a certain wanness and air of fatigue. The last
time I had seen him appearances had been the reverse
of these. I was startled at the change. The first im-
pulse was to question him as to the cause. This impulse
was supplanted by some degree of confusion, flo,ving
from a consciousness that love had too large, and, as it
might prove, a perceptible, share in creating this im-
pulse. I was silent.
Presently he raised his eyes and fixed them upon me.
I read in them an anguish altogether ineffable. Never
had I witnessed a like demeanour in Pleyel. Never,
indeed, had I observed a human countenance in which
grief was more legibly inscribed. lIe seeIIled struggling
for utterance; but, his struggles being fruitless, he shook
his head and turned a,vay from me.
My impatience would not allow me to be longer
silent. "What," said I, "for heaven's sake, IllY friend,
-what is the matter ?"
lie started at the sound of my voice. His looks, for
a moment, became convulsed with an emotion very dif-
ferent from grief. His accents were broken with rage :-
" The matter! 0 wretch I-thus exquisitely fashioned,
-on whom nature seeIIled to have exhausted all her
graces; with charms so awful and so pure! how art
thou fallen! From what height fallen! A ruin so com-
plete,-so unheard-of!"
IIis words were again choked by emotion. Grief and
pity were again mingled in his features. lIe resumed,
in a tone half suffocated by sobs :-
" But why should I upbraid thee? Could I restore to
thee what thou hast lost, efface this curseù stain, snatch
thee from the jaws of this fiend, I Vtould do it. Yet
what will avail my efforts? I have not arlllS with which
to contend with so consUlliluate, so frightful a depravity.

THE TRANSFORlIfA TION.

12 3

"Evidence less than this would only have excited
resentment and scorn. The wretch who should have
breathed a suspicion injurious to thy honour ,,"ould have
been regarded ,vithout anger: not hatred or envy could
have pron1pted him; it would merely be an argument of
madness. That my eyes, that my ears, should bear wit-
ness to thy fall! By no other way could detestable con-
viction be imparted.
" 'Vhy do I summon thee to this conference? Why
expose myself to thy derision? Here admonition and
entreaty are vain. Thou kno,vest him already for a
murderer and thief. I had thought to have been the
first to disclose to thee his infamy; to have ,yarned thee
of the pit to which thou art hastening; but thy eyes are
open in vain. Oh, foul and insupportable disgrace!
"There is but one path. I know you will disappear
together. In thy ruin, how ",.ill the felicity and honour
of multitudes be involved! But it must come. This
scene shall not be blotted by his presence. No doubt
thou wilt shortly see thy detested paralnour. This scene
will be again polluted by a midnight assignation. Inform
him of his dangers; tell him that his crimes are known;
let him fly far and instantly from this spot, if he desires
to avoid the fate which menaced him in Ireland.
" And ,,"ilt thou not stay behind? But shame upon
my weakness! I know not ,,-hat I ,yould say. I have
done what I purposed. To stay longer, to expostulate,
to beseech, to enumerate the consequences of thy act,-
what end can it serve but to blazon thy infamy and em-
bitter our ,roes? An.d yet, oh, think-think ere it be
too late-on the distresses which thy flight will entail
upon us; on the base, grovelling, and atrocious character
of the ,,-retch to whom thou hast sold thy honour. But
,,-hat is this? Is not thy effrontery impenetrable and
thy heart thoroughly cankered? Oh, most specious and
most profligate of women!"
Saying this, he rushed out of the house. I saw him
in a few moments hurrying along the path ,vhich led to
nlY brother's. I had no po,yer to prevent his going, or
to recall or to follow him. The accents I had heard
Were calculated to coufound and be,vilder. I looked

12 4

JVIELAND; OR,

around me" to assure myself that the scene ,vas real. 1
moved, that I Inight banish the doubt that I ,vas awake.
Such enormous imputations from the mouth of Pleyel

To be stigmatized with the names of ,vanton and profli-
gate! To be charged with the sacrifice of honour! with
midnight meetings ,vith a 'VI' etch known to be a murderer
and thief! with an intention to fly in his conlpany!
What I had heard ,vas surely the dictate of frenzy,
or it was built upon some fatal, some incomprehensible
mistake. After the horrors of the night, after under-
going perils so imminent from this man, to be summoned
to an interview like this I-to find Pleyel fraught with a
belief that, instead of having chosen death as a refuge
from the violence of this man, I had hugged his base-
ness to my heart, had sacrificed for him my purity, my
spotless name, my friendships, and my fortune! That
even madness could engender accusations like these was
not to be believed.
What evidence could possibly suggest conceptions so
wild? After the unlooked-for interview with Carwin in
my chamber, he retired. Could Pleyel have observed
his exit? It was not long after that Pleyel himself
entered. Did he build on this incident his odious con-
elusions? Could the long series of my actions and senti-
lnents grant me no exemption from suspicions so foul?
Was it not more rational to infer that Carwin's designs
had been illicit? that my life had been endangered by
the fury of one ,vhom, by some means, he had discovered
to be an assassin and robber? that my honour had been
assailed, not by blandishlnents, but by violence?
He has judged me without hearing. He has drawn
from dubious appearances conclusions the most improba-
ble and unjust. He has loaded Ine with all outrageous
epithets. lIe has ranked me with prostitutes and thieves.
I cannot pardon thee, Pleyel, for this injustice. Thy
understanding must be hurt. If it be not,-if thy con-
duct was sober and deliberate,-I can never forgive an
outrage so unmanly and so gross.
These thoughts gradually gave place to others. Plcyel
was possesseù by SOIne 111011lcntary frenzy; appearances
had led him into palpable errors. 1Vhel1ce could his

THE TR.ANSÞ'ORlIfA TION.

12 5

sagacity have contracted this J)lindness ? Was it not
love? Previously assured of my affection for Carwin,
distracted \vith grief and jealousy, and impelled hither
at that late hour by some unkn01vn instigation, hiE
imagination transformed shadows into monsters, and
plunged him into these deplorable errors.
This idea was not unattended with consolation.
iy
soul was divided between indignation at his injustice and
delight on account of the source from which I conceived
it to spring. For a long time they ,vould allow admis-
sion to no other thoughts. Surprise is an emotion that
enfeebles, not invigorates. All my meditations were ac-
companied with ,,-onder. I rambled with vagueness, or
clung to one ilnage with an obstinacy ,vhich sufficiently
testified the maddening influence of late transactions.
Gradually I proceeded to reflect upon the consequences
of Pleyel's mistake, and on the measures I should take
to guard n1yself against future injury from Carwin.
Should I suffer this mistake to be detected by time?
When his passion should subside, would he not perceive
the flagrancy of his inju
tice and hasten to atone for it?
Did it not become my character to testify resentment for
language and treatment so opprobrious? 'Yrapt up in
the consciousness of innocence, and confiding in the
influence of time and reflection to confute so groundless
a charge, it was my province to be passive and silent.
As to the violences meditated by Carwin, and the
means of eluding them, the path to be taken by me was
obvious. I resolved to tell the tale to my brother and
regulate myself by his advice. For this end, \vhen the
lnorning \vas somc,vhat advanced, I took the way to his
house.
ly sister ,vas engaged in her customary occupa-
tions. As soon as I appeared, she remarked a change
in my looks. I \yas not \villing to alarm her by the in-
formation which I had to communicate. Her health was
in that condition which rendered a disastrous tale par-
ticularly unsuitable. I forbore a direct ans\ver to her
inquiries, and inquired, in my turn, for 'Yieland.
""\Vhy," said she, "I suspect something mysterious
and 'lnpleasant ha.s h3 ppcncd this n10rning. Scarcely
had ,ye risen ,yhen Plcycl dropped alnong us. 'Vhai

126

WIEL
4 ND,. OR,

could have prompted him to make us so early and so un-
seasonable a visit I cannot tell. To judge from the dis-
order of his dress, and his countenance, something of an
extraordina.ry nature has occurred. lIe permitted me
merely to know that he had slept none, nor even un-
dressed, during the past night. lIe took your brother
to walk with him. Some topic must have deeply engaged
them, for Wieland did not return till the breakfast-houl
,vas passed, and returned alone. IIis disturbance was
excessive; but he would not listen to my importunities,
or tell me what had happened. I gathered, from hints
which he let fall, that your situation was in some way
the cause; yet he assured me that you were at your own
house, alive, in good health, and in perfect safety. He
scarcely ate a morsel, and imlnediately after breakfast
went out again. lIe would not inform me whither he
was going, but mentioned that he probably might not
return before night."
I was equally astonished and alarmed by this informa-
tion. Pleyel had told his tale to my brother, and had,
by a plausible and exaggerated picture, instilled into him
unfavourable thoughts of me. Yet would not the more
correct judgment of Wieland perceive and expose the
fallacy of his conclusions? Perhaps his uneasiness might
arise from some insight into the character of Carwin,
and from apprehensions for my safety. The appearances
by which Pleyel had been misled might induce him like-
wise to believe that I entertained an indiscreet though
not dishonourable affection for Car,vin. Such were the
conjectures rapidly formed. I was inexpressibly anxious
to change them into certainty. For this end an inter-
view with my brother was desirable. lIe was gone no
one knew whither, and was not expected speedily to
return. I had no clue by which to trace his footsteps.
My anxieties could not be concealed from my sister.
They heightened her solicitude to be acquainted ,vith the
cause. There were many reaSOllS persuading me to
silence; at least, till I had seen IllY brother, it woull be
an act of inexcusable te1l1erity to unfold what had lately
passed. No other expedient for eluding her importuni-
ties occurred to me but that of returning to lllY o,vn

THE TRAiVSFORfif.A TIOi\

12 7

house. I rccolle'Jted my deterll1ination to bCCOll1e a
tenant of this roof. I 111entioned it to her. She joy-
fully acceded to this proposal, and suffered me with less
reluctance to depart ,,"hen I told her that it was ,vith a
view to collect and send to my ne"\v dwelling what arti-
cles would be ill1mediately useful to 111e.
Once more I returned to the house which had been the
scene of so much turbulence and danger. I "vas at no
great distance from it when I observed 111Y brother coming
out. On seeing me he stopped, and, after ascertaining,
as it seemed, which way I ,ras going, he returned into
the house before me. I sincerely rejoiced at this event,
and I hastened to set things, if possible, on their right
footing.
IIis brow was by no means expressive of those vehement
emotions with which Pleyel had been agitated. I drew a
favourable 01l1en from this circumstance. 'Vithout delay
I began the conversation.
"I have been to look for you," said I, "but was told
by Catharine that Pleyel had engaged you on some im-
portant and disagreeable affair. Before his interview
,vith you he spent a few minutes with me. These minutes
he employed in upbraiding me for crill1es and intentions
with which I all1 by no means chargeable. I believe him to
have taken up his opinions on very insufficient grounds.
His behaviour ,vas in the highest degree precipitate and
unjust, and, until I receive some at.onement, I shall treat
him, in my turn, "\vith that contenlpt "rhich he justly
merits; 111eanwhile, I am fearful that he has prejudiced
my brother against me. That is an evil which I most
anxiously deprecate, and which I shall indeed exert my-
self to remove. Has he made me the subject of this
morning's conversation ?"
l\Iy brother's countenance testified no surprise at 111Y
address. The benignity of his looks was nowise dill1i-
nished.
"It is true," said he, "your conduct was the subject of
our discourse. I aID your friend as ,veIl as your brother.
There is nc hun13.Jl being ,vhom I loye ,vith more tenderness
and whose welfare is nearer nlY heart. Judge, then,
,yith what eUlotions I listened to Pleyel's story. I expect

128

WIELAND,. OR,

and desire you to vindicate yourself fron1 aspersIons so
foul, if vindication be possible."
The tone ,vith ,vhich he uttered the last words affected
me deeply. "If vindication be possible!" repeated I.
"From what you know, do you deeul a formal vindication
necessary? Can you harbour for a moment the belief of
my guilt?"
lIe shook his head with an air of acute anguish. "I
have struggled," said he, "to dismiss that belief. You
s.peak before a judge who will profit by any pretence to
acquit you; who is ready to question his own senses when
they plead against you."
These words incited a new set of thoughts in my mind.
I began to suspect that Pleyel had built his accusations
on some foundation unknown to me. " I may be a stranger
to the grounds of your belief. Pleyel loaded me with
indecent and virulent invectives, but he ,vithheld from
me the facts that generated his suspicions. Events took
place last night of ,vhich some of the circUlnstances ,vere
of an ambiguous nature. I conceived that these might
possibly have fallen under his cognizance, and that, viewed
through the mists of prejudice and passion, they supplied
a pretence for his conduct, but believed that your more
unbiassed judgment would estimate them at their just
value. Perhaps his tale has been different from what I
suspect it to be. Listen, then, to my narrative. If
there be any thing in his story inconsistent with mine, his
story is false."
I then proceeded to a circumstantial relation of the inci.
dents of the last night. Wieland listened with deep atten-
tion. Having finished, "This," continued I, "is the truth.
You see in what circumstances an intervie,v took place
between Carwin and me. He remained for hours in my
closet, and for some minutes in my chamber. lIe departed
without haste or interruption. If Pleyel marked him as
he left the house, (and it is not ÌInpossible that he did,) in-
ferences injurious to my character n1ight suggest theln-
selves to hiln. In adlnitting them, he gave proofs of less
discernment anù less candour than I once ascribed to hill1."
" II is prOOLg," said vVieland, after a considerable pause,
"are differcnt. That he
houhl he deceived is not possi-

THE TR.A1VSFORM4 TION.

12 9

ble. That he himself is not the deceiver could not be
believed, if his testÏ1nony were not inconsistent wit.h yours;
but the doubts ,vhich I entertained are now removed.
Your tale, SOlne parts of it, is marvellous; the voice which
exclaimed against your rashness in approaching the closet,
your persisting, notwithstanding that prohibition, your
belief that I was the ruffian, and your subsequent conduct,
are believed by me, because I have kno,vn you from child-
hood, because a thousand instances have attested your
veracity, and because nothing less than my own heal"ing
and vision ,vould convince me, in opposition to her own
assertio:rls, that my sister had fallen into wickedness like
this. "
I threw my arms around him and bathed his cheek
with my tears. "That," said I, "is spoken like my brother.
But ,vhat are the proofs?"
lIe replied, "Pleyel informed Ine that, in going to your
house, his attention ,vas attracted by two voices. The
persons speaking sat beneath the bank, out of sight.
These persons, judging by their voices, were Carwin and
you. I will not repeat the dialogue. If my sister was
the female, Pleyel ,vas justified in concluding you to be
indeed one of the most profligate of women. Hence his t
accusations of you, and his efforts to obtain my concur- (
rence to a plan by which an eternal separation should be
brought about bet\veen my sister and this man." \
I made 'Vieland repeat this recital. Here indeed was \
a tale to fill me with terrible foreboding. I had vainly ,
thought that my safety could be sufficiently secured by
doors and bars, but this is a foe from whose grasp no power
of divinity can save me ! His artifices will ever lay my
fame and happiness at his mercy. How shall I counter-
work his plots or detect his coadjutor? He has taught
some vile and abandoned female to mimic my voice.
Pleyel's ears were the witnesses of my dishonour. This
is the midnight assignation to ",-hich he alluded. -Thus
is the silence he maintained ,vhen attempting to open the
door of my chamber, accounted for. He supposed me
absent, and meant, perhaps, had my apartment been
acces
ible, to leave in it some accusing memorial.
Pleyel was no longer equally culpable. The sincerity
9

13 0

WIELAND,. OR,

of his anguish, the depth of his despair, I remembered
with some tendencies to gratitude. Yet ,vas he not pre-
cipitate ? 'Vas the conjecture that my part was played
by some mimic so utterly untenable? Instances of this
faculty are common. The wickedness of Carwin must,
in his opinion, have been adequate to such contrivances;
and yet the supposition of my guilt ,vas adopted in pre-
ference to that.
But how was this error to be unveiled? What but my
own assertion had I to throw in the balance against it?
Would this be permitted to outweigh the testimony of his
senses? I had no witnesses to prove my existence in an-
other place. The real events of that night are marvellous.
Few to whom they should be related ,vould scruple to dis-
credit them. Pleyel is skeptical in a transcendent degree.
I cannot summon Carwin to my bar, and make him the
attester of my innocence and the accuser of himself.
My brother saw and comprehended my distress. lIe
was unacquainted, however, with the full extent of it. lIe
knew not by how many motives I was incited to retrieve
the good opinion of Pleyel. He endeavoured to console
me. Some new event, he said, would occur to disentangle
the maze. He did not question the influence of myelo-
quence, if I thought proper to exert it. 'Vhy not seek
an interview with Pleyel, and exact from him a minute
relation, in which something may be met with serving to
destroy the probability of the whole?
I caught with eagerness at this hope; but my alacrity
was damped by new reflections. Should I, perfect in this
respect, and unblemished as I was, thrust myself uncalled
into his presence, and make my felicity depend upon his
arbitrary verdict?
"If you choose to seek an interview," continued Wie-
land, "you must make haste; for Pleyel informed me üf
his intention to set out this evening or to-morrow on a
long journey."
No intelligence was less expected or less welcome than
this. I had thrown myself in a window-scat; but no"
,
starting on my feet, I exclaimed, "Good heavens! what
is it you say? A journey? "\Vhither? when?"
"I cannot say whither. It is a sudden resolution, I

THE TRANSFOR.JL-1 TIO.fV.

13 1

believe. I did not hear of it till this morning. lIe pro..
mises to write to me as soon as he is settled."
I needed no further information as to the cause and
issue of this journey. The scheme of happiness to which
he had devoted his thoughts ,vas blasted by the discovery
of last night. 1\Iy preference of another, and my un-
worthiness to be any longer the object of his adoration,
were evinced by the same act and in the same moment.
The thought of utter desertion, a desertion originating
in such a cause, was the prelude to distraction. That
Pleyel should abandon me forever, because I was blind
to his excellence, because I coveted pollution and wedded
infamy, when, on the contrary, my heart was the shrine
of all purity, and beat only for his sake, was a destiny
which, as long as my life was in my o,vn hands, I ,vould
by no means consent to endure.
I remembered that this evil was still preventable; that
this fatal journey it was still in my po"
er to procrasti-
nate, or, perhaps, to occasion it to be laid aside. There
were no impediments to a visit; I only dreaded lest the
interview should be too long delayed.
Iy brother be-
friended my impatience, and readily consented to furnish
me with a chaise and servant to attend me. 1\ly purpose
was to go immediately to Pleyel's farm, where his en-
gagements usually detained him during the day.

CHAPTER XII.

My way lay through the city. I had scarcely entered
it when I was seized with a general sensation of sickness.
Every object grew dim and swam before my sight. It
was with difficulty I prevented myself from sinking to
the bottom of the carriage. I ordered myself to be car-
ried to Mrs. Baynton's, in hope that an interval of repose
would invigorate and refresh me. My distracted thoughts
would allow me but little rest. Growing somewhat better
in the afternoon, I resumed my journey.
My contemplations were limited to a few objects. I
regarded my success in the purpose which I had in view
as considerably doubtful. I depended, in some degree,
on the suggestions of the Inoment, and on the materials
which Pleyel himself should furnish me. When I re-
flected on the nature of the accusation, I burned ,yith
disdain. Would not truth, and the consciousness of in-
nocence, render me triulnphant? Should I not cast from
me, with irresistible force, such atrocious imputations?
What an entire and mournful change has been effected
in a few hours! The gulf that separates man from in..
sects is not wider than that which severs the polluted
from the chaste among ,vornen. Yesterday and to-day I
am the same. There is a degree of depravity to which
it is impossible for me to sink; yet, in the apprehension
of another, my ancient and intimate associate, the per-
petual witness of my actions and partaker of my thoughts,
I had ceased to be the same. My integrity was tarnished
and withered in his eyes. I was the colleague of a mur-
derer and the paramour of a thief!
His opinion was not destitute of evidence; yet what
proofs could reasonably avail to esta.blish an opinion like
132

THE TRANSFORfiL1 TION.

133

this? If the sentiments corresponded not ,vith the voice
that was heard, the evidence was deficient; but this want
of correspondence would have been supposed by me if I
had been the auditor and Pleyel the criminal. But
mÏ1nicry might still more plausibly have been employed
to explain the scene. Alas! it is the fate of Clara
"\Vieland to fall into the hands of a precipitate and in-
exorable judge.
But what, 0 man of mischief, is the tendency of thy
thoughts? Frustrated in thy first design, thou wilt not
forego the immolation of thy victim. To exterminate
my reputation ,vas all that remained to thee; and this
my guardian has permitted. To dispossess Pleyel of
this prejudice may be impossible; but, if that be effected,
it cannot be supposed that thy ,viles are exhausted; thy
cunning ,viII discover innumerable avenues to the aCCOID-
plishrnent of thy malignant purpose.
'Vby should I enter the lists against thee ? Would to
heaven I could disarm thy vengeance by my deprecations!
When I think of all the resources with which nature
and education have supplied thee,-that thy form is a
combination of steely fibres and organs of exquisite duc-
tility and boundless compass, actuated by an intelligence
gifted ,vith infinite endowments and comprehending all
knowledge,-I perceive that my doom is fixed. "\Vhat
obstacle will be able to divert thy zeal or repel thy
efforts? That being who has hitherto protected me has
borne testimony to the forll1idableness of thy attempts,
since nothing less than supernatural interference could
check thy career.

lusing on these thoughts, I arrived, towards the close
of the day, at Pleyel's house. A month before, I had
traversed the same path; but how different "\vere my
sensations! N ow I was seeking the presence of one who
regarded me as the nlost degenerate of human kind. 1
was to plead the cause of my innocence against witnesses
the most explicit and unerring of those which support
the fabric of human kno,vlerlge. The nearer I ap-
proached the crisis, the Inorc did Iny confidence decay..
'Vhen the chaise stepped at the door, my strength re-
fused to support lne, and I threw myself into the arlll

134

WIELAND,. OR,

of an ancient female domestic. I had not courage to in.
quire whether her master ,vas at home. I was tormented
with fears that the projected journey was already under-
taken. These fears ,vere removed by her asking me
whether she should call her young master; who had just
gone into his own room. I was somewhat revived by
this intelligence, and resolved immediately to seek him
there.
In my confusion of mind, I neglected to knock at the
door, but entered his apartment without previous notice.
This abruptness was altogether involuntary. Absorbed
in reflections of such unspeakable moment, I had no
leisure to heed the niceties of punctilio. I discovered
him standing with his back towards the entrance. A
small trunk, with its lid raised, was before him, in which
it seemed as if he had been busy in packing his clothes.
The moment of my entrance, he was employed in gazing
at something which he held in his hand.
I imagined that I fully cOlnprehended the scene. The
image which he held before him, and by which his atten-
tion was so deeply engaged, I doubted not to be my own.
These preparations for his journey, the cause to which it
was to be imputed, the hopelessness of success in the un-
dertaking on which I had entered, rushed at once upon
my feelings, and dissolved me into a flood of tears.
Startled by this sound, he dropped the lid of the trunk
and turned. The solemn sadness that previously over-
spread his countenance gave sudden way to an attitude
and look of the most vehelnent astonishment. Perceiv-
ing me unable to uphold myself, he stepped towards me
without speaking, and supported me by his arm. The
kindness of this action called forth a new effusion from
my eyes. Weeping was a solace to which, at that time,
I had not grown familiar, and which, therefore, ,vas
peculiarly delicious. Indignation was no longer to be
read in the features of my friend. They were pregnant
with a mixture of wonder and pity. Their expression
was easily interpreted. This visit, and these tears, were
tokens of my penitence. The wretch whom he had stig-
matized as incurably and obdurately wicked no,v showed

THE TRA1VSl?ORll-IA TION.

135

herself susceptible of remorse, and had come to confess
her guilt.
This persuasion had no tendency to comfort me. It
only showed me, with nc,v evidence, the difficulty of the
task which I had assigned myself. 'Ve ,vere mutually
silent. I had less power and less inclination than ever
to speak. I extricated myself from his hold, and threw
myself on a sofa. lIe placed himself by my side, and
appeared to ,vait ,vith impatience and anxiety for some
beginning of the conversa.tion. "\Vhat could I say? If
my mind had suggested any thing suitable to the occa-
sion, Iny utterance ,vas suffocated by tears.
Frequently he attempted to speak, but seemed de-
terred by some degree of uncertainty as to the true
nature of the scene. At length, in faltering accents,
he spok
:-
" 1\1 Y friend! would to heaven I were still permitted
to call you by that name! The image that I once adored
existed only in my fancy; but, though I cannot hope to
see it realized, you may not be totally insensible to the
horrors of that gulf into which you are about to plunge.
"\Vhat heart is forever exempt from the goadings of com-
punction and the influx of laudable propensities?
"I thought you accomplished. and wise beyond the
rest of women. Not a sentiment you uttered, not a look
you assumed, that 1vere not, in my apprehension, fraught
with the subliIJlities of rectitude and the illuminations of
genius. Deceit has some bounds. Your education could
not be without influence. A vigorous understanding
cannot be utterly devoid of virtue; but you could not
counterfeit the po,vers of invention and reasoning. I
was rash in my invectives. I will not but with life relin-
quish all hopos of you. I ,viII shut out every proof that
would tell me that your heart is incurably diseased.
" You come to restore me once more to h
ppiness; to
convince me that you have torn her ma8k from vice, and
feel nothing but abhorrence for the part you have hitherto
acted. "
At these ,vords my equanin11ty forsook me. For a mo-
ll1ent I forgot the evidence from ,vhich Pleyel's opinion

'vere deri veù, the benevulcnce of his rClllonstranccs, anù

13 6

WIELAND; OR,

the grief which his accents bespoke; I was filled with
indignation and horror at charges so black; I shrunk
back and darted at him a look of disdain and anger.
l\Iy passion supplied me with words :-
"What detestable infatuation was it that led me
hither! Why do I patiently endure these horrible in-
suIts? l\Iy offences exist only in your own distempered
imagination; you are leagued with the traitor who as-
sailed my life; you have vowed the destruction of my
peace and honour. I deserve infamy for listening to
calumnies so base !"
These words were heard by Pleyel without visible
resentment. IIis countenance relapsed into its former
gloom; but he did not even look at me. The ideas
which had given place to my angry emotions returned,
and once more melted me into tears. " Oh!" I ex-
claimed, in a voice broken by sobs, "what a task is
mine! Compelled to hearken to charges which I feel to
be false, but which I know to be believed by him that
utters them; believed, too, not ,vithout evidenoe, which,
though fallacious, is not unplausible.
" I came hither not to confess, but to vindicate. I
know the source of your opinions. Wieland has informed
me on what your suspicions are built. These suspicions
are fostered by you as certainties: the tenor of my life,
of all my conversations and letters, affords TIle no secu-
rity; every sentiment that my tongue and my pen have
uttered bear testimony to the rectitude of my mind; but
this testimony is rejected. I am condemned as brutally
profligate; I am classed with the stupidly and sordidly
wicked.
" And where are the proofs that must justify so foul
and so improbable an accusation? You have overheard
a midnight conference. Voices have saluted your ear,
in which you imagine yourself to have recognised mine
and that of a detected villain. The sentiments expressed
were not allowed to outweigh the casual or concerted
resemblance of voice,-sentiments the reverse of all those
whose influence Iny former life had attested, denoting a
mind polluted by grovelling vices and entering into COlli-
p
ct with that of a thief and a lnurùercr. The nature

THE TRANSFORlJIA TION.

137

)f these sentiments did not enable you to detect the
Jheat, did not suggest to you the possibility that my voice
had been counterfeited by a.nother.
" You ,ycre precipitate and prone to condemn. Instead
of rushing on the impostors and comparing the evidence
of sight with that of hearing, you stood aloof, or you
fled.
iy innocence ,,"ould not now have stood in need
of vindication if this conduct had been pursued. That
you did not pursue it, your present thoughts incontestably
prove. Yet this conduct might surely have been ex-
pected from Pleyel. That he would not hastily impute
the blackest of crimes, that he would not couple my
name with infamy and cover me with ruin for inadequate
or slight reasons, might reasonably have been expected."
The sobs ".hich convulsed Iny bosom would not suffer me
to proceed.
Pleyel was for a moment affected. He looked at me
,vith some expression of doubt; hut this quickly gave
pla.ce to a mournful solemnity. lIe fixed his eyes on the
floor as in reverie, and spoke :-
"T,vo hours hence I am gone. Shall I carry away
with me the sorrow that is now my guest? or shall that
sorrow be accumulated tenfold? "That is she that is now
before me? Shall every hour supply me with new proof

of a ,vickedness beyond example? Already I deem her
the most abandoned and detestable of human creatures.
Her coming and her tears inlparted a gleam of hope;
but that gleam has vanished."
He no'v fixed his eyes upon nle, and every muscle in
his face trembled. His tone ,vas hollow and terrible:-
" Thou knowest that I was a witness of your interview,
yet thou comest hither to upbraid me for injustice! Thou
canst look me in the face and say that I am deceived!
An inscrutable Providence has fashioned thee for some
end. Thou wilt live, no doubt, to fulfil the purposes
of thy l\Iaker, if he repent not of his workmanship and
send not his vengeance to exterminate thee ere the mea-
sure of thy days be full. Surely nothing in the shape
of man can vie ,vith thee!
" But I thought I had stifled this fury. I anl not con-
stituted thy judge. l\ly office is to pity and amend, and

13 8

WIEL.4ND.

not to punish and revile. I deemed myself exempt from
all tempestuous passions. I had almost persuaded my-
self to weep over thy fall; but I am frail as dust and
mutable as water: I am calm, I am compassionate, only
in thy absence. Make this house, this room, thy abode
as long as thou wilt, but forgive me if I prefer solitude
for the short time during 'which I shall stay." Saying
this, he motioned as if to leave the apartment.
The stormy passions of this man affected me by sym-
pathy. I ceased to weep. I was motionless and speech-
less with agony. I sat with my hands clasped, mutely
gazing after him as he withdrew. I desired to detain
him, but was unable to make any effort for that purpose
till he had passed out of the room. I then uttered an
involuntary and piercing cry :-" Pleyel ! Art thou
gone? Gone forever?"
At this sunlmons he hastily returned. He beheld me
wild, pale, gasping for brea.th, and my head already sink-
ing on my bosom. A painful dizziness seized me, and I
fainted away.
When I recovered, I found myself stretched on a bed
in the outer apartment, and Pleyel, ,vith two female ser..
vants, standing beside it. All the fury and scorn which
the countenance of the former lately expressed had now
disappeared, and was succeeded by the most tender
anxiety. As soon as he perceived that my senses were
returned to me, he clasped his hands, and exclainled,
"God be thanked! you are once more alive. I had
almost despaired of your recovery. I fear I have been
precipitate and unjust. l\iy senses must have been the
victims of some inexplicable and momentary frenzy.
Forgive me, I beseech you; forgive my reproaches. I
would purchase conviction of your purity at the price of
my existence here and hereafter."
He once more, in a tone of the most fervent tender-
ness, besought me to be composed, and then left me to
the care of the women.

CHAPTER XIII.

HE RE was wrought a surprising change in my friend.
What was it that had shaken conviction so firm? Had
any thing occurred during my fit, adequate to produce so
total an alteration? My attendants informed me that
he had not left my apartment; that the unusual duration
of my fit, and the failure for a time of all the means
used for my recovery, had filled him with grief and dis-
may. Did he regard the effect which his reproaches had
produced as a proof of my sincerity?
In this state of mind, I little regarded my languors of
body. I rose and requested an interview with him before
my departure, on which I was resolved, notwithstanding
his earnest solicitation to spend the night at his house.
He complied with my request. The tenderness which he
had lately betrayed had now disappeared, and he once
more relapsed into a chilling solenlnity.
I told hÏ111 that I was preparing to return to my bro-
ther's; that I had come hither to vindicate my innocence
from the foul aspersions which he had cast upon it. My
pride had not taken refuge in silence or distance. I had
not relied. upon time, or the snggestions of his cooler
thoughts, to confute his charges. Conscious as I was
that I was perfectly guiltless, and entertaining some
value for his good opinion, I could not prevail upon my-
self to believe that my efforts to make my innocence
manifest would be fruitless. Adverse appearances might
be numerous and specious, but they were unquestionably
false. I was willing to believe him sincere, that he made
no charges which he himself did not believe; but these
charges were destitute of truth. The grounds of his
opinion were fallacious; and I desired an opportunity of
1;)9

14 0

WIELAND; OR,

detecting their fallacy. I entreated him to be explicit,
and to give me a detail of what he had heard and what
he had seen.
At these words my companion's countenance grew
darker. He appeared to be struggling with his rage.
He opened his lips to speak, but his accents died away
ere they were formed. This conflict lasted for some
minutes, but his fortitude was finally successful. He
spoke as follows :-
" I would fain put an end to this hateful scene; what
I shall say will be breath idly and unprofitably con-
sumed. The clearest narrative will add nothing to your
present knowledge. You are acquainted with the
grounds of my opinion, and yet you avow yourself
innocent; why then should I rehearse these grounds?
You are apprized of the character of Carwin; why
then should I enumerate the discoveries which I have
made respecting him? Yet, since it is your request,-
since, considering the limitedness of human faculties,
some error may possibly lurk in those appearances which
I have witnessed,-I will briefly relate what I know.
" Need I dwell upon the impressions which your con-
versation and deportment originally made upon me ? We
parted in childhood; but our intercourse by letter was
copious and uninterrupted. IIow fondly did I antici-
pate a meeting with one whom her letters had previously
taught me to consider as the first of women, and how
fully realized were the expectations that I had formed!
" 'IIcre,' said I, 'is a being after whom sages may
nlodel their transcendent intelligence and painters their
ideal beauty. Here is exemplified that union between
intellect and form which has hitherto existed only in the
conceptions of the poet. I have watched your eyes;
my attention has hung upon your lips. I have ques-
tioned whether the enchantments of your voice were
more conspicuous in the intricacies of melody or the
emphasis of rhetoric. I have marked the transitions of
your discourse, the felicities of your expression, your
refined argulnentation and glowing imagery, and been
forced to ackno,vIerlge that all delights ,vere n1eagre and
contclnptible, cOJnpare<l ,vith those connected ,yith the

TEIE TRANSÞ'OR lIfA TION.

14 1

audience and sight of you. I have contemplated your
principles, and been astonished at the solidity of their
foundation and the perfection of their structure. I have
traced you to your home. I have viewed you in relation
to your servants, to your family, to your neighbours,
and to the world. I have seen by what skilful arrange-
ments you facilitate the performance of the most arduous
and complicated duties; "hat daily accessions of strength
your judicious discipline besto,yed upon your memory;
what correctness and abundance of kno,vledge was daily
experienced by your unw"earicd application to books and
to writing. ' If she that possesses so much in the bloom
of youth will go on accumulating her stores, what,' said
I, 'is the picture she ,vill display at a nlature age?'
"Y ou know not the accuracy of my observation. I
was desirous that others should profit by an example so
rare. I therefore noted do,vn in writing every particular
of your conduct. I ,vas anxious to benefit by an oppor-
tunity so seldom afforded us. I laboured not to omit the
slightest shade or the most petty line in your portrait.
Here there ,vas no other task incumbent on me but to
copy; there was no need to exaggerate or overlook in
order to produce a more unexceptionable pattern. Here
was a combination of harmonies and graces incapable of
diminution or accession without injury to its completeness.
" I found no end and no bounds to my task. No dis-
play of a scene like this could be chargeable with redun-
dancy or superfluity. Even the colour of a shoe, the
knot of a ribbon, or your attitude in plucking a rose,
were of moment to be recorded. Even the arrangements
of your breakfast-table and your toilet have been amply
displayed.
"I know that mankind are more easily enticed to
virtue by example than by precept. I kno"T that the
absoluteness of a model, when supplied by invention,
diminishes its salutary influence, since it is useless, we
think, to strive after that ,,
hich ,ve know to be beyond our
reach. But the picture which I drew was not a phantom:
as a model, it was devoid of imperfection; and to aspire
to that height which had been really attained ,vas by no
means unreasonable. I had another and lnore inte..

14 2

WIELAND,. OR,

resting object in view. One existed who clanncd all my
tenderness. Here, in all its parts, was a model worthy
of assiduous study and indefatigable imitation. I called
upon her, as she wished to secure and enhance my
esteem, to mould her thoughts, her words, her counte-
nance, her actions, by this pattern.
"The task was exuberant of pleasure; and I was
deeply engaged in it, when an imp of mischief was let
loose in the form of Carwin. I admired his powers and
accomplishments. I did not wonder that they were
admired by you. On the rectitude of your judgment,
however, I relied to keep this admiration within discreet
and scrupulous bounds. I assured myself that the
strangeness of his deportment and the obscurity of his
life would teach you caution. Of all errors, my know-
ledge of your character informed me that this was least
likely to befall you.
ce You were powerfully affected by his first appear-
ance; you were bewitched by his countenance and his
tones. Your description was ardent and pathetic; I
listened to you with some emotions of surprise. The por-
trait you drew in his absence, and the intensity with
which you mused upon it, were new and unexpected inci-
dents. They bespoke a sensibility somewhat too vivid,
but from which, while subjected to the guidance of an
understanding like yours, there was nothing to dread.
" A more direct intercourse took place between you.
I need not apologize for the solicitude which I enter-
tained for your safety. He that gifted me with percep-
tion of excellence compelled me to love it. In the midst
of danger and pain, my contemplations have ever been
cheered by your image. Every object in competition
with you was worthless and trivial. No price was too
great by which your safety could be purchased. For
that end, the sacrifice of ease, of health, and even of
life, would cheerfully have been made by me. What
wonder, then, that I scrutinized the sentiments and d-j-
portment of this man with ceaseless' vigilance, that I
watched your words and your looks when he was present,
and that I extracted cause for the deepest inquietudft

THE TRAf\lSFORJl.A 1'ION.

143

from every token which you gave of having put your
happiness into this m
n's keeping?
"I was c
utious in deciding. I recalled the various
conversations in which the topics of love and marriage
had been discussed. As a woman, young, beautiful, and
independent, it behooved you to have fortified your mind
with just principles on this subject. Your principles wero
eminently just. Had not their rectitude and their firm-
ness been attested by your treatlnent of that specious
seducer Dashwood? These principles, I was prone to
believe, exempted you from danger in this new state of
things. I was not the last to pay my homage to the
unrivalle
capacity, insinuation, and eloquence of this
man. I have disguised, but could never stifle, the con-
viction that his eyes and voice had a witchcraft in them
which rendered him truly formidable; but I reflected on
the ambiguous expression of his countenance,-an ambi-
guity \vhich you were the first to remark,-on the cloud
which obscured his character, and on the suspicious nature
of that cOl1ceahnent which he studied, and concluded you
to be safe. I denied the obvious construction to appear-
ances. I referred your conduct to some principle which
had not been hitherto disclosed, but which was recon-
cilable with those already known.
"I was not suffered to remain long in this suspense.
One evening, you may recollect, I came to your house,
where it was my purpose, as usual, to lodge, somewhat
earlier than ordinary. I spied a light in your chamber
as I approached froln the outside, and, on inquiring of
Judith, was informed that you \vere writing. As yow'
kinsman and friend and fellow-lodger, I thought I had
a right to be familiar. You were in your chamber; but
your employment and the time were such as to make it
no infraction of decorum to follow you thither. The
spirit of mischievous gayety possessed me. I proceeded
on tiptoe. You did not perceive my entrance; and I
advanced softly till I was able to overlook your shoulder.
"I had gone thus far in error, and had no power to re-
cede. How cautiously should \ve guard against the first
inroads of temptation! I knew that to pry into your
papers was criminal; but I reflected that no sentiment

144

WIELAND,. OR,

of .yours was of a nature which made it your interest to
conceal it. You wrote much more than you permitted
your friends to peruse. lVly curiosity was strong, and I
had only to throw a glance upon the paper to secure its
gratification. I should never have deliberately committed
an act like this. The sligh test obstacle would have re-
pelled me; but my eye glanced almost spontaneously
upon the paper. I caught only parts of sentences; but
my eyes comprehended more at a glance, because the
characters were short-hand. I lighted on the words
8ummer-house, midnight, and made out a passage which
spoke of the propriety and of the effects to be expected
from another interview. All this passed in less than a
moment. I then checked myself, and made myself known
to you by a tap upon your shoulder.
"I could pardon and account for some trifling alarm;
but your trepidation and blushes were excessive. You
hurried the paper out of sight, and seemed too anxious to
discover whether I knew the contents to allow yourself
to make any inquiries. I wondered at these appearances
of consternation, but did not reason on them until I had
retired. When alone, these incidents suggested them-
selves to my reflections anew.
"To what scene, or what interview, I asked, did you
allude ? Your disappearance on a former evening, my
tracing you to the recess in the bank, your silence on my
first and second call, your vague answers and invincible
embarrassment when you at length ascended the hill, I
recollected with new surprise. Could this be the summer-
house alluded to? A certain timidity and consciousness
had generally attended you, when this incident and this
recess had been the subjects of conversation. Nay, I
imagined that the last time that adventure was mentioned,
which happened in the presence of Carwin, the counte-
nance of the latter betrayed some emotion. Could the
interview have been with him?
"This was an idea calculated to rouse every faculty
to contemplation. An interview at that hour, in this
darksome retreat, with a man of his Inysterious but
formidable character I-a clandestine interview, and one
which you afterwards endeavoured with so much solicitude

THE TRANSFORlIfA TION.

145

to conceal! It was a fearful and portentous occurrencc.
I could not measure his po,V"er or fathom his designs.
Had he rifled from you the secret of your love, and
reconciled you to concealment and nocturnal meetings?
I scarcely ever spent a night of more inquietude.
"I knew not how to act. The ascertainment of this
ma.n's character and views seemed to be, in the first place,
necessary. Had he openly preferred his suit to you, we
should have been empowered to make direct inquiries;
but, since he had chosen this obscure path, it seemed
reasonable to infer that his character was exceptionable.
It at least subjected us to the necessity of resorting to
other means of information. Yet the improbability that
you should commit a deed of such rashness made me re-
flect anew upon the insufficiency of those grounds on
which my suspicions had been built, and almost to con-
demn myself for harbouring them.
"Though it was mere conjecture that the interview
spoken of had taken place with Carwin, yet two ideas
occurred to involve me in the most painful doubts. This
man's reasonings might be so specious, and his artifices
so profound, that, aided by the passion which you had
conceived for him, he had finally succeeded; or his situa-
tion might be such as to justify the secrecy ,vhich you
maintained. In neither case did my wildest reveries
suggest to me that your honour had been forfeited.
"I could not talk ,vith you on this subject. If the
imputation was false, its atrociousness ,yould have justly
drawn upon me your resentlllent, and I must have ex-
plained by what facts it had been suggested. If it were
true, no benefit would follo,v from the mention of it.
You had chosen to conceal it for some reasons; and,
whether these reasons ,vere true or false, it ,vas proper
to discover and remove then1 in the first place. Finally,
I acquiesced in the least. painful supposition, trammelled
as it w.as with perplexities,-that Car,vin was upright, and
that, if the reasons of your silence were known, they
would be found to be just.
10

CHAPTER XIV.

"THREE days have elapsed since this occurrence. I
have been haunted by perpetual inquietude. To bring
myself to regard Carwin without terror, and to acquiesce
in the belief of your safety, was impossible. Yet to put
an end to my doubts seemed to be impracticable. If some
light could be reflected on the actual situation of this
man, a direct path would present itself. If he ,vere,
contrary to the tenor of his conversation, cunning and
malignant, to apprize you of this would be to place you
in security. If he were merely unfortunate and innocent,
most readily would I espouse his cause; and if his inten-
tions were upright with regard to you, most eagerly would
I sanctify your choice by my approbation.
"It would be vain to call upon Carwin for an avowal
of his deeds. It was better to know nothing, than to be
deceived by an artful tale. What he was unwilling to
communicate (and this unwillingness had been repeatedly
manifested) could never be extorted from him. Im-
portunity might be appeased or imposture effected by
fallacious representations. To the rest of the world he
was unknown. I h
d often made him the subject of dis-
course; but a glimpse of his figure in the street was the
sum of their kno,vledge who knew most. None had ever
seen him before, and all received as new the information
which my intercourse with him in Valencia, and my pre-
sent intercourse, enabled me to give.
"Wieland was your brother. If he had really made
you the object of his courtship, was not a brother author-
ized to interfere and demand from him the confession of
his views ? Yet what were the grounds on which I had
reared this supposition? 'V ould they justify a measure
like this? Surely not.
14ß

THE TRANSFORilf.A TIO.LY.

147

"In the course of my restless meditations, it occurred
to me at length that my duty required IIle to speak to
you, to confess the indecorum of which I had been guilty,
and to state the reflections to which it had led me. I
was prompted by no mean or selfish views. The heart
within my breast was not more precious than your safety:
most cheerfully would I have interposed my life between
you and danger. Would you cherish resentment at my
conduct? "\Vhen acquainted with the motive ,vhich pro-
duced it, it would not only exempt me from censure, but
entitle m,e to gratitude.
" Yesterday had been selected for the rehearsal of the
newly-imported tragedy. I promised to be present. The
state of my thoughts but little qualified me for a per-
former or auditor in such a scene; but I reflected that
after it was finished I should return home ,vith you, and
should then enjoy an opportunity of discoursing with you
fully on this topic.
iy resolution ,vas not formed with-
out a remnant of doubt as to its propriety. "Then I
left this house to perform the visit I had promised, my
mind was full of apprehension and despondency. The
dubiousness of the event of our conversation, fear that
my interference ,vas too late to secure your peace, and
the uncertainty to which hope gave birth, whether I had
not erred in believing you devoted to this man, or, at
least, in imagining that he had obtained your consent
to midnight conferences, distracted me with contradictory
opinions and repugnant emotions.
"I can assign no reason for calling at
frs. Baynton's.
I had seen her in the morning, and knew her to be well.
The concerted hour had nearly arrived, and yet I turned
up the street which leads to her house and dismounted at
her door. I entered the parlour and thre,v lnyself in a
chair. I saw and inquired for no onc. 1Iy ,yhole frame
was overpowered by dreary and cOlufortless sensations.
One idea .possessed me wholly: the inexpressible import-
ance of unveiling the designs and character of Carwin,
and the utter improbability that this ever ,vould be effected.
Some instinct induced lne to lay Il1Y hand upon a ne\ys-
paper. I had perused all the general intelligence it

14 8

IVIELAND,. OR,

contained in the morning, and at the same spot. The
act was rather mechanical than voluntary.
"I thre,v a languid glance at the first coluITln that pre-
sented itself. The first words which I read began with
the offer of a reward of three hundred guineas for the
apprehension of a convict under sentence of death, who
had escaped from Newgate prison in Dublin. Good
heaven! how every fibre of my frame tingled when I
proceeded to read that the name of the criminal ,vas
Francis Carwin !
"The descriptions of his person and address were
minute. His stature, hair, complexion, the extraordi-
nary position and arrangement of his features his
awkward and disproportionate form, his gesture and
gait, corresponded perfectly with those of our myste-
rious visitant. lIe had been found guilty in two indict-
ments,-one for the murder of the Lady Jane Conway,
and the other for a robbery committed on the person of
the IIonourable Mr. Ludloe.
"I repeatedly perused this passage. The ideas which
flowed in upon Iny mind affected me like an instant
transition froln death to life. The purpose dearest to
my heart was thus effected, at a time and by means the
least of all others ,vithin the scope of my foresight.
But what purpose? Carwin was detected. Acts of the
blackest and most sordid guilt had been committed by
him. Here was evidence which imparted to my under-
standing the most luminous certainty. The name, visage,
and deportment were the same. Between the time of
his escape and his appearance an10ng us there was a
sufficient agreement. Such was the man with whom I
suspected you to maintain a clandestine correspondence.
Should I not haste to snatch you from the talons of this
vulture? Should I see you rushing to the verge of a
dizzy precipice, anù not stretch forth a hand to pull you
back? I had no need to deliberate. I thrust the paper
in my pocket, and resolved to obtain an immediate con-
ference witL. you. For a time, no other image made its
way to my understanding. At length it occurred to
me, that though the information I possesserl ,vas, in one
sense, sufficient, yet, if more could be obtained, more was

THE l'R.ANSFOR.LlId TiON.

149

desirable. This passage ,vas copied from a Bl itish paper;
part of it only, perhaps, ,vas transcribed. The printer
was in possession of the original.
"Towards his house I immediately turned my horse's
head. He produced tbe paper, but I found nothing mere
than had already been seen. 1Vhile busy in perusing it,
the printer stood by my side. lie noticed the object of
which I was in search. ' Ay,' said he, 'that is a strange
affair. I should never have met ,,-ith it had not 11r.
Hallet sent to me the paper, with a particular request
to republish that advertisement.'
" 1\'11'. Hallet! 'Vha t reasons could he have for making
this request? Had the paper sent to hin1 been accom-
panied by any information respecting the convict? II ad
he personal or extraordinary reasons for desiring its re-
publication? This ,vas to be known only in one way.
I speeded to his house. In answer to my interrogations,
he told me that Ludloe had formerly been in America,
and that during his residence in this city considerable
intercourse had taken place between them. lIence a
confidence arose, which has since been kept alive by oc-
casional letters. He had la tel y received a letter from
him, enclosing the ne\vspapcr from ,vhich this extract
had been made. lIe put it into Iny hands, and pointed
out the passages ,vhich related to Carwin.
"Ludloe confirms the facts of his conviction and
escape; and adds that he had reason to believe him to
have embarked for America. He describes him in gene-
ral terms, as the most incomprehensible and forn1Ïdable
among men; as engaged in schemes reasonably sus-
pected to be in the highest degree criminal, but such as
no human intelligence is able to unravel; that his ends
are pursued by means which leave it in doubt whether
he be not in league with some infernal spirit; that his
crimes have hitherto been perpetrated with the aid of
Borne unknown but desperate accomplices; that he wages
a perpetual war against the happiness of mankind, and
sets his engines of destruction at work against every
object that presents itself.
"This is the substance of the letter. I-Iallet cxpreBsed
some surprise at the curiosity ,,
hich ,vas manifested by

15 0

WIELAND,. OR,

me on this occasion. I ,vas too 111uch absorbcd by the
ideas suggested by thia letter to pay attention to his re-
marks. I shuddered .with the apprehension of the evil
to which our indiscreet fanli1iarity with this man had
probably exposed us. I burned with Ï1npatience to see
you, and to do ,vhat in me lay to avert the calamity
which threatened us. It was already five o'clock.
1\ ight "'"as hastening, and there was no time to be lost.
On leaving 1\11".IIallet's house, who should n1eet me in
the street but Bertrand, the servant ,vhom I left in Ger-
many? IIis appcarance and accoutrements bespoke him to
have just alighted from a toilsome and long journey. I
was not wholly without expectation of seeing him about this
time, but no one was then more distant from my thoughts.
You know ,vhat reasons I have for anxiety respecting
scenes with which this man was conversant. Carwin
,vas for a moment forgotten. In answer to my vehe-
ment inquiries, Bertrand produced a copious packet. I
shall not at present mention its contents, nor the mea-
sures which they obliged me to adopt. I bestowed a
brief perusal on these papers, and, having givcn some
directions to Bertrand, resumed my purpose ,vith regard
to you. 1\iy horse I "as obliged to resign to my ser-
vant, he being charged ,vith a commission that required
speed. The clock had struck ten, and Mettingen was
five miles distant. I ,vas to journey thither on foot.
These circumstances only added to my expedition.
"As I passed swiftly along, I reviewed all the inci-
dents accompanying the appearance and deportment of
that man among us. Late events have been inexplicable
and mysterious beyond any of which I have either read
or heard. These events were coeval with Carwin's in-
troduction. I alTI unable to explain their origin and
mutual dependence; but I do not, on that account, be-
lieve them to have a supernatural original. Is not this
man the agent? Some of them seenl to be propitious;
but what should I think of those threats of as
assination
with which you were lately alarmed? Bloodshed is the
trade and horror is the elClTIent 3f this man. The pro-
cess by which the sympathies of nature are extinguished
in our hearts, by which evil is made our good, and by

TF1"E T'RA.LVSFOR lWA TION.

15 1

which WE are lnadc susceptible of no activity but in the
infliction and no joy but in the spectacle of woes, is
an obvious process. As to alliance .with evil genii, the
power and the malice of demons have been a thousand
times exemplified in human beings. There are no devils
but those which are begotten upon selfishness and reared
by cunning.
"Now, indeed, the scene was changed. It was not
his secret poniard that I dreaded. It was only the suc-
cess of his efforts to make you a confederate in your
own destruction, to make your will the instrument by
which he might bereave you of liberty and honour.
"I took, as usual, the path through your brother's
ground. I ranged with celerity and silence along the
bank. I approached the fence which divides 'Vieland's
estate from yours. The recess in the bank being near
this line, it being necessary for me to pass near it, my
mind being tainted with inveterate suspicions concerning
you, suspicions ,vhich were indebted for their strength
to incidents connected with this spot, what wonder that
it seized upon my thoughts?
"I leaped on the fence; but before I descended on
the opposite side I paused to survey the scene. Leaves
dropping ,vith de,v and glistening in the moon's rays,
with no moving object to molest the deep repose, filled
me with security and hope. I left the station at length,
and tended for,vard. You were probably at rest. How
should I communicate, without alarming you, the intelli-
gence of my arrival? An immediate interview was to
be procureù. I could not bear to think that a minute
should be lost by remissness or hesitation. Should I
knock at the door? or should I stand under your cham-
ber 1vindo,vs, which I perceived to be open, and awaken
you by my calls?
"These reflections employed me as I passed opposite
to the summer-house. I had scarcely gone by, when
my ear caught a sound unusual at this time and place.
It was almost too faint and too transient to allow me a
distinct perception of it. I stopped to listen; presently
it was heard again, and no,v it ,vas somewhat in a louder
key. It "
as laughter; and unquestionably produced

15 2

WIELAND,. OR,

by a female yoice. That voice was familiar to my senses.
It was yours.
"'Vhence it came I was at first at a loss to conjecture;
but this uncertainty vanished when it wa.s heard the third
time. I threw back my eyes to,vards the recess. Every
other organ and limb was useless to me. I did not rea-
son on the subject. I did not, in a direct manner, draw
my conclusions from the hour, the place, the hilarity
which this sound betokened, and the circumstance of
having a companion, which it no less incontestably
proved. In a.n instant, as it were, my heart was invaded
with cold, and the pulses of life at a stand.
" Why should I go farther? Why should I return?
Should I not hurry to a distance from a sound which,
though formerly so sweet and delectable, was now more
hideous than the shrieks of owls?
" I had no time to yield to this impulse. The thought
of approaching and listening occurred to me. I had no
doubt of which I was conscious. Yet my certainty was
capable of increase. I was likewise stimulated by a
sentiment that partook of rage. I was governed by a
half-formed and tempestuous resolution to break in upon
your interview and strike you dead with my upbraiding.
"I approached with the utmost caution. 'Vhen I
reached the edge of the bank immediately above the
summer-house, I thought I heard voices from below, as
busy in conversation. The steps in the rock are clear
of bushy impediments. They allo,ved me to descend
into a cavity beside the building ,vithout being detected.
Thus to lie in wait could only be justified by the mo-
mentou8ness of the occasion."
Here Pleyel paused in his narrative and fixed his eyes
upon Inc. Situated as I was, my horror and astonish-
ment at this tale gave way to compassion for the anguish
which the countenance of my friend betrayed. I re-
flected on his force of understanding. I reflected on the
powers of my enemy. I could easily divine the sub-
stance of the conversation that was overhea.rd. Carwin
had construetcd his plot in a manner suited to the cha-
racters of those who])l he had selected for his victilns.
1: sa,v that the convictions of Pleyel were ÏInmutable. I

THE TRANSFORllIA TION.

153

forbore to struggle against the storm, because I saw that
all struggles would be fruitless. I was calm; but my
cahnness was the torpor of despair, and not the tran-
quillity of fortitude. It was calmness invincible by any
thing that his grief and his fury could suggest to Pleyel.
He resumed :-
" 'Voman! wilt thou hear me further? Shall I go on
to repeat the conversation? Is it shame that makes thee
tongue-tied? Shall I go on? or art thou satisfied with
'v ha t has been already said ?"
I bo,ved my head. "Go on," said I. " I make not
this request in the hope of undeceiving you. I shall no
longer contend with my o,vn weakness. The storm is
let loose, and I shall peaceably submit to be driven by
its fury. But go on. This conference will end only
with affording me a clearer foresight of my destiny; but
that will be some satisfaction, and I ,vill not part with-
out it."
Why, on hearing these words, did Pleyel hesitate?
Did some unlooked-for doubt insinuate itself into his
mind? vVas his belief suddenly shaken by my looks, or
my words, or by some newly-recollected circumstance?
vVhencesoever it arose, it could not enùure the test of
deliberation. In a few Ininute8 the HallIe of resentment
was again lighted up in his bosonl. lIe proceeded with
his accustomed vehemence :-
"I hate myself for this folly. I can find ne apology
for this tale. Yet I am irresistibly impclled to relate it.
She that hears me is apprized of every particular. I
have only to repeat to her her own words. She will
listen with a tranq ill I air, and the spectacle of her ob-
duracy will drive me to some desperate act. Why then
should I persist? yet persist I must."
Again he paused. " No!" said he; "it is impossible
to repeat your avowals of love, your appeals to former
confessions of your tenderness, to former deeds of dis-
honour, to the circumstances of the first interview that
took place bet,,"een you. It was on that night when I
traced you to this recess. Thither had he enticed you,
and there had you ratified an unhallowed compact by
adnljtting him

154

WIEL,AND; OR,

"Great God! thou witnessedst the agonies that tore
my bosom at that moment! thou witnessedst my efforts
to repel ihe testimony of my ears! It ,vas in vain that
you dwelt upon the confusion which my unlooked-for
summons excited in you; the tardiness with ,vhich a
suitable excuse occurred to you; your resentment that
my impertinent intrusion had put an end to that charm-
ing interview; a disappointment for which you endea-
voured to compensate yourself by the frequency and
duration of subsequent meetings.
"In vain you dwelt upon incidents of ,vhich you only
could be conscious; incidents that occurred on occasions
on which none besides your o,vn family were witnesses.
In vain was your discourse characterized by peculiarities
inimitable of sentiment and language. My conviction
was effected only by an accumulation of the same tokens.
I yielded not but to evidence which took a,vay the power
to withhold my faith.
"1\1y sight ,vas of no use to me. Beneath so thick an
umbrage the darkness wa.s intense. IIearing was the
only avenue to information which the circumstances
allowed to be open. I ,vas couched ,vithin three feet of
you. Why should I approach nearer? I could not con-
tend with your betrayer. What could be the purpose of
a contest? You stood in no need of a protector. What
could I do but retire from the spot overwhelmed with
confusion and dismay? I sought my chamber, and en-
deavoured to regain my composure. The door of the
house, which I found open, your subsequent entrance,
closing, and fastening it, and going into your chamber,
which had been thus long deserted, were only confirma-
tions of the truth.
" Why should I paint the tempestuous fluctuation of
my thoughts between grief and revenge, between rage
and despair? Why should I repeat my vo,vs of eternal
implacability and persecution, and the speedy recantation
of these vows?
" I have said enough. You have dismissed me from a
place in your esteem. 'Vhat I think and 'what I feel is
of no importance in your eyes. May the duty which I
owe myself enable me to forget your existence! In ')

THE TRANSFORi1lA TION.

155

few minutes I go hence. Be the maker of your fortune;
and may adversity instruct you in that ,yisdom which
education ,vas unable to impart to you !"
Those were the last words ,yhich Pleyel uttered. He
left the room, aI
d my new emotions enabled me to wit-
ness his departure without any apparent loss of compo-
sure. As I sat alone, I ruminated on these incidents.
Nothing was more evident than that I had taken an
eternal leave of happiness. Life was a worthless thing,
separate from that good which had now been wrested
from me; yet the sentiment that now possessed me had
no tendency to palsy my exertions and overbear my
strength. I noticed that the light ,vas declining, and
perceived the propriety of leaving this house. I placed
myself again in the chaise, and returned slowly towards
the city.

CHAPTER XV.

BE
"ORE I reached the city it ,vas dusk. It ,vas my
purpose to spend the night at l\fettingen. I was not
solicitous, as long as I was attended by a faithful ser-
vant, to be there at an early hour. My exhausted
strength required me to take some refreshment. With
this view, and in order to pay respect to one whose affec-
tion for me was truly maternal, I stopped at Mrs. Bayn-
ton's. She was absent frolll home; but I had scarcely
entered the house, when one of her domestics presented
me a letter. I opened, and read as follows:-

To CLARA WIELAND.
What shall I say to extenuate the misconduct of last
night? It is my duty to repair it to the utmost of my
power; but the only way in which it can be repaired
you will not, I foar, be prevailed on to adopt. It is by
granting me an interview, at your own house, at eleven
o'clock this night. I have no means of removing any
fears that you may entertain of my designs, but my
simple and solemn declarations. These, after what has
passed between us, you may deem unworthy of con-
fidence. I cannot help it. l\fy folly and rashness have
left me no other resource. I will be at your door by
that hour. If you choose to admit me to a conference,
provided that conference has no witnesses, I will disclose
to you particulars the knowledge of which is of the
utmost importance to your happiness. Farewell.
CARWIN.

What a letter was this! A man known to be an assassin
and robber, one capable of plotting against my life and
156

THE TRANSp'ORlrIA TION.

157

:ny fame, detected lurking in nlY chamber and avo,ving
designs the most flagitious and dreadful, now solicits
me to grant him a midnight interview!-to adnlit him
alone into my presence! Could he make this request
,vith the expectation of my compliance? What had he
seen in me that could justify him in admitting so wild a
belief? Yet this request is preferred with the utmost
gravity. It is not accompanied by an appearance of
uncommon ea.rnestness. Had the misconduct to which
he alludes been a slight incivility, and the interview re-
quested to take place in the midst of my friends, there
would have been no extravagance in the tenor of this
letter; but, as it ",vas, the writer had surely been bereft
of his reason.
I perused this epistle frequently. The request it con-
tained might be called audacious or stupid, if it had been
l11ade by a different person; but from Carwin, who could
not be una"'"are of the effect which it must naturally pro-
duce, and of the manner in which it would unavoidably
be treated, it was perfectly inexplicable. He must have
counted on the success of son1e plot, in order to extort
my assent. N one of those motives by which I am usually.
governed ,vould ever have persuaded me to meet anyone
of his sex at the time and place ",vhich he had prescribed.
1\iuch less would I consent to a meeting with a man
tainted with the most detestable crimes, and by ""hose
arts my own safety had been so inlminently endangered
and my happiness irretrieyably destroyed. I shuddered
at the idea that such a meeting ,vas poss:ble. I felt some
reluctance to approach a spot ,vhich he still visited and
haunted.
Such were the ideas which first suggested themselves
on the perusal of the letter. l\Iean,vhile, I resumed my
journey. l\Iy thoughts still dwelt upon the same topic.
Gradually, from ruminating on this epistle, I reverted
to my intervie,v ,vith Pleyel. I recalled the particulars
of the dialogue to which he had been an auditor. l\Iy
heart sunk anew on viewing the inextricable complexity of
this deception, and the inauspicious concurrence of events
which tended to confirln hiln in his error. 1Vhen he ap-
proached my chan1bcr door, Iny terror kept Ille 111ute. lIe

15 8

WIELAND
. OR,

put his ear, perhaps, to the crevice, but it caught the
sound of nothing human. IIad I called, or made any
token that denoted some one to be ,vithin, ,vords would
have ensued; and, as omnipresence was impossible, this
discovery, and the artless narrative of what had just
passed, ,vould have saved me from his murderous invec-
tives. lie went into his chamber, and, after some interval,
I stole across the entry and down the stairs with inaudible
steps. Having secured the outer doors, I returned with
less circumspection. He heard me not when I descended;
but my returning steps were easily distinguished. Now,
he thought, was the guilty interview at an end. In ,vhat
other way was it possible for him to construe these signals?
How fallacious and precipitate ,vas my decision! Car-
win's plot o,ved its success to a coincidence of events
scarcely credible. The balance ,vas s,vayed from its
equipoise by a hair. Had I even begun the conversation
with an account of what befell me in my chamber, my
previous interview with Wieland would have taught him
to suspect me of imposture; yet, if I were discoursing
with this ruffian when Pleyel touched the lock of my
chamber door, and when he shut his own door with so
much violence, how, he might ask, should I be able to
relate these incidents? Perhaps he had withheld the
knowledge of these circumstances from my brother, from
whom, therefore, I could not obtain it, so that my inno..
cence would have thus been irresistibly demonstrated.
The first impulse ,vhich flo,ved from these ideas ""as to
return upon my steps and demand once more an inter-
view. But he was gone; his parting declarations were
remembered.
" Pleyel," I exclaimed, "thou art gone forever! Are
thy mistakes beyond the reach of detection? Am I
helpless in the midst of this snare? The plotter is at
hand. He even speaks in the style of penitence. lIe
solicits an interview which he promises shall end in the
disclosure of something momentous to my happiness.
What can he say ,vhich will avail to turn aside this evil?
But why should his remorse be feigned? I have done
him no injury. His wickedness is fertile only of despair;
and the billows of ren10rse will some time overbear him.

THE TRAA
FORfiL4170

159

\Vhy may not this event have already taken place?
'Vhy should I refuse to see him ?"
This idea was present, as it were, for a moment. I
suddenly recoiled from it, confounded at that frenzy which
could give even momentary harbour to such a scheme;
yet presently it returned. At length I even conceived
it to deserve deliberation. I questioned whether it was
not proper to admit, at a lonely spot, in a sacred hour,
this man of tremendous and inscrutable attributes, this
performer of horrid deeds, and whose presence was pre-
dicted to call down unheard-of and unutterable horrors.
What was it that swayed me? I felt myself divested
of the power to will contrary to the motives that de-
termined me to seek his presence. l\Iy mind seemed to
be split into separate parts, and these parts to have
entered into furious and implacable contention. These
tumults gradually subsided. The reasons why I should
confide in that interposition which had hitherto defended
me, in those tokens of compunction which this letter
contained, in the efficacy of this interview to restore its
spotlessness to my character and banish all illusions from
the mind of my friend, continually acquired new evi-
dence and new strength.
What should I fear in his presence? This was unlike
an artifice intended to betray me into his hands. If it
were an artifice, what purpose would it serve? The
freedom of my mind was untouched, and that freedom
would defy the assaults of blandishments or magic.
Force I was not able to repel. On the former occasion
my courage, it is true, had fãiled at the imluinent approach
of danger; but then I had not enjoyed opportunities of
deliberation; I had foreseen nothing; I ,vas sunk into
imbecility by nlY previous thoughts; I had been the
victiln of recent disappointments and anticipated ills.
vVitness my infatuation in opening the closet in oppo-
sition to divine injunctions.
Now, perhaps, my courage was the offspring of a, no
less erring principle. Pleyel 'vas forever lost to me.
I strove in vain to aSSlllne his person and suppress my
resentment; I strove in vain to believe in the aSBuaging
influence of tiIne, to look for,vard to the birthday of

160

ff/7ELAND,. OR,

new hopes, and the re-exaltation of tha.t luminary of
whose effulgencies I had so long and so liberally partaken.
What had I to suffer ,vorse than ,vas already inflicted?
Was not Carwin my foe? I o,ved lny untilllely fate
to his treason. Instead of flying from his presence,
ought I not to devote all my faculties to the gaining of
an interview, and compel him to repair the ills of which
he has been the author? \Vhy should I suppose him
impregnable to argument? IIave I not reason on my
side, and the po,ver of imparting conviction? Cannot
he be made to see the justice of unravelling the maze in
w.hich Pleyel is bewildered?
He may, at least, be accessible to fear. lIas he
nothing to fear from the rage of an injured woman?
But suppose him inaccessible to such inducements; sup-
pose him to persist in all his flagitious purposes: are not
the means of defence and resistance in lIlY power?
In the progress of such thoughts was the resolution at
last formed. I hoped that the interview ,vas sought by
him for a laudable end; but, be that as it would, I trusted
that, by energy of reasoning or of action, I should render
it auspicious, or at least harmless.
Such a determination must unavoidably fluctuate.
The poet's chaos was no unapt elllblem of the state of my
mind. A torlnent was awakened in my bos01n, "\vhich I
foresaw ,vould end only when this interview was past
and its consequences fully experienced. lienee my im-
patience for the arrival of the hour which had been pre-
scribed by Carwin.
Meanwhile, my meditations were tumultuously active.
New impediments to the execution of the scheme 'v ere
speedily suggested. I had apprized Catharine of my
intention to spend this and many future nights with her.
lIeI' husband was informed of this arrangement, and
had zealously approved it. Eleven o'clock exceeded
their hour of retiring. What excuse should I form for
changing my plan? Should I show this letter to "\Vic-
land and submit myself to his direction? nut I knew
in what way he would decide. He would fervently dis-
suade me from going. Nay, would he not do more?
lIe was apprized of the offences of Car,vin, and of the

THE TRA1VSFORlJfA TION.

IÓI

reward offered for his apprehension. Would he not seize
this opportunity of executing justice on a criminal?
This idea was new. I was plunged once more into
doubt. Did not equity enjoin me thus to facilitate his
arrest? No. I disdained the office of betrayer. Carwin
was unapprized of his danger, and his intentions were
possibly beneficent. Should I station guards about the
house, and make an act intended perhaps for my benefit
instrumental to his own destruction? vVieland might
be justified in thus employing the knowledge which
I should impart; but I, by imparting it, should pollute
myself with more hateful crimes than those undeservedly
ilnputed to me. This scheme, therefore, I unhesitatingly
rejected. The views ,vith which I should return to my
o,vn house it would therefore be necessary to conceal.
Yet some pretext must be invented. I had never been
initiated into the traùe of lying. Yet what but false-
hood was a deliberate suppression of the truth? To
deceive by silence or by words is the same.
Yet what would a lie avail me? 'Vhat pretext would
justify this change in lilY plan? 'V ould it not tend to
confirm the imputations of Pleyel? That I should
voluntarily return to a house in which honour and life
had so lately been endangered could be eXplained in no
way favourable to my integrity.
These reflections, if they did not change, at least sus-
pended, my decision. In this state of uncertainty I
alighted at the hut. 'Ve gave this name to the house
tenanted by the farmer and his servants, and which was
situated on the verge of my brother's ground, and at a
considerable distance from the mansion. The path to
the mansion was planted by a doub row of walnuts.
Along this path I proceeded alone. entered the par-
lour, in which was a light just expi ng in the socket.
There ,vas no one in the room. I perceived by the clock
that stood against the wall that it was near eleven. The
lateness of the hour startled me. 'Vhat had become of
the family? They ,vere usually retired an hour before
this; but the unextinguished taper and the unbarred
door 'vere indications that they had not retired. I
11

(

162

IVIELAND,. OR,

again returned to the hall, and passed from one r III to
another, but still encountered not a human being.
I imagined that perhaps the lapse of a few 111i' utes
would explain these appearances. lVleanwhile, I rc-
fleeted that the preconcerted hour had arrived. Carwin
was perhaps waiting my approach. Should I imIne-
diately retire to my own house, no one would be ap-
prized of my proceeding. Nay, the interview might
pass, and I be enabled to return in half an hour.
Hence no necessity would arise for dissimulation.
I was so far influenced by these views that I rose to
execute this design; but again the unusual condition of
the house occurred to me, and some vague solicitude as
to the condition of the family. I was nearly certain
that my brother had not retired; but by what motives
he could be induced to desert his house thus unseasonably
I could by no means divine. Louisa Conway, at least,
was at home, and had probably retired to her chamber:
perhaps she was able to impart the information I wanted.
I went to her chamber, and found her asleep. She
was delighted and surprised at my arrival, and told me
with how much impatience and anxiety my brother and
his wife had awaited my coming. They were fearful
that some mishap had befallen me, and had remained up
longer than the usual period. Notwithstanding the late-
ness of the hour, Catharine would not resign the hope
of seeing me. Louisa said she had left them both in
the parlour, and she knew of no cause for their absence.
As yet I was not without solicitude on account of thcir
personal safety. I was far from being perfectly at case
on that head, but entertained no distinct conception of
the danger that impended over them. Perhaps, to be-
guile the moments of my long-protracted stay, they haù
gone to walk upon the bank. The atmosphere, though
illuminated only by the starlight, was remarkably serene.
Meanwhile, the desirableness of an interview with Oar-
win again returned, and I finally resolved to seek it.
I passed with doubting and hasty steps along the
path. My dwelling, seen at a distance, was gloomy and
desolate. It had no inhabitant; for my servant, in con...

THE TRAl\lSFORlIIA TION.

16 3

sequence of my ne,y arrangement, had gone to :\Iettin-
gen. The temerity of this atten1pt began to show
itself in more vivid colours to 111Y understanding. 1Yho-
ever has pointed steel is not ,,,ithout arms; yet ,yba t
must have been the state of my mind when I could medi-
tate, without shuddering, on the use of a murderous
"\Yeapon, and believe myself secure merely because I was
capable of being made so by the death of another! Yet
this 'vas not my state. I felt as if I ,yas rushing into
deadly toils without the power of pausing or receding.

CHAPTER XVI.

As soon as I arrived in sight of the front of the
house, my attention ,vas excited by a light from the
window of my own chamber. No appearance could be
Jess explicable. A meeting was expected with Carwin;
but that he preoccupied my chamber, and had supplied
himself with light, was not to be believed. What motive
could influence him to adopt this conduct? Could I
proceed until this was explained? Perhaps, if I should
proceed to a distance in front, some one would be visible.
A sidelong but feeble beam from the window fell upon
the piny copse which skirted the bank. As I eyed it, it
suddenly became mutable, and, after flitting to and fro
for a short time, it vanished. I turned my eye again
towards the window, and perceived that the light was
still there; but the change which I had noticed was
occasioned by a change in the position of the lamp or
candle. within. Hence, that some person was there was
an unavoidable inference.
I paused to deliberate on the propriety of advancing.
Might I not advance cautiously, and, therefore, without
danger? Might I not knock at the door, or call, and
be apprized of the nature of my visitant before I en-
tered? I approached and listened at the door, but could
hear nothing. I knocked at first timidly, but afterwards
with loudness. My signals were unnoticed. I stepped
back and looked, but the light was no longer discernible.
Was it suddenly extinguished by a human agent? What
purpose but concealment ,vas intended? Why was the
illumination produced, to be thus suddenly brought to an
end? And why, since some one was there, had silence
been observed?
These were questions the solution of which may be
164

T.lIE' 7'RANS.l/ORllfA TION.

16 5

readily supposed to be entangled with danger. Would
not this danger, ,vhen measured by a woman's fears,
expand into gigantic dimensions?
Ienaccs of death;
the stunning exertions of a warning voice; the kno,vn
and unknown attributes of Carwin; our recent interview
in this chamber; the pre appointment of a meeting at
this place and hour,-all thronged into my memory.
'Vhat was to be done?
Courage is no definite or steadfast principle. Let
that man who shall purpose to assign motives to the
actions of another blush at his folly and forbear. Not
more presumptuous ,vould it be to attempt the classifica-
tion of all nature and the scanning of Supreme intelli-
gence. I gazed for a minute at the window, and fixed
my eyes, for a second minute, on the ground. I drew
forth from my pocket, and opened, a penknife. " This,"
said I, "be Iny safeguard and avenger. The assailant
shall perish, or myself shall fall."
I had locked up the house in the morning, but had the
key of the kitchen door in n1Y pocket. I therefore de-
termined to gain access behind. Thither I hastened,
unlocked, and entered. All was lonely, darksome, and
waste. Familiar as I was ,vith every part of my d,vell-
ing, I easily found my way to a closet, dre"\v forth a
taper, a flint, tinder, and steel, and in a moment, as it
were, gave myself the guidance and protection of light.
What purpose did I nleditate ? Should I explore my
,yay to my chamber, and confront the being ,vho had
dared to intrude into this recess and had laboured for
concealment? By putting out the light did he seek to
hide himself, or n1ean only to circumvent my incautious
steps? Yet was it not nlore probable that he desired
my absence by thus encouraging the supposition that the
house was unoccupied? I would see this man in spito
of all impediments; ere I died, I would see his face, and
summon him to penitence and retribution; no matter at
what cost an intervie,v was purchased. Reputation and
life might be ,vrcsted from lne by another, but my rec..
titude and honour were in my own keeping, and ,vere
safe.
I l)rocccded to the foot of the stairs. At such a crisi
s

166

WIELAND; OR,

my thoughts may be supposed at no liberty to range;
yet vague images rushed into my mind of the mysterious
interposition ,vhich had been experienced on the last
night. IVly case at present was not dissilnilar; and, if
my angel were not weary of fruitless exertions to save,
Inight not a new warning be expected? Who could say
whether his silence were ascribable to the absence of
janger, or to his own absence?
In this state of mind, no wonder that a shivering cold
crept through my veins; that my pause was prolonged;
and that a fearful glance was thrown back,vard.
Alas! my heart droops, and my fingers are enervated;
my ideas are vivid, but my language is faint: now know
I ,vhat it is to entertain incommunicable sentiments.
The chain of subsequent incidents is drawn through my
mind, and, being linked with those ,vhich forewent, by
turns rouse up agonies and sink me into hopelessness.
Yet I will persist to the end. My narrative may be
invaded by inaccuracy and confusion; but, if I live no
longer, I will, at least, live to complete it. What but
ambiguities, abruptnesses, and dark transitions, can be
expected from the historian who is, at the same time, the
sufferer of these disasters ?
I have said that I cast a look behind. Some object
was expected to be seen, or why should I have gazed in
that direction? Two senses were at once assailed. The
same piercing exclamation of "Hold! hold!" was uttered
within the same distance of my ear. This it was that I
heard. The airy undulation, and the shock given to my
nerves, were real. Whether the spectacle ,vhich I be-
held existed in my fancy or ,vithout might be doubted.
I had not closed the door of the apartment I had just
left. The staircase, at the foot of which I stood, was
eight or ten feet from the door, and attached to the wall
through which the door led. My view, therefore, was
sidelong, and took in no part of the room.
Through this aperture was a head thrust and drawn
back with so much swiftness that the immediate convic-
tion was, that thu8 Inuch of a form ordinarily invisible
had been unshroudctl. The face was turned to,vards me.
Every musl
le ,vas tense; the forehead and brows wore

THE TRAi\
SFORIIIA TION.

16'"
J

úrawn into vehcment expression; the lips were stretched
as in the act of shrieking, and the eyes emitted sparks,
which, no douLt, if I had been unattended by a light,
,vould have illuininateù like the coruscations of a meteor.
The sound and the vision were present, and departed to-
gether at the same instant; but the cry ,vas blown into
my ear, ,vhile the face was lllany paces distant.
This face ,vas ,veIl suited to a being ,vhose perform-
ances exceedcd the standard of humanity; and yet its
features ,vere akin to those I had before seen. The
imaO'e of Car,vin ,vas blended in a thousand ways with
the
trea1n of my thoughts. This visage was, perhaps,
portrayed by Iny fancy. If so, it ,viII excite no surprise
that some of his lineaments ,vere now discovered. Yet
affinities were fe,v and unconspicuous, and were lost
amidst the blaze of opposite qualities.
"\Vhat conclusion could I forIn? Be the face human
or not, the intirnation ,vas imparted from above. Expe-
rience had evinced the benignity of that being ,vho gave
it. Once he had interposed to shield me from harm,
and subsequent events demonstrated the usefulness of
that interposition. Now was I again warned to forbear.
I was hurrying to the verge of the same gulf, and the
same power was exerted to recall my steps. "\Vas it
possible for me not to obey? "\Vas I capable of holding
on in the same perilous career? Yes. Even of this I
was capable!
The intimation was imperfect; it gave no form to my
danger and prescribed no limits to my caution. I had
formerly neglected it, and yet escaped. 1\Iight I not
trust to the same issue? This idea might possess,
though imperceptibly, some influence. I persisted; but
it was not merely on this account. I cannot delineate
the motives that led llle on. I now speak as if no rem-
nant of doubt existed in my mind as to the supernatural
origin of these sounds; but this is o,ving to the imper-
fection of my language, for I only mean that the belief
was more permanent and visited more frequently my
sober Ineditations than its opposite. The immediate
{\ff(\cts serveù only to undcrrnillc the foundations of my
jutl 6 111ellt and prccipitate 111JT resolutions.

168

WIELAND,. OR,

I must either advance or return. I chose the former,
and began to ascend the stairs. The silence underwent
no second interruption. My chamber door was closed,
but unlocked, and, aided by vehement efforts of my
courage, I opened and looked in.
No hideous or uncommon object was discernible. The
danger, indeed, might easily have lurked out of sight,
have sprung upon me as I entered, and have rent me
with his iron talons; but I ,vas blind to this fate, and
advanced, though cautiously, into the room.
Still, every thing wore its accustomed aspect. Neither
lamp nor candle was to be found. No\v, for the first
time, suspicions were suggested as to the nature of the
light which I had seen. Was it possible to have been
the companion of that supernatural visage; a meteorous
refulgence producible at the will of him to whom that
visage belonged, and partaking of the nature of that
which accompanied my father's death?
'l'he closet ,vas near, and I remembered the compli.
cated horrors of which it had been productive. Here,
perhaps, was enclosed the source of my peril and the
gratification of my curiosity. Should I adventure once
more to explore its recesses? This was a resolution
not easily formed. I was suspended in thought, when,
glancing my eye on a table, I perceived a written paper.
Carwin's hand was instantly recognised, and, snatching
up the paper, I read as follows:-
"There was folly in expecting your compliance with
my invitation. Judge how I was disappointed in find-
ing another in your place. I have waited, but to wait
any longer would be perilous. I shall still seek an inter-
view, but it must be at a different time and place; mean-
( while, I will write this-How will you bear-how inex-
plicable will be this transaction !-An event so unex-
pected,-a sight so horrible!"
Such was this abrupt and unsatisfactory script. The
ink was yet moist; the hand was that of Carwin. Hence
it was to be inferred that he had this moment left the
apartment, or was still in it. I looked back, on the
i3uùden expectation of seeing hiln behind me.
"Vhat other did he mean? What transaction had
'"

7 HE TRANSFORlVIA TION.

169

taken place adverse to my expectations? 'Vhat sight
was about to be exhibited? I looked around me once
more, but saw nothing which indicated strangeness.
Again I rClnembered the closet, and ,vas resolved to
seek in that the solution of these mysteries. Here, per-
haps, was enclosed the scene destined to awaken my
horrors and baffle my foresight.
I have already said that the entrance into this closet
was beside my bed, ,vhich, on two sides, was closely
shrouded by curtains. On that side nearest the closet
the curtain was raised. As I passed along I cast my eye
thither. I started, and looked again. I bore a light in
my hand, and brought it nearer my eyes, in order to
dispel any illusive mists that might have hovered before
them. Once more I fixed my eyes upon the bed, in
hope that this lllore steadfast scrutiny ,vould annihilate
the object ,vhich before seemed to be there.
This, then, ,vas the sight which Car,vin had predicted!
This ,vas the event ,vhich my understanding ,vas to find
inexplicable! This was the fate which had been re-
served for me, but which, by some untoward chance,
had befallen another !
I had not been terrified by empty menaces. Viola-
tion and death awaited my entrance into this chamber.
Some inscrutable chance had led her hither before me,
and the mereiless fangs of which I was designed to be
the prey had mistaken their victim, and had fixed them-
selves in her heart. But where was my safety? 'Vas
the mischief exhausted or flown? The steps of the
assassin had just been here; they could not be far off;
in a moment he would rush into my presence, and I
should perish under the same polluting and suffocating
grasp !
l\iy frame shook, and my knees were unable to sup-
port me. I gazed alternately at the closet door and at
the door of my room. At one of these avenues ,vould
enter the exterminator of my honour and Iny life. I
,vas prepared for defence; but, no,v that danger was
imlninent, my means of defence and my po,ver to use
theln ,vere gone. I was not qualified by education and
experience to encountcr perils like thesc; or perhaps T

17 0

WIEL...41\lD.

was powerless because I was again assaulted by surprise,
and had not fortified my mind by foresight and previous
reflection against a scene like this.
Fears for my own safety again yielded place to reflec-
tions on the scene before me. I fixed my eyes upon her
countenance. 1\ly sister's wcll-kno,vn and beloved fea-
tures could not be concealed by convulsion or lividness..
"Vhat direful illusion led thee hither? Bereft of thee,
what hold on happiness remains to thy offspring and thy
spouse? To lose thee by a common fate would have
been sufficiently hard; but thus suddenly to perish,-to
become the prey of this ghastly death! I-Iow ,viII a
spectacle like this be endured by 'Vieland? To die .be-
neath his grasp would not satisfy thy enemy. This was
mercy to the evils which he previously made thee suffer!
After these evils death was a boon which thou besoughtest
him to grant. He entertained no enmity against thee;
I was the object of his treason; but by some tremendous
mistake his fury was misplaced. But how cornest thou
hither? and where was Wieland in thy hour of distress?
I approached the corpse; I lifted the still flexible
hand, and kissed the lips ,vhich were breathless. Her
flowing drapery was discomposed. I restored it to order,
and, seating myself on the bed, again fixed steadfast
eyes upon her countenance. I cannot distinctly recol-
lect the ruminations of that moment. I saw confusedly,
but forcibly, that every hope ,vas extinguished ,vith the
life of Oatharine. All happiness and dignity must hence-
forth be banished from the house and name of Wieland;
all that remained was to linger out in agonies a short
existence and leave to the world a monument of blasted
hopes and changeable fortune. Pleyel was already lost
to me; yet, while Catharine lived, life was not a detest-
able possession. But now, severed from the companion
of my infancy, the partaker of all my thoughts, my
cares, and lIlY wishes, I was like one set afloat upon a
stormy sea and hanging his safety upon a plank; night
was closing upon him, and an unexpected surge had torn
him frGm his hold and overwhelmed him forever.

CIIAPTER XVII.

I HAD no inclination nor power to move from this spot.
For more than an hour my faculties and limbs seemed to
be deprived of all activity. The door below creaked on
its hinges, and steps ascended the stairs.
Iy wandering
and confused thoughts were instantly recalled by these
Bounds, and, dropping the curtain of the bed, I moved to
a part of the room where anyone \vho entered should be
visible; such are the vibrations of sentiment, that, not-
withstanding the seeming fulfilment of my fears and in-
crease of my danger, I was conscious, on this occasion,
to no turbulence but that of curiosity.
At length he entered the apartment, and I recognised
my brother. It was the same'Vieland whom I had ever
seen. Yet his features ,vere pervaded by a new expres-
sion. I supposed him unacquainted with the fate of his
wife, and his appearance confirnled this persuasion. A
brow expanding into exultation I had hitherto never
seen in him; yet such a brow did he now wear. Not
only ,vas he unapprized of the disaster that had hap-
pened, but some joyous occurrence had betided. What
a reverse was preparing to annihilate his transi tory bliss!
No husband ever doated more fondly, for no wife ever
claimed so boundless a devotion. I was not uncertain as
to the effects to flo,v from the discovery of her fate. I
confided not at all in the efforts of his reason or his
piety. There were few evils which his modes of think-
ing would not disarm of their sting; but here all opiates
to grief and all compellers of patience were vain. This
spectacle would be unavoidably followed by the outrages
of desperation and a rushing to death.
For the present, I neglected to ask myself "That mo-
171

17 2

WIELAND,. OR,

tive brought him hither. I was only fearful of the effects
to flow from the sight of the dead. Yet could it be long
concealed from him? Sometime, and speedily, he would
obtain this knowledge. No stratagems could considerably
or usefully prolong his ignorance. All that could be
Bought ,vas to take away the abruptness of the change,
and shut out the confusion of despair and the inroads of
madness; but I knew my brother, and knew that all ex-
ertions to console him ,vould be fruitless.
What could I say? I was mute, and poured forth
those tears on his account which my own unhappiness
had been unable to extort. In the midst of my tears, I
was not unobservant of his motions. These were of a
nature to rouse some other sentiment than grief, or, at
least, to mix with it a portion of astonishment.
His countenance suddenly became troubled. His
hands were clasped with a force that left the print of his
nails in his flesh. His eyes were fixed on my feet. His
brain seemed to swell beyond its continent. He did not
cease to breathe, but his breath was stifled into groans.
I had never witnessed the hurricane of human passions.
lVIy element had, till lately, been all sunshine and calm.
I was unconversant with the altitudes and energies of
sentiment, and was transfixed with inexplicable horror
by the symptoms which I now beheld.
After a silence and a conflict which I could not inter-
pret, he lifted his eyes to heaven, and in broken accents
exclaimed, "This is too much! any victim but this, and
thy will be done. Have I not sufficiently attested Iny
faith and my obedience? She that is gone, they that
have perished, were linked with my soul by ties which
only thy command would have broken; but here is
sanctity and excellence surpassing human. This work-
manship is thine, and it cannot be thy will to heap it
. ."
Into rUIns.
Here, suddenly unclasping his hands, he struck one of
them against his forehead, and continued :-" Wretch!
who made thee quicksighted in the councils of thy
1\laker? Deliverance from mortal fetters is awarded to
this being, aHd thou art the minister of this decree."
So sayin,g, Wieland advanced to,varfls me. IIis words

THE TRANSFORfilA TION.

173

and his motions were ,yithout meaning, except on one
supposition. The death of Catharine was already known
to him, and that knowledge, as might have been sus.
pected, had destroyed his reason. I had feared nothing
less; but, now that I beheld the extinction of a mind
the most luminous and penetrating that ever dignified
the human form, my sensations were fraught with new
and insupportable anguish.
I had not time to reflect in what way my own safety
would be effected by this revolution, or what I had to
dread from the wild conceptions of a madman. He ad-
vanced towards me. Some hollow noises were wafted
by the breeze. Confused clamours were succeeded by
many feet traversing the grass and then crowding into
the piazza.
These sounds suspended my brother's purpose, and he
stood to listen. The signals Inultiplied and grew louder;
perceiving this, he turned fron1 me, and hurried out of
my sight. All about me ,vas pregnant with motives to
astonishment. 1\iy sister's corpse, vVieland's frantic de-
meanonr, and, at length, this crowd of visitants, so little
accorded \vith my foresight, that my mental progress
was stopped. The impulse had ceased which was accus-
tOlned to give motion and order to my thoughts.
Footsteps thronged upon the stairs, and presently
many faces showed themselves ,yithin the door of my
apartment. These looks were full of alarm and watch..
fulness. They pried into corners as if in search of
some fugitive; next their gaze was fixed upon me, and
betokened all the vehemence of terror and pity. For a
time I questioned whether these were not shapes and
faces like that which I had seen at the bottom of the
stairs,-creatures of TI1Y fancy or airy existences.
My eye wandered from one to another, till at length
it fell on a countenance which I well knew.. It was that
of 1\11'. Hallet. This man was a distant kinsman of my
mother, venerable for his age, his uprightness and sa..
gacity. He had long discharged the functions of a
magistrate and good citizen. If any terrors remained,
his presence ,vas sufficient to dispel them.
lIe approached, took my hand ,vith a c0.
lpassionate

174

WIELAND,. OR,

air, and said, in a low voice, "'Vhcre, IllY dear Clara,
are your brother and sister?" I Inade no answer, but
pointed to the bed. His attendants dre,v aside the cur-
tain, and, ,vhile their eyes glared with horror at the
spectacle which they beheld, those of Mr. Hallet over-
flo,ved with tears.
After considerable pause, he once more turned to :ne:
-"
iy dear girl, this sight is not for you. Can you
confide in my care and that of Mrs. Baynton's ? We
,vill see all performed that circumstances require."
I made strenuous opposition to this request. I insisted
on remaining near her till she was interred. His re-
monstrances, however, and my own feelings, showed me
the propriety of a temporary dereliction. Louisa stood
in need of a comforter, and my brother's children of a
nurse. My unhappy brother was himself an object of
solicitude and care. At length I consented to relinquish
the corpse, and go to my brother's, whose house, I said,
would need a mistress, and his children a parent.
During this discourse, my venerable friend struggled
with his tears, but my last intimation called them forth
with fresh violence. Meanwhile, his attendants stood
round in mournful silence, gazing on me and at each
other. I repeated my resolution, and rose to execute it;
but he took my hand to detain me. Ilis countenance
betrayed irresolution and reluctance. I requested him
to state the reason of his opposition to this measure. I
entreated him to be explicit. I told him that my bro-
t.her had just been there, and that I knew his condition.
This misfortune had driven him to Inadness, and his off-
spring must want a protector. If he chose, I would
resign Wieland to his care; but his innocent and help-
less babes stood in instant neeò of nurse and Inother,
and these offices I would by no means allow another to
perform while I had life.
Every word that I uttered seemed to augment his per-
plexity and distress. At last he said, " I think, Clara,
I have entitled myself to son1e regard from you. You
have professed your willingness to oblige me. Now I
call upon you to confer upon me the highest obligation
in your power. Permit Mrs. Baynton to have the ma

THE TRAJ\TSFOR1IIA TION.

175

nagement of your brother's house for t,vo or three days;
then it shall be yours to act in it as you please. No
m:1tter what are my motives in making this request;
perhaps I think your age, your sex, or the distress which
this disaster must occasion, incapacitates you for the
office. Surely you have no doubt of Mrs. Baynton's
tenderness or discretion."
New ideas no,v rushed into my Inind. I fixed my eyes
steadfastly on ßlr. IIallet. "Are they well?" said I.
"Is Louisa well? Are Benjamin, and William, and
Constantine, and little Clara, are they safe? Tell me
truly, I beseech you !"
"They are well," he replied; "they are perfectly
safe. "
"Fear no effeminate weakness in me; I can bear to
hear the truth. Tell me truly, are they well ?"
He again assured me that they were well.
"'Vhat, then," resumed I, "do you fear? Is it pos-
sible for any calamity to disqualify me for performing
my duty to these helpless innocents? I am willing to
divide the care of them with Mrs. Baynton; I shall be
grateful for her sympathy and aid; but what should I be
to desert then1 at an hour like this 1"
I ,vill cut short this distressful dialogue. I still per-
sisted in my purpose, and he still persisted in his oppo-
sition. This excited my suspicions anew; but these
were removed by solellln declarations of their safety. I
could not explain this conduct in my friend, but at
length consented to go to the city, provided I should see
them for a few minutes at present, and should return on
the morrow.
Even this arrangement was objected to. At length he
told me they were removed to the city. Why were they
removed, I asked, and whither? l\Iy importunities would
not now be eluded. My suspicions were roused, and no
evasion or artifice was sufficient to allay them. Many of
the audience began to give vent to their emotions in
tears. 1\11'. Hallet himself seemed as if the conflict
were too hard to be longer sustained. Something whis-
pered to my heart that havoc had been ,rider than I now
witnessed. I suspected this concealment to arise from

17 6

WIELAND,' OR,

apprehensions of the effects which a knowledge of the
truth would produce in me. I once more entreated him
to inform me truly of their state. To enforce my en-
treaties, I put on an air of insenRibility. "I can guess,"
said I, "what has happened: they are indeed beyond
the reach of injury, fo:r they are dead? Is it not so ?"
My voice faltered in spite of my courageous efforts.
" Yes," said he, "they are dead! Dead by the same
fate, and by the same hand, with their mother !"
" Dead!" replied I; "what! all?"
" All !" replied he; "he spared not one I"
Allow me, my friends, to close my eyes upon the after-
scene. Why should I protract a tale which I already
begin to feel is too long? Over this scene, at least, let
me pass lightly. Here, indeed, my narrative would be
imperfect. All was tempestuous commotion in my heart
and in Iny brain. I have no memory for aught but un-
conscious transitions and rueful sights. I was ingenious
and indefatigable in the invention of torments. I would
not dispense with any spectacle adapted to exasperate
my grief. Ea.ch pale and mangled form I crushed to my
bosom. Louisa, whom I loved with so ineffable a pas-
sion, was denied to me at first, but my obstinacy con-
quered their reluctance.
They led the wa.y into a darkened hall. A lamp
pendant from the ceiling ,vas uncovered, and they
pointed to a table. The assassin had defraun.ed me of
my last and Iniserable consolation.. I sought not in her
visage for the tinge of the morning and the lustre of
heaven. These had vanished ,vith life; but I hoped for
liberty to print a last kiss upon her lips.. This was de-
nied me; for such had been the merciless blow that
.1estroyed her, that not a lineament re'/nained!
I was carried hence to the city. Mrs. IIallet was my
companion and my nurse.. Why should I dwell upon
the rage of fever and the effusions of delirium? Carwin
was the phantom that pursued my dreams, the giant op-
pre
sor under whose arm I was forever on the point of
being crushed.. Strenuous muscles ,yere required to
hiD
er my flight, and hearts of steel to withstand the
eloquence of my fears. In vain I called upon them to

THE TRANSFORlIfA TION.

177

look upward, to mark his sparkling rage and scowling
contempt. All I sought was to fly from the stroke that
was lifted. Then I heaped upon my guards the most
vehement reproaches, or betook myself to wailings on
the helplessness of my condition.
This malady at length declined, and my weeping
friends began to look for my restoration. Slo""Tly, and
with intermitted beams, memory revisited me. The
scenes that I had witnessed were revived, became the
theme of deliberation and deduction, and called forth the
effusions of more rational sorrow.
12

CHAPTER XVIII.

I HAD imperfect1y recovered my strength, when I was
informed of the arrival of n1Y mother's brother, Thomas
Cambridge. Ten years since, he went to Europe, and
was a surgeon in the British forces in Germany during
the whole of the late war. After its conclusion, some
connection that he had formed with an Irish officer made
him retire into Ireland. Intercourse had been punctu-
ally maintained by letters with his sister's chilùren, and
hopes were given that he would shortly return to his
native country and pass his old age in our society. He
was now in an evil hour arrived.
I desired an interview with him for numerous and
urgent reasons. With the first returns of my under-
standing I had anxiously sought information of the fate
of my brother. During the course of my disease I had
never seen him; and vague and unsatisfactory answers
were returned to all my inquiries. I had vehemently
interrogated Mrs. Hallet and her husband, and solicited
an interview with this unfortunate man; but they mys-
teriously insinuated that his reason was still unsettled,
and that his circumstances rendered an interview impos-
sible. Their reserve on the particulars of this destruc-
tion and the author of it was equally invincible.
For some time, finding all my efforts fruitless, I had
desisted from direct inquiries and solicitations, deter-
mined, as soon as my strength was sufficiently renewed,
to pursue other means of dispelling my uncertainty. In
this state of things, my uncle's arrival and intention to
visit me were announced. I almost shuddered to behold
the face of this man. When I reflected on the disasters
that had befallen us, I was half unwilling to witness that
178

THE TRANS}t
ORi1IA TIO.LY.

179

dejection anà grief which ,vould be disclosed in his coun-
tenance. nut I believed that all transactions had been
thoroughly disclosed to him, and confided in my impor-
tunity to extort from him the knowledge that I sought.
I had no doubt as to the person of our enemy; but
the motives that urged him to perpetrate these horrors,
the means that he used, and his present condition, were
totally unknown. It ,vas reasonable to expect some in-
formation on this head from my uncle. I therefore
waited his coming with impatience. At length, in the
dusk of the evening, and in my solitary chamber, this
meeting took place.
This man was our nearest relation, and had ever
treated us with the affection of a parent. Our meeting,
therefore, could not be without overflowing tenderness
and gloomy joy. lIe rather encouraged than restrained
the tears that I poured out in his arms, and took upon
himself the task of comforter. Allusions to recent dis-
asters could not be long omitted. One topic facilitated
the admission of another. At length I mentioned and
deplored the ignorance in which I had been kept re-
specting my brother's destiny and the circumstances of
our misfortunes. I entreated him to tell me what was
Wieland's condition, and what progress had been made
in detecting or punishing the author of this unheard-of
devastation.
"The author !" said he; "do you know the author ?'

" Alas!" I answered, "I am too well acquainted with
him. The story of the grounds of my suspicions ,vould
be painful and too long. I am not apprized of the ex-
tent of your present knowledge. There are none but
Wieland, Pleyel, and myself, ,vho are able to relate cer-
tain facts."
" Spare yourself the pain," said he
" All that 'Vie-
land and Pleyel can communicate I know already. If
any thing of moment has fallen within your own exclu-
sive knowledge, and the relation be not too arduous for
your present strength, I confess I am desirous of hear-
ing it. Perhaps you allude to one by the name of Car-
win. I will anticipate your curiosity by saying that

180

lYIELAND,. OR,

since these disasters no one has seen OT" heard of hiln.
I-lis agency is, therefore, a mystery still unsolved."
I readily complied with his request, and related as
distinctly as I could, though in general terms, the events
transacted in the summer-house and my chamber. He
listened without apparent surprise to the tale of Pleyel's
errors and suspicions, and with augmented seriousness
to my narrative of the warnings and inexplicable vision,
and the letter found upon the table. I waited for his
comments.
" You gather from this," said he, "that Carwin is the
author of all this misery?"
"Is it not," answered I, "an una voidable inference?
But what know you respecting it ? Was it possible to
execute this mischief without witness or coadjutor? I
beseech you to relate to me when and why Mr. IIallet
was summoned to the scene, and by whom this disaster
was first suspected or discovered. Surely, suspicion
must have fallen upon some one, and pursuit was
made.' ,
My uncle rose from his seat, and traversed the floor
with hasty steps. His eyes were fixed upon the ground,
and he seemed buried in perplexity. At length he
paused, and said, with an emphatic tone, "It is true;
the instrument is known. Carwin may have plotted,
but the execution was another's. That other is found,
and his deed is ascertained."
"Good heaven!" I exclaimed; "what say you? Was
not Carwin the assassin? Could any hand but his have
carried into act this dreadful purpose ?"
"Have I not said," returned he, "that the perform-
ance was another's? Car,vin, perhaps, or heaven, or
insanity, prompted the murderer; but Carwin is un-
known. The actual performer has long since been
called to judgment and convicted, and is, at this mo-
ment, at the bottom of a dungeon loaded with chains."
I lifted my hands and eyes. "Who then is this as-
sassin? By what means and whither was he traced?
What is the testimony of his guilt ?"
"His o"\vn, corroborated with that of a servant-maid
who spieù the murùer of the children froln a closet where

THE TRAiVSFORAIA TION.

181

she was concealed. The magistrate returned from your
d,velling to your brother's. He ,vas employed in hear-
ing and recording the tcstinlony of the only ,vitness,
when the criminal hÎ1nself, unexpected, unsolicited, un-
sought, entered the hall, acknowledged his guilt, and
rendered himself up to justice.
"He has since been summoned to the bar. The
audience was composed of thousands whom rumours of
this wonderful event had attracted from the greatest
distance. A long and impartial examination was made,
and the prisoner was called upon for his defence. In
compliance with this call, he delivered an ample relation
of his motives and actions." There he stopped.
I besought him to say ,vho this criminal was, and
what the instigations that compelled him. 1Iy uncle
was silent. I urged this inquiry ,yith new force. I re-
verted to my own knowledge, and sought in this some
basis to conjecture. I ran over the scanty catalogue of
the men whom I knew; I lighted on no one who was
qualified for ministering to malice like this. Again I
resorted to importunity. Had I E,ver seen the criminal!
Was it sheer cruelty or diabolical revenge that produced
this overthrow?
He surveyed me for a considerable time, and listened
to my interrogations in silence. At length he spoke :-
"Clara, I have known thee by report, and in some de-
gree by observation. Thou art a being of no vulgar
sort. Thy friends have hitherto treated thee as a child.
They meant well, but perhaps they were unacquainted
with thy strength. I assure myself that nothing will
surpass thy fortitude.
"Thou art anxious to know the destroyer of thy
family, his actions, and his motives. Shall I call him
to thy presence, and permit him to confess before thee?
Shall I make him the narrator of his own tale ?"
I started on my feet, and looked round me with fear-
ful glances, as if the murderer was close at hand.
""\Vhat do you mean ?" said I. "Put an end, I beseech
you, to this suspense."
"Be not alarmed; you will never nlorc behold the
face of this criminal, unless he be gifted ,vith super.

182

WIELAND.

natural strength, and sever like thread
the constraint
of links and bolts. I have said that the assassin was
arraigned at the bar, and that the trial ended with a
summons from the judge to confess or to vindicate his
actions. A reply "'
as immediately made with signifi-
cance of gesture and a tranquil majesty which denoted
less of humanity than godhead. Judges, advocates, and
auditors were panic-struck and breathless with atten-
tion. One of the hearers faithfully recorded the speech.

'There it is," continued he, putting a roll of papers in
my hand: "you Ina y read it at your leisure."
With these ,vords, my uncle left me alone. My
curiosity refused me a moment's delay. I opened the
papers, and read as follows.

CHAPTER XIX.

"THEODORE WIELAND, the prisoner at the bar, was
now called upon for his defence. He looked around
him for some time in silence, and with a mild counte..
nance. At length he spoke :-
"It is strange: I am known to my judges and my
auditors. Who is there preser.. t a stranger to the cha-
racter of Wieland? who knows him not as a husband,-
as a father,-as a friend? yet here am I arraigned as a
criminal. I aIn charged with diabolical malice; I am
accused of the murder of my wife and my children!
"It is true, they were slain by me: they all perished
by my hand. The task of vindication is ignoble. What
is it that I am called to vindicate? and before whom?
"Y ou know that they are dead, and that they were
killed by me. What more would you have? Would
you extort from me a statement of my motives? Have
you failed to discover them already? You charge me
with malice; but your eyes are not shut; your reason is
still vigorous; your memory has not forsaken you. You
know whom it is that you thus charge. The habits of
his life are known to you; his treatment of his wife and
his offspring is known to you; the soundness of his in-
tegrity, and the unchangeableness of his principles, are
familiar to your apprehension; yet you persist in this
charge! You lead me hither manacled as a felon; you
deem me worthy of a vile and tormenting death!
"Who are they whom I have devoted to death? My
wife-the little ones, that drew their being from me-
that creature ,vho, as she surpassed them in excellence,
claiIned a larger affection than thoso ,vhom natural affini-
ties bound to my heart. Think yc that malice could
lR

18 4

WIEL.AND,o OR,

have urged rne to this deed? Ilidc your audacious
fronts from the scrutiny of heaven. Take refuge in
SOlne cavern unvisited by human eyes. Ye nlay deplore
your wickedness or folly, but ye cannot expiate it.
"Think not that I speak for your sakes. IIug to
your hearts this detestable infatuation. Deem me still
a murderer, and drag me to untimely death. I lnake
not an effort to dispel your illusion; I utter not a word
to cure you of your sanguinary folly; but there are pro-
bably some in this assembly who have come from far;
for their sakes, whose distance has disabled them from
knowing me, I will tell what I have done, and why.
"It is needless to say that God is the object of my
supreme passion. I have cherished in his presence a
single and upright heart. I have thirsted for the know-
ledge of his will. I have burnt with ardour to approve
my faith and my obedience.
"My days have been spent in searchng for the reve-
lation of that will; but my days have been mournful,
because my search failed. I solicited direction; I
turned on every side where glimmerings of light could
be discovered. I have not been wholly uninformed; but
my knowledge has always stopped short of certainty.
Dissatisfaction has insinuated itself into all my thoughts.
My purposes have been pure, my wishes indefatigable;
but not till lately ,vere these purposes thoroughly accom-
plished and these wishes fully gratified.
"I thank thee, my Father, for thy bounty; that thou
didst not ask a less sacrifice than this; that thou
placedst me in a condition to testify my submission tc
thy will! What have I withheld which it was thy plea-
sure to exact? Now may I, with dauntless and erect
eye, claim my reward, since I have given thee the trea-
sure of my soul.
" I was at my o,vn house; it wa.s late in the evening;
my sister had gone to the city, but proposed to return.
It ,vas in expectation of her return that my wife and I
delayed going to bed beyond the usual hour; the rest of
the falnily, however, ,vere retired.
"My n1Ïnd was contemplative and calm,-not whoI1y
devoid of aprrehension on account of my sister's safety.

THE TRANSFORAIA TION.

18 5

Recent events, not easily explained, had suggested the
existence of some danger; but this danger ,vas váthout
a distinct form in our Ïlnagination, and scarcely ruflled
our tranq uilli ty.
"Time passed, and my sister did not arrive. Her
house is at some distance from mine, and, though her
arrangements had been made with a vie,v to residing
with us, it ,vas possible that, through forgetfulness, or
the occurrence of unforeseen emergencies, she had
returned to her o,vn d,velling.
"Hence it was conceived proper that I should ascer-
tain the truth by going thither. I went. On my way
my mind ,vas full of those ideas which related to my
intellectual condition. In the torrent of fervid concep-
tions, I lost sight of my purpose. Son1etimes I stood
still; sometimes I wandered from my path, and expe-
rienced some difficulty, on recovering from my fit of
musing, to regain it.
"The series of my thoughts is easily traced. At first
every vein beat with raptures known only to the man
whose parental and conjugal love is ".ithout limits, and
the cup of whose desires, imrnense as it is, overflows
with gratification. I know not ,vhy emotions that were
perpetual visitants should no,,," have recurred with un.
usual energy. The transition ,vas not ne,v from sensa-
tions of joy to a consciousness of gratitude. The Au-
thor of my being was likewise the dispenser of every
gift viÏth which that being was clnbellished. The service
to which a benefactor like this was entitled could not be
circumscribed. l\fy social sentiments ".ere indebted to
their alliance ,vith devotion for all their value. All
passions are base, all joys feeble, all energies malignant,
which are not drawn from this source.
"For a time my con.templations soared above earth
and its inhabitants. I stretched forth my hands; I
lifted my eyes, and exclaimed, 'Oh that I might be
admitted to thy presence! that mine ,vere the supreme
delight of kno,ving thy will, and of performing it!-
the blissful privilege of direct cOll1munication ,vith thee,
and of listening to the audible enunciation of thy plea..
sure !

186

WIELAND,. OR,

" "V"hat task ,yould I not undertake, ,vhat privation
would I not cheerfully endure, to testify my love of thee?
Alas! thou hidest thyself from my vie,v; glhnpses only
of thy excellence and beauty are afforded me. Would
that a momentary emanation from thy glory would visit
me! that' some unambiguous token of thy presence
would salute my senses !'
"In this mood I entered the house of my s.ister. It
was vacant. Scarcely had I regained recollection of the
purpose that brought me hither. Thoughts of a different
tendency had such absolute possession of my mind, that
the relations of time and space were almost obliterated
from my understanding. These wanderings, however,
were restrained, and I ascend.ed to her chamber.
"I had no light, and might have known by external
observation that the house was without any inhabitant.
With this, ho,vever, I was not satisfied. I entered the
room, and, the object of my search not appearing, I
prepared to return.
"The darkness required some caution in descending
the stair. I stretched my hand to seize the balustrade by
which I might regulate my steps. IIow shall I describe
the lustre which at that moment burst upon my vision?
"I was dazzled. My organs were bereaved of their
activity. My eyelids were half-closed, and my hands
withdrawn from the balustrade. A nameless fear chilled
my veins, and I stood motionless. This irradiation did
not retire or lessen. It seemed as if some powerful
effulgence covered me like a mantle.
"I opened my eyes and found all about me luminous
and glowing. It was the element of heaven that flowed
around. Nothing but a fiery stream was at first visible;
but, anon, a shrill voice from behind called upon me to
attend.
"I turned. It is forbidden to describe what I saw:
words, indeed, would be wanting to the task. The linea-
ments of that being whose veil was now lifted and whose
visage beamed upon my sight, no hues of pencil or of
language can portray.
,,, As it spoke, the accents thrilled to my heart :-' Thy
prayers are heard. In proof of thy faith, renùer 111P

TIlE Tl\)ANSFORJI,L41YON.

18 7

thy wife. This is the victim I choose. Call her hither,
and here let her fall.'. The sound, and visage, and light
vanished at once.
H What demand was this? The blood of Catharine
'vas to be shed!
ly wife was to perish by my hand!
I sought opportunity to attest my virtue. Little did I
expect that a proof like this would have been dell1anded.
" 'My wife!' I exclaimed; '0 God! substitute some
other victim. l\iake me not the butcher of my wife.
l\Iy o,vn blood is cheap. This ,vill I pour out before
thee with a willing heart; but spare, I beseech thee, this
precious life, or commission some other than her husband
to perform the bloody deed.'
"In vain. The conditions ,vere prescribed; the de-
cree had gone forth, and nothing remained but to exe-
cute it. I rushed out of the house and across the inter-
mediate fields, and stopped not till I entered my own
parlour.
"
Iy wife had rell1ained here during my absence, in
anxious expectation of my return with SOIne tidings of
her sister. I had none to communicate. For a time I
was breathless ,vith my speed. This, and the tremors
that shook my frame, and the wildness of my looks,
alarmed her. She immediately suspected some disaster
to have happened to her friend, and her own speech was
as much overpowered by emotion as mine.
"She ,vas silent, but her looks manifested her impa-
tience to hear ,,-hat I had to communicate. I spoke, but
with so much precipitation as scarcely to be understood;
catching her, at the same time, by the arm, and forcibly
pulling her from her seat.
" 'Come along ,vith me; fly; waste not a moment;
time will be lost, and the deed will be omitted. Tarry
not; question not; but fly "\vith me !'
"This deportment added afresh to her alarms. Her
eyes pursued mine, and she said, 'What is the ll1atter ?
For God's sake, what is the matter? Where would you
have ll1e go?'
"My eyes ,yere fixed upon her countenance while she
spoke. I thought upon her virtutts; I vie,ved her as the
mother of my babes; as my ,yife. I recalled the purpose

J83

WIELA
VD; OR,

for which I thus urged her attcndar.ce. 1\ly heart
faltered, and I saw that I must rouse to this work an
my faculties. The danger of the least delay was im..
minent.
"I looked away from her, and, again exerting my
force, dre,v her to,vards the door :-' You must go with
me; indeed you 111ust.'
"In her fright she half resisted my efforts, and again
exclaimed, 'Good heaven! ,vhat is it you mean? Where
go ? What has happened? Ilave you found Clara ?'
" , Follow me, and you will see,' I answered, still urging
her reluctant steps forward.
" 'What frenzy has seized you? Something must needs
have happened. Is she sick? Ilave you found her?'
" , Come and see. F ollo,v me, and know for yourself.'
"Still she expostulated, and besought me to explain
this mysterious behaviour. I could not trust myself
to answer her, to look at her; but, grasping her arm, I drew
her after me. She hesitated, rather through confusion
of mind than from unwillingness to accompany me. This
confusion gradually abated, and she moved forward, but
with irresolute footsteps and continual exclamations of
wonder and terror. Iler interrogations of 'what was
the matter?' and' whither was I going?' were ceaseless
and vehement.
" It was the scope of my efforts not to think; to keep
up a conflict and uproar in my mind in which all order
and distinctness should be lost; to escape from the sensa..
tions produced by her voice. I was therefore silent. I
strove to abridge this interval by my haste, and to waste
all my attention in furious gesticulations.
"In this state of mind we reached my sister's door.
She looked at the windows and sa,v that all was desolate.
, Why come we here? There is nobody here. I will not
. ,
go In.
"Still I was dumb; but, opening the door, I drew her
into the entry. This ,vas the allotted scene; here she was
to fall. I let go her hand, and, pressing my palms against
my forehead, made one mighty effort to work up my soul
to the deed.
"In vain; it would not be; my courage was appalled,

THE TRANSFORlIfA TION.

18 9

my arms nerveless. I nluttered prayers that my strength
might be aided froln above. They availed nothing.
"Horror diffuseù itself oyer me. This conviction of
my cowarùice, my rebellion, fastened upon me, and I
stood rigid anù cold as marble. From thi
state I was
somewhat relievetl by my wife's voice, who renewed her
suppJications to be told ,,-hy ,ve can1e hither and what
was the fate of my sister.
"What could I answer? My words were broken and
inarticulate. Her fears naturally acquired force from
the observation of these symptoms; but these fears were
misplaced. The only inference she deduced from my
conduct was that some terrible mishap had befallen Clara..
"She wrung her hands, and exclaimed, in an agony,
'Oh, tell me, ",.here is she? What has become of her?
Is she sick? Dead? Is she in her chamber? Oh, let
me go thither and kno,,,, the "\yorst !'
"This proposal set my thoughts once more in motion.
Perhaps what nlY rebellious heart refused to perform
here, I might obtain strength enough to execute elsewhere.
" 'Come, then,' said I; 'let us go.'
" 'I will, but not in the dark. We must first procure
a light.'
'" Fly, then, and procure it; but, I charge you, linger
not. I will a wai t for your return.'
"While she was gone, I strode along the entry. The
fellness of a gloomy hurricane but faintly resembled the
discord that reigned in my mind. To on1it this sacrifice
must not be; yet my sinews had refused to perform it.
No alternative ,vas offered. To rebel against the man-
date was impossible; but obedience would render n1e the
executioner of my ,vife. 1VI y "Till was strong, but my
lilnbs refused their office.
"She returned ,vith a light. I led the way to the
chamber: she looked round her; she lifted the curtain
of the bed; she saw nothing.
"At length she fixed inquiring eyes upon me. The
light now enabled her to dibcover in my visage ,vhat dark-
ness had hitherto concealed. lIeI' cares were no,v trans-
ferred from my sister to myself, and she said, in a tremu-

19 0

WIELAND; OR,

lous voice, (Wieland, you are not ,,'cll: what ails you?
Can I do nothing for you?'
"That accents and looks so winning should disarm
me of my resolution, was to be expected. My thoughts
were thrown anew into anarchy. I spread my hand
before my eyes that I might not see her, and answered
only by groans. She took my other hand between hers,
and, pressing it to her heart, spoke with that voice whicb
had ever swayea my will and wafted away sorrow:-
" 'My friend! my soul's friend! tell me thy cause of
grief. Do I not merit to partake ,vith thee in thy cares?
Am I not thy wife?'
" This was too much. I broke from her embrace, and
retired to a corner of the room. In this pause, courage
was once more infused into me. I resolved to 'execute
my duty. She follo\ved lne, and rene,ved her passionate
entreaties to kno,v the cause of my distress.
"I raised my head and regarded her with steadfast
looks. I muttered something about death, and the in

junctions of my duty. At these words she shrunk back,
and looked at me with a new expression of anguish.
After a pause, she clasped her hands, and exclaimed,-
" 'Oh, Wieland! Wieland! God grant that I am mis-
taken! but something surely is wrong. I see it; it is
too plain; thou art undone,-lost to me and to thyself.'
At the same time she gazed on my features with intensest
anxiety, in hope that different sYlnptorns ,vould take
place. I replied to her with vehemence,--
" , Undone ! No; my duty is kno,vn, and I thank my
God that my cowardice is now vanquished, and I have
power to fulfil it. Catharine, I pity the 'veakness of
thy nature; I pity thee, but must not spare. Thy life
is claimed from my hands; thou must die !'
"Fear was now added to her grief. 'What Inean you?
Why talk you of death? Bethink yourself, "\Vieland;
bethink yourself, and this fit will pass. Oh, ,vhy came I
hither? Why did you drag me hither?'
" 'I brought thee hither to fulfil a divine command.
I am appointed thy destroyer, and destroy thee I must.'
Saying this. I seized her wrists. She shrieked aloud,

THE TRfl1VSFORllld TI01V.

19 1

and endeavoured to free herself from 111Y grasp; but her
efforts were vain.
" 'Surely, surely, Wieland, thou clost net mean it.
Am I not thy wife? and wouldst thou kill rne? Thou
wilt not; and yet-I see-thou art 'Vieland no longer!
A fury resistless and horrible possesses thee :-spare me
-spare-help-help-'
"Till her breath was stopped she shrieked for help,-
for mercy. 'Vhen she could speak no longer, her gestures,
her looks, appealed to my compassion. 1\iy accursed
hand was irresolute and tremulous. I meant thy death
to be sudden, thy struggles to be brief. Alas! my heart
was infirm, my resolves mutable. Thrice I slackened
my grasp, and life kept its hold, though in the midst of
pangs. Her eyeballs started from their sockets. Grim-
ness and distortion took place of all that used to bewitch
me into transport and subdue me into reverence.
"I was con1missioned to kill thee, but not to torment
thee with the foresight of thy death; not to multiply
thy fears and prolong thy agonies. IIaggard, and pale,
and lifeless, at length thou ceasedst to contend ,,
ith thy
destiny.
" This was a moment of triumph. Thus had I success-
fully subdued the stubbornness of human passions: the
victim which had been demanded ,va.s given; the deed
was done past recall.
"I lifted the corpse in my arms and laid it on the
bed. I gazed upon it ,vith delight. Such ""as the ela

tion of my thoughts, that I even broke into laughter. I
clapped my hands and exclaimed, 'It is done! My sacred
duty is fulfilled! To that I have sacrificed, 0 my God!
thy last anù best gift, my ,vife!'
"For a while I thus soared above frailty. I imagined
I had set myself forever beyond the reach of selfishness;
but my imaginations ""ere false. This rapture quickly
subsided. I looked again at my ,,-ife.
Iy joyous ebul-
litions vanished, and I asked myself who it ,vas ,vhom
I saw. Methought it could not be Catharine. It could
not be the ,vornan ,vho had lodged for years in my heart;
who had slept nightly in Iny bosom; ,,-ho had borne
in her ,,-olnb, ,yho had fostered at her breast, the beings

'9 2

WIEL,AND,. OR,

who called me father; 'Vh01l1 I had ,vaìc}lcd ,vith delight,
and cherished with a fondness ever nc,v and perpetual1y
growing: it could not be thc sanlC.
"Where was hcr blooln? Thesc deadly and blood-
suffused orbs but ill resemble the azure and ecstatic ten-
derness of her eyes. The lucid stream that meandered
over that bosom, the glow of love that was wont to sit
upon that cheek, are much unlike these livid stains and
this hideous deformity. Alas! these 'vere the traces of
agony; the gripe of the assassin had been here!
"I will not d,vell upon my lapse into desperate and
outrageous sorrow. The breath of heaven that sus-
tained me ,vas váthdrawn, and I sunk into 7nere man.
I leaped froiH the floor; I dashed my head against the
wall; I uttered screams of horror; I panted after tor-
ment and pain. Eternal fire, and the bickerings of
hell, compared with what I felt, were music and a bed
of roses.
" I thank my God that this degeneracy was transient,
-that he deigned once more to raise me aloft. I
thought upon ,vhat I had done as a sacrifice to duty,

nd was caln
. My ,vife was dead; but I reflected that
though this source of human consolation ,vas closed, yet
others were still open. If the transports of a husband
were no more, the feelings of a father had still scope for
exercise. When remembrance of their mother should
excite too keen a pang, I ,vould look upon them and be
comforted.
"While I revolved these ideas, ne,v ,varmth flowed in
upon my heart-I was wrong. These feelings were the
growth of selfishness. Of this I was not aware, and, to
dispel the mist that obscured my perceptions, a new efful-
gence anà a new mandate were necessary.
"From these thoughts I ,vas recalled by a ray that
was shot into the room. A voice spake like that which
I had before heard :-' Thou hast done well. But all is
not done-the sacrifice is incomplete-thy children must
be offered-they must perish with their mother!- ,,,

CHAPTER XX.

WILL you wonder that I read no further? 'ViII you
not rather be astonished that I read thus far? What
power supported me through such a task I know not.
Perhaps the doubt from which I could not disengage my
mind-that the scene here depicted was a dream-con-
tributed to my perseverance. In vain the solemn intro-
duction of my uncle, his appeals to my fortitude. anJ
allusions to something monstrous in the events he was
about to disclose,-in vain the distressful perplexity, the
mysterious silence and ambiguous ans,vers, of n1Y attend-
ants, especially ,vhen the condition of my brother was
the theme of my inquiries,-,vere remembered. I re-
called the interview ,vith 'Vieland in my chamber, his
preternatural tranquillity succeeded by bursts of passion
and menacing actions. All these coincided "ith the
tenor of this paper.
Catharine and her children, and Louisa, were dead.
The act that destroyed them was in the highest degree
inhuman. It was ,vorthy of savages trained to murder
and exulting in agonies.
'Vho ,vas the performer of the deed? "\Vieland! My
brother! The husband and the father! That man of
gentle virtues and invincible benignity! placable and
mild,-an idolater of peace! " Surely," said I, "it is
a drean1. For many days have I been vexed with
frenzy. Its dominion is still felt; but new forms are
called up to diversify and augment my torments."
The paper dropped from my hand, and my eyes fol-
!o,ved it. I shrunk back, as if to a void some petrifJring
Influence that approached me. l\Iy tongue ,vas mute;
all the functions of nature were a.t a stand, and I sunk
upon the floor lifeless.
13 193

194

WIELAND,. OR,

The noise of my fall, as I after\vards heard, alarmed
my uncle, who ,vas in a lower apartment, and whose
apprehensions had detained him. He hastened to my
chamber, and adlninistered the assistance which my con-
dition required. When I opened my eyes I beheld him
before Inc. IIis skill as a reasoner as ,veIl as a physician
was exerted to obviate the injurious effects of this dis..
closure; but he had wrongly estimated the strength of
Iny body or of my mind. This new shock brought me
once more to the brink of the grave, and my malady
was much more difficult to subdue than at first.
I will not dwell upon the long train of dreary sensa..
tions, and the hideous confusion of my understanding
Time slowly restored its customary firn1ness to my franle
and order to my thoughts. The images impressed upon
my mind by this fatal paper were some,vhat effaced by
my malady. They were obscure and disjointed, like the
parts of a dream. I was desirous of freeing my imagi-
nation from this chaos. For this end I questioned my
uncle, who was my constant con1panion. He was in-
timidated by the issue of his first experiment, and took
pains to elude or discourage my inquiryot My impe-
tuosity sometin1es compelled him to ha.ve resort to lnis-
representations and untruths.
Time effected that end, perhaps, in a more beneficial
manner. In the course of my meditations the recollec-
tions of the past gradually became more distinct. I
revolved them, however, in silence, and, being no longer
accompanied with surprise, they did not exercise a death-
dealing power. I had discontinued the perusal of the
paper in the midst of the narrative; but what I rea(l,
combined with information elsewhere obtained, threw.
perhaps, a sufficient light upon these detestable trans-
actions; yet my curiosity was not inactive. I desired to
peruse the remainder.
My eagerness to know the particulars of this tale was
mingled and abated by my antipathy to the scene which l
would be disclosed. lienee I employed no means to
effect my purpose. I desired knowledge, and, at the
same time, shrunk back froD1 receiving the boon.
One morning, being left alone, I rose from my be(l,

TIfE 7 RAiVSFORlIIA TION.

195

a.nd went to a dra,ycr ,vhere my finer clothing used to be
kept. I opened it, and this fatal paper saluted n1Y sight.
I snatched it involuntarily, and \vithdre"T to a chair. I
debated, for a few minutes, ,vhether I should open and
react N O\V that my fortitude ,vas put to trial, it failed.
I felt myself incapable of deliberately surveying a scene
of so much horror. I ,vas prompted to return it to its
place; but this resolution gave way, and I determined
to peruse some part of it. I turned over the leaves tiI1
I came near the conclusion. The narrative of the cri.
minal was finished, the verdict of guilt,lJ reluctantly 'pro-
nounced by the jury, and the accused interrogated why
sentence of death should not pass. The answer was
brief, solemn, and emphatica1.
"No. I have nothing to say. J\Iy tale has been
told.
Iy motives have been truly stated. If my judges
are unable to discern the purity of my intentions, or to
credit the statement of them which I have just made;
if they see not that lny deed ,ras enjoined by heaven,
that obedience was the test of perfect virtue, and the
extinction of selfishness and error, they must pronounce
me a murderer.
" They refuse to credit my tale; they impute my acts
to the influence of demons; they account me an ex-
ample of the highest wickedness of which human nature
is capable; they doom me to death and infan1Y. IIave
I power to escape this evil? If I have, be sure I will
exert it. I will not accept evil at their hand, ,rhen I am
entitled to good; I will suffer only ,yhen I cannot elude
suffering.
"You say that I am guilty. Impious and rash! thus
to usurp the prerogatives of your l\Iaker! to set up your
bounded views and halting reason as the measure of
truth!
"Thou, Omnipotent and IIoly! Thou kno\vest that
my actions were conforlnable to thy ,viII. I know not
,vhat is crime; \,hat actions are evil in their ultimate
and comprehensive tendency, or ,,
hat are good. Thy
kno\vledge, as thy po,vcr, is unlimited. I have taken
thee for my guide, and cannot err. To the arms of thy

19 6

IJTIELAND,. OR,

protection I intrust my safety. In the awards of t1JY
justice I confide for my reconlpense.
"Come death when it will, I am safe. Let calumny
and abhorrence pursue me among men; I shall not be
defrauded of my dues. The peace of virtue, and the
glory of obedience, will be my portion hereafter."
Here ended the speaker. I withdrew my eyes from
the page; but, before I had time to reflect on what I
had read, Mr. Can1bridge entere-d the roon1. He quickly
perceived ho\v I had been employed, and betrayed some
solicitude respecting the condition of my mind.
Ilis fears, however, were superfluous. What I ha.d road
threw me into a state not easily described. Anguish and
fury, however, had no part in it. My faculties were
chained up in wonder and awe. Just then, I was unable
to speak. I looked at my friend \vith an air of inquisi-
tiveness, and pointed at the roll. lie comprehended my
inquiry, and answered me with looks of gloomy acqui-
escence. After some time, my thoughts found their way
to my lips.
Such, then, were the acts of my brother. Such were
his words. For this he was condemned to die; to die
upon the gallows! A fate cruel and unmerited! "And
is it so?" continued I, struggling for utterance, which
this new idea made difficult; "is he-dead ?"
" No. He is alive. There could be no doubt as to
the cause of these excesses. They originated in sudden
madness; but that madness continues, and he is condemned
to perpetual imprisonment."
"Madness, say you? Are you sure ? Were not these
sights and these sounds really seen and heard ?"
My uncle was surprised at my question. He looked
at me with apparent inquietude. "Can you doubt,"
said he, "that these were illusions? Does heaven, think
you, interfere for such ends ?"
" Oh, no; I think it not. IIeaven cannot stimulate
to such unheard-of outrage. The agent was not good,
but eviL"
"Nay, my dear girl," said my friend, "lay aside these
fancies. Neither angel nor devil had any part in this
æ. "
au.alr.

THE TRANSþ'ORllL-l TION.

197

" Y J U nlisundcrstand me," I answered; "I believe
the agency to be external and re
l, but not super-
natural. "
"Indeed!" said he, in an accent of surprise. "'Vhom
(10 you then suppose to be the agent ?"
"I know not. All is wildering conj ecture. I cannot
forget Carwin. I cannot banish the suspicion that he
,vas the setter of these snares. But how can we suppose
it to be madness? Did insanity ever before assume this
form ?"
"Frequently. The illusion, in this case, was more
dreadful in its consequences than any that has come to my
knowledge; but I repeat that similar illusions are not
rare. Did you never hear of an instance which occurred
in your mother's family?"
"No. I beseech you, relate it. My grandfather's
death I have understood to have been extraordinary, but
I kno,v not in what respect. A brother, to whom he
was much attached, died in his youth; and this, as I have
heard, influenced, in some remarkable ,yay, the fate of
my grandfather; but I am unacquainted ,,
ith particu-
lars."
"On the death of that brother," resumed my friend,
" my father ,vas seized with dejection, which ,vas found to
flow from t"\\o sources. He not only grieved for the loss
of a friend, but entertained the belief that his own death
would be inevitably consequent on that of his brother.
lIe ,vaited from day to day in expectation of the stroke
,vhich he predicted ,vas speedily to fall upon him. Gradu-
ally, ho"\\
ever, he recovered his cheerfulness and confidence.
lIe married, and perforlned his part in the world with
spirit and activity. At the end of twenty-one years it
happened that he spent the summer y."ith his family at a
house which he possessed on the sea-coast in Corn,vall.
It was at no great distance from a cliff which overhung
the ocean and rose into the air to a great height. The
summit was level and secure, and easily ascended on the
land side. The cOlnpany frequently repaired hither i

clear weather, invited by its pure airs and extensive
prospects. One evening in June my father, 1vith his ,,,ife
anù some friends, chanced to be on this spot. E'TCI).

19 8

WIELAND,. OR,

one was happy, and my father's ilnagination seemed
particularly alive to the grandeur of the scenery.
"Suddenly, ho,vever, his lilnbs trembled and his features
betrayed alarm. lIe thre,v himself into the attitude of
one listening. lIe gazed earnestly in a direction in which
nothing was visible to his friends. This lasted for a
minute; then, turning to his companions, he told them
that his brother had just delivered to him a summons,
,vhich must be instantly obeyed. lIe then took a hasty
and solemn leave of each person, and, before their sur-
prise would allow them to understand the scene, he rushed
to the edge of the cliff, threw himself headlong, and was
seen no more.
"In the course of my practice in the German army,
many cases equally remarkable have occurred. Unques-
tionably the illusions were maniacal, though the vulgar
thought otherwise. They are all reducible to one class, *
and are not more difficult of explication and cure than
most affections of our frame."
This opinion my uncle endeavoured, by various means,
to impress upon me. I listened to his reasonings and
illustrations with silent respect. My astonishment was
great on finding proofs of an influence of which I had
8upposed there were no examples; but I was far from
accounting for appearances in my uncle's manner. Ideas
thronged into my mind which I was unable to disjoin or
to regulate. I reflected that this madness, if madness
it were, had affected Pleyel and myself as well as Wieland.
Pleyel had heard a mysterious voice. I had seen and heard.
A form had showed itself to me as well as to Wie]and.
The disclosure had been made in the same spot. The
appearance was equally complete and equally prodigious
in both instances. Whatever supposition I should adopt,
had I not equal reason to tremble? What ,vas my secu-
rity against influences equally terrific and equally irre-
sistible ?
It would be vain to attempt to describe the state of
. mind ,vhich this idea produced. I wondered at the change

* Mania lnutabili
. See Darwlll'ö rzoonomia, vol. ii. Class III. 1, 2,
where sitnilar cases are stateù.

THE TR,,1.J.\TSFOR1JIA TION.

199

which a moment had effected in my brother's conditioDe
Now was I stupefied with tenfold wonder in contemplatin

myself. 'Vas I not like,vise tran
formed from rational
and hun1an into a creature of namele::;s and fearful attri-
butes ? 'Vas I not transported to the brink of the same
abyss? Ere a new day should come, my hands might be
imbrued in blood, and my relnaining life be consigned to
a dungeon and chains.
"Tith lnoral sensibility like mine, no wonder that this
new drea(l was more insupportable than the anguish I
had lately endured. Grief carries its own antidote along
with it. "Then thought becomes merely a vehicle of
pain, its progress must be stopped. Death is a cure
which nature or ourselves must administer. To this cure
I now looked for"
ard ,yith gloomy satisfaction.
1\Iy silence could not conceal from my uncle the state
of my thoughts. lIe nlade uI1,vearied efforts to divert
my attention from vie"
s so pregnant ,yith danger. His
efforts, aided by time, were in some measure successful.
Confidence in the strength of my resolution and in the
healthful state of my faculties ,vas once more revived.
I ,yas able to devote my thoughts to my brother's state
and the causes of this disastrous proceeding.

Iy opinion
,yere the sport of eternal change. Some-
times I conceived the apparition to be more than human.
I had no grounds on ,,-hich to build a disbelief. I could
not deny faith to the evidence of my religion; the testi-
mony of men ,ras loud and unanimous: both these con-
curred to persuade me that evil spirits existed, and that
their energy ,,-as frequently exerted in the system of the
world.
These ideas connected themsel
Tes with the image of
Carwin. ""There is the proof," said I, "that demons may
nut be subjected to the control of men? This truth may
be distorted and debased in the minds of the ignorant.
The dogmas of the vulgar ,,
ith regard to this subject are
glaringly absurd; but, though these may ju:;tly be neg-
lected by the ,vise, we are scarcely justified in totally
rejecting the possibility that men may obtain super-
natural aid.
"..
rht. ,lreallls of superstition are ,vorthy of contelllpt.

200

WIELA4.ND.

Witchcraft, its instruments and miracles, the compact
ratified by a bloody signature, the apparatus of sulphur-
cous sllleUs and thundering explosions, are monstrous
and chilnerical. These have no part in the scene over
,vhich the genius of Garwin presides. That conscious
beings, dissimilar from human, but moral and voluntary
agents as we are, sOlnewhere exist, can scarcely be denied.
That their aid may be employed to benign or malignant
purposes cannot be disproved.
"Darkness rests upon the designs of this man. The
extent of his power is unkno,vn: but is there not evi-
dence that it has been no,v exerted ?"
I recurred to my own experience. Here Garwin had
actually appeared upon the stage; but this was in a
human character. A voice and a form were discovered;
but one was apparently exerted, and the other disclosed,
not to befriend, but to counteract, Garwin's designs.
There ,vere tokens of hostility, and not of alliance
between them. Garwin was the miscreant whose pro-
jects were resisted by a minister of heaven. How can
this be reconciled to the stratagem which ruined my
brother? There the agency was at once preternatural
and malignant.
The recollection of this fact led my thoughts into a
new channel. The malignity of that influence which
governed my brother had hitherto been no subject of
doubt. His wife and children were destroyed; they
had expired in agony and fear: yet was it indisputably
certain that their murderer was criminal? lIe was ac-
quitted at the tribunal of his own conscience; his be-
haviour at his trial, and since, was faithfully reported to
me; appearances were uniform; not for a moment did
he lay aside the majesty of virtue; he repelled all invec-
tives by appealing to the Deity and to the tenor of his
past life. Surely there was truth in this appeal: none
but a command from heaven could have swayed his will;
and nothing but unerring proof of divine approbation
could sustain his mind in its present elevation.

CHAPTER XXI.

SUCH, for some time, ",vas the course of my medita-
tions.
Iy weakness, and my aversion to be pointed out
as an object of surprise or compassion, prevented me
from going into public. I studiously avoided the visits
of those who came to express their sympathy or gratify
their curiosity. 1\fy uncle was my principal companion.
Nothing more powerfully tended to console me than his
conversation.
'Vith regard to Pleyel, my feelings seemed to have
undergone a total revolution. It often happens that one
passion supplants another. Late disasters had rent my
heart, and, now that the wound was in some degree
closed, the love which I had cherished for this man
seemed likewise to have vanished.
IIitherto, indeed, I had had no cause for despair. I
was innocent of that offence which had estranged him
from Iny presence. I might reasonably expect that my
innocence would at some time be irresistibly denlon-
Btrated, and his affection for me be revived with his
esteem. Now my aversion to be thought culpable by
him continued, but ,ras unattended with the same impa-
tience. I desired the removal of his suspicions, not for
the sake of regaining his love, but because I delighted
in the veneration of so excellent a man, and because he
himself would derive pleasure from conviction of my
integrity.
l\ly uncle had early informed me that Pleyel and he
had seen each other since the return of the latter from
Europe. Amidst the topics of their conversation, I dis-
coyered that Pleyel had carefully olnitted the menti0n
of those events 'which had dra'Vll upon me so much ab-
201

202

WIELAND
' OR,

horrence. I could not account for his silence on this
subject. Perhaps time or some new discovery had
altered or shaken his opinion. Perhaps he was unwil-
ling, though I were guilty, to injure me in the opinion
of my venerable kinsman. I understood that he had
frequently visited lne during my disease, ha.d watched
many successive nights by my bedside, and manifested
the utlnost anxiety on my account.
The journey which he was prepa.ring to take, at the
termination of our last intervie,v, the catastrophe of the
ensuing night induced him to delay. The motives of
this journey I had till no,v totally mistaken. They were
eXplained to me by my uncle, whose tale excited my
astonishment ,vithout awakening my regret. In a dif-
ferent State of mind, it would have added unspeakably
to my distress, but now it was more a source of pleasure
than pain. This, perhaps, is not the least extraordinary
of the facts contained in this narrative. It will excite
less wonder when I add that lllY indifference was tempo-
rary, and that tbe lapse of a few days showed me that
my feelings were deadened for a tiIne, rather than finally
extinguished.
Theresa de Stolberg was alive. She had conceived
the resolution of seeking her lover in America. To con-
ceal her flight, she had caused the report of her death
to be propagated. She put herself under the conduct
of Bertrand, the faithful servant of PleyeL The packet
which the latter received from the hands of his servant
contained the tidings of her safe arrival at Boston, and
to meet her there ,vas the purpose of his journey.
This discovery had set this man's character in a new
light. I had mistaken the heroism of friendship for the
frenzy of love. He who had gained my affections may
be supposed to have previously entitled hilnself to my
reverence; but the levity which had forlnerly charac-
terized the behaviour of this lllan tended to obscure the
greatness of his sentiments. I did not fail to remark
that, since this lady was still alive, the voice in the
temple ,vhich asserted her death must either have been
intended to deceive, or have been itself deceived. The
latter supposition ,va
ineonsi"5tent ,vith the notion of a

THE TRANSFORfiIATION.

20 3

spiritual, and the former ,vith that of a benevolent,
being.
When nlY disease abated, Pleyel had forborne his
visits, and had lately set out upon this journey. This
amounted to a proof that my guilt was still believed
by him. I ,ras grieved for his errors, but trusted that
my vindication would, sooner or later, be made.
l\leanwhilc, tumultuous thoughts were again set afloat
by a proposal made to me by my uncle. lIe Ï1llagined
that new airs would restore my languishing constitution,
and a varied succession of objects tend to repair the
shock ,vhich lilY mind had received. For this end, he
proposed to me to take up my abode ,,"ith him in France
or Italy.
At a more prosperous period, this schelne ,vould have
pleased for its o,vn sake. Now Il1Y heart sickened at
the prospect of nature. The world of man was shrouded
in n1Î;:;ery and blood, and constituted a loathsome spec-
tacle. 1 willingly closed my eyes in sleep, and regretted
that the respite it afforded me ,vas so short. I marked
with satisfaction the progress of decay in my frame,
and consented to live, nlerely in the hope that the course
of nature ,voulcl speedily relieve me from the burden.
Nevertheless, as he persisted in his scheme, I concurred
in it 111erely because he ,vas entitled to IllY gratitude,
and because my refusal gave him pain.
No sooner ,vas he inforIlled of my consent, than he
told me I must make immediate preparation to embark,
as the ship in which he had engaged a passage ,vould be
ready to depart in three days. This expedition ,vas
unexpected. There ,vas an impatience in his manner,
,vhen he urged the necessity of despatch, that excited
my surprise. \Vhen I questioned hiIn as to the cause
of this haste, he generally stated reasons which, at that
time, I could not deny to be plausible, but which, on the
revie,v, appeared insufficient. I suspected that the true
motives were concealed, and believed that these motives
had some connection ,vith my brother's destiny.
I no,v recollected that the information respecting
'Vieland \vhich had frolll tillle to time been imp
ll
ted te
IHe ,,,as al \vays accompanied ,vith airs of reserve and

20 4

WIELAND/ OR,

mysteriousness. "\Vhat had appeared sufficiently ex-
plicit at the time it was uttered, I now remembered to
have been faltering and ambiguous. I was resolved to
remove my doubts by visiting the unfortunate n1an in
his dungeon. Heretofore the idea of this visit had oc-
curred to me; but the horrors of his dwelling-place, his
wild yet placid physiognomy, his neglected locks, the
fetters which constrained his limbs, terrible as they were
in description, ho,v could I endure to behold?
Now, however, that I ,vas preparing to take an ever-
lasting farewell of my country, no,v that an ocean was
henceforth to separate me from him, how could I part
without an interview? I would examine his situation
with my own eyes. I would know whether the repre-
sentations which had been made to me ,vere true. Per-
haps the sight of the sister \vhom he ,vas wont to love
with a passion more than fraternal Illight have an auspi-
cious influence on his malady.
Having formed this resolution, I waited to cOIllmuni-
cate it to Mr. Cambridge. I was aware that ,vithout his
concurrence I could not hope to carry it into execution,
and could discover no objection to which it was liable.
If I had not been deceived as to his condition, no incon-
venience could arise from this proceeding. IIis consent,
therefore, would be the test of his sincerity.
I seized this opportunity to state my wishes on this
head. My suspicions were confirmed by the manner in
,vhich my request affected him. After some pause, in
,vhich his countenance betrayed every mark of per-
plexity, he said to Ille, "Why would you pay this visit?
What useful purpose can it serve ?"
" We are preparing," said I, " to leave the country
forever. What kind of being should I be to leave be...
hind me a brother in calamity without even a parting
interview? Indulge me for three minutes in the sight
of him. My heart will be much easier after I bave
looked at him and shed a few tears in his presence."
"I believe otherwise. The sight of him would only
auglIlcnt your distress, without contributing, in any
degree, to his benefit..'
"I know not that," returned I. " Surely the sym-

THE TRANSFORMA TION.

205

pathy of his sister, proofs that her tenderness is as lively
as ever, must be a source of satisfaction to him. At
present he must regard all mankind as his enemies and
calumniators. His sister he, probably, conceives to par-
take in the general infatuation, and to join in the cry of
abhorrence that is raised against him. To be unde-
ceived in this respect, to be assured that, however I may
impute his conduct to delusion, I still retain all my
former affection for his person and veneration for the
purity of his motives, cannot but afford him pleasure.
When he hears that I have left the country without even
the ceremonious attention of a visit, "That will he think
of me? His magnanimity may hinder him froln re-
pining, but he ,viII surely consider my behaviour as
savage and unfeeling. Indeed, dear sir, I lnust pay this
visit. To clnbark ,vith you without paying it ,vill be
impossible. It may be of no service to him, but will
enable me to acquit myself of what I cannot but esteem
a duty. Besides," continued I, "if it be a mere fit of
insanity that has seized him, may not my presence
chance to have a salutary influence? The mere sight of
me, it is not impossible, may rectify his perceptions."
"Ay," said my uncle, with some eagerness; "it is by
no means impossible that your interview may have that
effect; and for that reason, beyond all others, would I
dissuade you from it."
I expressed my surprise at this declaration. "Is it
not to be desired that an error so fatal as this should be
rectified ?"
"I wonder at your question. Reflect on the conse-
q uences of this error. lIas he not destroyed the wife
,vhom he loved, the children ,vhom he idolized? What
is it that enables him to bear the remembrance but the
belief that he acted as his duty enjoined? 'V ould you
rashly bereave him of this belief? "\V ould you restore
him to himself, and convince him that he ,vas instigated
to this dreadful outrage by a perversion of his organs,
or a delusion froln hell?
"Now his visions are joyous and elate. He conceive

himself to have reached a loftier degree of virtue than
any other human being. The merit of his sacrifice i:s

206

WIELAND; OR,

only enhanced, in the eyes of superior beings, by thE
detestation that pursues him here, and the sufferings tc
which he is cond
mned. The belief that even his sister
has deserted him, and gone over to his enemies, adds to
his sublimity of feelings, and his confidence in divine
approbation and future recompense.
"Let him be undeceived in this respect, and what
floods of despair and of horror will overwhelm him!
Instead of glowing approbation and serene hope, will he
not hate and torture himself? Self-violence, or a frenzy
far more savage and destructive than this, may be ex-
pected to succeed. I beseech you, therefore, to relin-
quish this scheme. If you cahnly reflect upon it, you
will discover that your duty lies in carefully shunning
h . "
1m.
Mr. Cambridge's reasonings suggested views to my
understanding that had not hitherto occurred. I could
not but admit their validity; but they showed in a ne,v
light the depth of that misfortune in which lilY brother
was plunged. I was silent and irresolute.
Presently I considered that whether ""Vieland was a
maniac, a faithful servant of his God, the victim of
hellish illusions, or the dupe of hUlnan imposture, was by
no means certain. In this state of my mind, it becaæe
me to be silent during the visit that I projected. This
visit should be brief; I should be satisfied ll1erely to
snatch a look at him. Admitting that a change in his
opinions were not to be desired, there ,vas no danger,
from the conduct which I should pursue, that this change
should be wrought.
But I could not conquer my uncle's aversion to this
schelne. Yet I persisted; and he found that, to make
llle voluntarily relinquish it, it was necessary to be more
explicit than he had hitherto been. He took both DIY
hands, and, anxiously exan1ining my countenance as he
spoke, "Clara," said he, "this visit must not be paid.
We must hasten VtTith the utmost expedition from this
shore. It is folly to conceal the truth from you; and,
since it is only by disclosing the truth that you can
be prevailed upon to lay aside this project, the truth
ßhall be told.

THE TRANSFORi1IA TION.

20 7

"Oh, my dear girl!" continued he, with increasing
energy in his accent, "your brother's frenzy is, indeed,
stupendous and frightful. The soul that formerly actu-
ated his frame has disappeared. The same form remains;
but the wise and benevolent 'Vieland is no more. A
fury that is rapacious of blood, that lifts his strength
almost above that of mortals, that bends all his energies
to the destruction of whatever was once dear to him,
possesses him wholly.
"Y ou must not enter his dungeon; his eyes will no
sooner be fixed upon you than an exertion of his force
will be made. He will shake off his fetters in a moment
and rush upon you. No interposition will then be strong
or quick enough to save you.
"The phantom that has urged him to the murder of
Catharine and her children is not yet appeased. Your
life, and that of Pleyel, are exacted from him by this
imaginary being. He is eager to comply ,yith this de-
mand. Twice he has escaped from his prison. The first
time, he no sooner found himself at liberty than he
hasted to Pleyel's house. It being midnight, the latter
was in bed. 'Vieland penetrated unobserved to his
chamber, and opened his curtain. Happily, Pleyel
awoke at the critical moment, and escaped the fury of
his kinsman by leaping from his chamber-window into
the court. IIappily he reached the ground without
injury. Alarms were given, and, after diligent search,
your brother was found in a chamber of your house,
whither, no doubt, he had sought you.
"I-lis chains, and the watchfulness of his guards, were
redoubled; but again, by some miracle, he restored him-
self to liberty. He was now incautiously apprized of
the place of your abode; and, had not information of
his escape been instantly given, your death would have
been added to the number of his atrocious acts.
"You now see the danger of your project. You must
not only forbear to visit him, but, if you would save him
from the crime of imbruing his hands in your blood, you
must leave the country. There is no hope that his
malady ,viII end but with his life, and no precaution will

208

WIEL..4ND; OR,

Insure your safety but that of placing the ocean between
you.
"I confess I came over with an intention to reside
among you; but these disasters have changed my views.
Y our own safety and my happiness require that you
should accompany me in my return, and I entreat you
to give your cheerful concurrence to this measure."
After these representations from my uncle, it was
impossible to retain my purpose. I readily consented
to seclude myself from Wieland's presence. I likewise
acquiesced in the proposal to go to Europe; not that 1
ever expected to arrive there, but because, since my
principles forbade me to assail my own life, change had
some tendency to make supportable the few days which
disease should spare to me.
What a tale had thus been unfolded! I was hunted
to death, not by one whom my misconduct had exaspe-
rated, who was conscious of illicit motives, and who
sought his end by circumvention and surprise; but by
one who deemed himself commissioned for this act by
heaven; who regarded this career of horror as the last
refinelnent of virtue; ,vhose implacability was propor

tioned to the reverence and love which he felt for me,

nd W?o was inaccessible to the fear of punishment and
IgnomIny.
In vain should I endeavour to stay his hand by urging
the claims of a sister or friend: these were his only
reasons for pursuing my destruction. IIad I been a
stranger to his blood; had I been the most worthless of
human kind; my safety had not been endangered.
" Surely," said I, "my fate is without example. The
frenzy which is charged upon Iny brother must belong to
myself. My foe is manacled and guarded; but I derive
no security from these restraints. I live not in a com-
munity of savages; yet, whether I sit or walk, go into
crowds or hide myself in solitude, my life is marked for
a prey to inhuman violence; I am in perpetual danger
of perishing; of perishing under the grasp of a brother."
I recollected the omens of this destiny; I remembered
the gulf to which my brother's invitation had conductefl
me; I remembered that, when on the brink of danger,

THE TRANSFORMA TION.

209

the author of my peril was depicteù by my fears in his
form. Thus realized were the creatures of prophetic
sleep and of ,vakeful terror!
These Ï1nages ,vere unavoidably connected ,vith that
of Carwin. In this paroxysm of distress, my attention
fastened on him as the grand deceiver; the author of
this black conspiracy; the intelligence that governed in
this storm.
Some relief is afforded in the midst of suffering, when
its author is discovered or imagined, and an object found
on which we may pour out our indignation and our ven-
geance. I ran over the events that had taken place
since lhe origin of our intercourse ,vith him, and re-
flected on the tenor of that description which was
received from Ludloe. Mixed up with notions of super-
natural agency were the vehement suspicions which I
entertained, that Carwin was the enemy ,vhose machina-
tions had destroyed us.
I thirsted for knowledge and for vengeance. I re-
garded my hasty departure with reluctance, since it
would remove me from the means by which this kno,v-
ledge might be obtained and this vengeance gratified.
This departure ,vas to take place in t,vo days. At the
end of two days I was to bid an eternal adieu to my
native country. Should I not pay a parting visit to the
scene of these disasters? Should I not bedew with my
tears the graves of my sister and her children? Should
I not explore their desolate habitation, and gather from
the sight of its walls and furniture food for my eternal
melancholy?
This suggestion was succeeded by a secret shuddering.
Some disastrous influence appeared to overhang the
scene. How many memorials should I meet with serv-
ing to recall the images of those I had lost!
I was tempted to relinquish my design, when it oc-
curred to me that I had left among my papers a journal
of transactions in short-hand. I ,vas employed in this
manuscript on that night when Pleyel's incautious cu-
riosity tempted him to look over my shoulder. I was
th(\n recording my adventure in the recess, an imperfect
sight of ,yhich led him into such fatal errors.
14

210

117IELAND.

I had regulated the disposition of all my property.
This manuscript, however, which contained the most
secret transactions of my life, I was desirous of destroy..
ïng. For this end I must return to my house, and this
I immediately .determined to do.
I was not willing to expose myself to opposition from
my friends, by mentioning my design; I therefore be-
spoke the use of Mr. Hallet's chaise, under pretence of
enjoying an airing, as the day was remarkably bright.
This request was gladly complied with, and I directed
the servant to conduct me to Mettingen. I dismissed
him at the gate, intending to use, in returning, a carriage
belonging to my brother.

CHAPTER XXII.

THE inhabitants of the HUT received me with a mix-
ture of joy and surprise. Their homely welcome, and
their artless sympathy, were grateful to my feelings. In
the midst of their inquiries as to my health, they avoided
all allusions to the source of my malady. They were
honest creatures, and I loved them well. I participated
in the tears which they shed when I mentioned to them
my speedy departure for Europe, and promised to ac-
quaint them with my welfare during my long absence.
They expressed great surprise when I informed them
of my intention to visit my cottage. Alarm and fore-
boding overspread their features, and they attempted to
dissuade me from visiting a house ,vhich they firmly be-
lieved to be haunted by a thousand ghostly apparitions.
These apprehensions, however, had no power over my
conduct. I took an irregular path ,vhich led me to my
own house. All ,vas vacant and forlorn. .L\. small en-
closure near which the path led was the burying-ground
belonging to the fami! y . This I was obliged to pass.
Once I had intended to enter it, and ponder on the em-
blems and inscriptions ,vhich my uncle had caused to be
made on the tombs of Catharine and her children; but
now my heart faltered as I approached, and I hastened
forward that distance might conceal it from my view.
When I approached the recess, my heart again sunk.
I averted my eyes, and left it behind me as quickly as
possible. Silence reigned through my habitation, and
a darkness which closed doors and shutters produced.
Every object was connected ,vith mine or my brother's
history. I passed the entry, mounted the stair, and UIl-
locked the door of my chamber. It was with difficulty
211

212

WIELAND,. OR,

that I curbed my fancy and slnothered my fears. Slight
movements and casual sounds were transformed into
beckoning shadows and calling shapes.
I proceeded to the closet. I opened and looked round
it with fearfulness. All things were in their accustomed
order. I sought and found the manuscript where I wa.s
used to deposit it. This being secured, there was no-
thing to detain me; yet I stood and contemplated a
while the furniture and walls of my chamber. I remem-
bered ho,v long this apartment had been a sweet and
tranquil asylum; I compared its former state with its
present dreariness, and reflected that I now beheld it for
the last time.
Here it was that the incomprehensible behaviour of
Carwin was witnessed; this the stage on which that
enemy of man showed himself for a moment unmasked.
IIere the menaces of murder were wafted to my ear;
and here these menaces were executed.
These thoughts had a tendency to take from me my
self-command. My feeble limbs refused to support me,
and I sunk upon a chair. Incoherent and half-articulate
exclamations escaped my lips. The name of Carwin
was uttered, and eternal woeS-1voes like that 1vhich his
malice had entailed upon us-were heaped upon him. I
invoked all-seeing hea.ven to drag to light and punish
this betrayer, and accused its providence for having thus
long delayed the retribution that was due to so enormous
a guilt.
I have said that the window-shutters were closed. A
feeble light, however, found entrance through the cre-
vices. A small window illuminated the closet, and, the
door being closed, a dim ray streamed through the key-
hole. A kind of twilight was thus created, sufficient for
the purposes of vision, but, at the same time, involving
all minuter objects in obscurity.
This darkness suited the colour of my thoughts. I
sickened at the remembrance of the past. The prospect
of the future excited my loathing. I muttered, in a low
voice, "Why should I live longer? 'Vhy should I drag
a n1iserable being? All for whom I ought to live have
perished. Am I not myself hunted to death ?"

THE Tl?ANSFORAL4 TIOiY.

21 3

At that moment my despair suddenly }Jccamp vigorous.
1\Iy nerves \vere no longer unstrung. l\iy pO\\Ters, tha

had long been deadened, were revived. ßly bosoln
8welled \vith a sudden energy, and the conviction darted
through my mind, that to end my torments was, at once,
practicable and wise.
r knew how to find way to the recesses of life. r
could use a lancet with some skill, and could distinguish
between vein and artery. By piercing deep into the
latter, r should shun the evils which the future had in
store for me, and take refuge from my \voes in quiet
death.
r started on my feet, for my feebleness was gone, and
hasted to the closet. A lancet and other small instru-
ments were preserved in a case which I had deposited
here. Inattentive as I was to foreign considerations,
my ears were still open to any sound of mysterious
import that should occur. I thought I heard a step in
t.he entry. l\Iy purpose was suspended, and I cast an
eager glance at my chamber door, which was open. No
one appeared, unless the shado\y \vhich I discerned upon
the floor was the outline of a man. If it were, I was
authorized to suspect that some one was posted close
to the entrance, who possibly had overheard my excla-
mations.
1\1 y teeth chattered, and a ,vild confusion took the
place of my momentary calm. Thus it was \vhen a ter-
rific visage had disclosed itself on a forlner night. Thus
it was \vhen the evil destiny of 'Vieland assumed the
lineaments of something human. 'Vhat horrid appari-
tion was preparing to blast my sight?
Still I listened and gazed. Not long, for the shadow
moved; a foot, unshapely and huge, was thrust forward;
a form advanced from its concealment, and stalked into
the room. It was Carwin !
While I had breath, I shrieked. "\Vhile r had power
over my muscles, r motioned \vith my hand that he
should vanish. l\ly exertions could not last long: I
sunk into a fit.
Oh that this grateful oblivion had lasted forever'
Too quickly I recovered my senses. The power of dis-

21 4

WIELAND,. OR,

tiLct VISIon ,vas no sooner restored to me, than this
hateful fOl'lIl again presented itself, and I once more
relapsed.
A second tin1e, untoward nature recalled me from the
sleep of death. I found myself stretched upon the bed.
When I had power to look up, I remenlbered only that
I had cause to fear. My distempered fancy fashioned
to itself no distinguishable image. I threw a languid
gla.nce round me: once more my eyes lighted upon
Carwin.
He was seated on the floor, his back rested against
the wall; his knees were drawn up, and his face was
buried in his hands. That his station was at some dis-
tance, that his attitude was not n1enacing, that his omi-
nous visage was concealed, may account for my now
escaping a shock violent as those which were past. I
withdrew my eyes, but was not again deserted by my
senses.
On perceiving that I had recovered my sensibility, he
lifted his head. This motion attracted my attention.
I-lis countenance was mild, but sorrow and astonishment
sat upon his features. I averted my eyes and feebly
exclaimed, "Oh, fly!-fly far and forever !-I cannot
behold you and live!"
lIe did not rise upon his feet, but clasped his hands,
and said, in a tone of deprecation, "I will fly. I am
become a fiend, the sight of whom destroys. Yet tell
me my offence! You have linked curses with my name;
you ascribe to me a malice monstrous and infernal. I
look around: all is loneliness and desert! This house
and your brother's are solitarya.nd dismantled! You
die away at the sight of me! l\fy fear whispers that
some deed of horror has been perpetrated; that I am
the undesigning cause."
What language was this? IIad he not avowed him-
self a ravisher? IIad not this chamber witnessed his
atrocious purposes? I besought him with new vehe-
mence to go.
Re lifted his eyes :-" Great heaven! ,vhat have I
d.one ? I think I kno,v the extent of my offences. I
have acted, but my actions have possibly effected more

THE TRANSFORMA TION.

2 I

J

than I de
igncd. This fear has brought me back from
my retreat. I come to repair the evil of ,vhich my rash-
ness was the cause, and to prevent more evil. I come
to confess my errors."
"'Vretch!" I cried, ,vhen my suffocating emotions
would permit me to speak, "the ghosts of my sister and
her children,-do they not rise to accuse thee? Who
was it that blasted the intellect of 'Vieland? Who
was it that urged him to fury and guided him to mur-
der? "Vho, but thou and the devil, with whom thou art
confederated ?"
At these words a new spirit pervaded his countenance.
His eyes once more appealed to heaven. "If I have
memory-if I have being-l am innocent. I intended
no ill; but my folly, indirectly aLd remotely, may have
caused it. But what ,vords are these? Your brother
lunatic! His children dead!"
"\Vhat should I infer from thi8 deportment? "\Vas the
ignorance which these words implied real or pretended?
Yet ho,v could I imagine a mere hUlllan agency in these
events? But, if the influence was preternatural or ma-
niacal in my brother's case, they must be equally so in
my own. Then I remembered that the voice exerted
was to save me from Carwin's attempts. These ideas
tended to abate my abhorrence of this man, and to de-
tect the absurdity of my accusations.
" Alas!" said I, " I have no one to accuse. Leave
me to my fate. Fly from a scene stained with cruelty,
devoted to despair."
Carwin stood for a time musing and mournful. At
length he said, ""\Vhat has happened? I came to ex-
piate my crimes. let me know them in their full extent.
I have horrible forebodings! 'Vhat has happened ?"
I ,vas silent; but, recollecting the intimation given by
this man when he was detected in my closet, which im-
plied some knowledge of that power which interfered in
my favour, I eagerly inquired, "What was that voice
which called upon me to hold ,vhen I attempted to open
the closet? "\Vhat face ,vas that which I saw at the
bottom of the stairs? Ans,ver me truly."
"I came to confess the truth. Y our allusions aTe

216

WIELAND,. OR,

horrible and strange. Perhaps I have but faint concep-
tions of the evils which my infatuation has produced;
but what renlains I will perform. It was 'IllY (voice that
you heard! It was my face that you saw!"
For a moment I doubted whether my remembrance
of events were not confused. IIow could he be at once
stationed at my shoulder and shut up in my closet?
IIow could he stand near me and yet be invisible?
But if Carwin's were the thrilling voice and the fiery
image which I had heard and seen, then was he the
prompter of my brother, and the author of these dismal
outrages.
Once more I averted my eyes and struggled for
speech :-" Begone! thou man of mischief! Remorse..
less and implacable miscreant, begone I"

"I will obey," said he, in a disconsolate voice; "yet,
wretch as I am, am I unworthy tø repair the evils that
I have committed? I came as a repentant criminal.
It is you whom I have injured, and at your bar am I
willing to appear and confess and expiate my crimes.
I have deceived you; I have sported with your terrors;
I have plotted to destroy your reputation. I come now
to remove your terrors; to set you beyond the reach of
similar fears; to rebuild your fame as far as I am able.
"This is the amount of my guilt, and this the fruit
of my remorse. Will you not hear me? Listen to my
confession, and then denounce punishment. All I ask
is a patient audience."
"What I" I replied; "was not thine the voice that
commanded my brother to imbrue his hands in the blood
of his children ?-to strangle that angel of sweetness,
his wife? Has he not vowed my death, and the death
of Pleyel, at thy bidding? Hast thou not made him the
butcher of his family?-changed him who was the glory
of his species into worse than brute ?-robbed him of
reason and consigned the rest of his days to fetters and
stripes ?"
Car,vin's eycs glared and his limbs were petrified at
this intelligence. No words were requisite to prove him
guiltlcns of these enorlllitics: at the time, ho,vever, I was
nearly insensible to these exculpatory tokens. He walked

THE TRANSFORMA TION.

21 7

to the farther end of the room, and, having recovered
some degree of composure, he spoke :-
"I am not this villain. I have slain no one; I have
prolnpted none to slay; I have handled a tool of wonder-
ful efficacy without Inalignant intentions, but without
caution. Ample will be the punislllnent of my temerity,
if my conduct has contributed to this evil." lie pauseù.
I likewise was silent. I struggled to command my-
self so far as to listen to the tale which he should tell.
Observing this, he continued:-
" You are not apprized of the existence of a power
which I possess. I know not by what name to call it. *
It enables me to mimic exactly the voice of another,
and to modify the sound so that it shall appear to come
from what quarter and be uttered at ,vhat distance I
please.
"I know not that everyone possesses this power.
Perhaps, though a casual position of my organs in my
youth showed me that I possessed it, it is an art which
may be taught to all. 'V ould to God I had died un-
kno,ving of the secret! It has produced nothing but
degradation and calamity.
"For a time the possession of so potent and stupendous

* Biloquium, or ventrilocution. Sound is varied according to the
variations of direction and distance. The art of the ventriloquist con-
sists in modifying his voice according tù all these variations, without
changing his place. See the work of the Abbé de la Chappelle, in
which are accurate1y recorded the performances of one of these
artists, and some ingenious though unsatisfactory speculations are
given on the means by which the effects are produced. This power
is, perhaps, given by nature, but is doubtle:-:s iIllprovable, if not ac-
quirable, by art. It may, possibly, con:
ist in an unusual flexibility
or extension of the bottom of the tongue and the uvula. That speech
is producible by these alone must be granted, since anatomists men-
tion two instances of persons speaking without a tongue. In one
case the organ W.1,S originally wanting, but its place was supplied by
a small tubercle, and the uvula was perfect. In the other the tongue
was destroyed by disease, but probably a small part of it remained.
This power is difficult to explain, but the fact is undeniable. Ex-
perience shows that the human voice can imitate the voice of all men
and of all inferior animals. The sound of musical instruments, and
even noises frOln the contact of inanimate substances, have been
ß,ccurate}y imitated. The Illimicry of animals is notorious; and Dr.
Burney ("
lu:::;ical Travcls") lllentions one who imitated a flut.e and
violin, so as to deceive even his ears.

218

WIELAND,. OR,

an endowment elated me with pride. Unfortified by
principle, subjected to poverty, stimulated by headlong
passions, I made this powerful engine subservient to the
supply of my wants and the gratification of my vanity.
I shall not mention how diligently I cultivated this gift,
which seemed capable of unlimited improvement; nor
detail the various occasions on which it was successfully
exerted to lead superstition, conquer avarice, or excite
awe.
"I left America, which is my native soil, in my youth.
I have been engaged in various scenes of life, in which
my peculiar talent has been exercised with lllore or less
success. I was finally betrayed, by one who called him-
self my friend, into acts ,vhich cannot be justified, though
they are susceptible of apology.
"The perfidy of this man compelled me to withdraw
from Europe. I returned to my native country, uncertain
whether silence and obscurity would save me from his
malice. I resided in the purlieus of the city. I put on
the garb and assumed the manners of a clown.
":!\tly chief recreation was walking. My principal
haunts were the lawns and gardens of Mettingen. In
this delightful region the luxuriances of nature had been
chastened by judicious art, and each successive con-
templation unfolded new enchantments.
"I was studious of seclusion; I was satiated with the
intercourse of mankind, and discretion required me to
shun their intercourse. For these reasons I long avoided
the observation of your family, and chiefly visited these
precincts at night.
"I was never weary of admiring the position and
ornaments of the temple. :!\tlany a night have I passed
under its roof, revolving no pleasing meditations. When,
in my frequent rambles, I perceived this apartment was
occupied, I gave a different direction to my steps. One
evening, when a shower had just passed, judging by the
silence that no one was within, I ascended to this building.
Glancing carelessly round, I perceived an open letter on
the pedAstal. To read it ,vas doubtless an offence against
politeness. Of this offence, however, I was guilty.
" Sçarcely had I gone half through ,vhcn I WUJS alarmed

THE TRANSFORiI-'IA TION.

21 9

by the approach of your brother. To scramble down
the cliff on the opposite side ,vas impracticable. I ,vas
unprepared to meet a stranger. Besides the a,vk,vard-
ness attending such an interview in these circumstances,
concealment was necessary to my safety. A thousand
times had I vo,veù never again to employ the dangerous
talent which I possessed; but such was the force of habit
and the influence of present convenience, that I used this
method of arresting his progress and leading him back
to the house, with his errand, whatever it was, un-
performed. I had often caught parts, from my station
below, of your conversation in this place, and was well
acquainted ,vith the voice of your sister.
"Some weeks after this I was again quietly seated in
this recess. The lateness of the hour secured llle, as I
thought, from all interruption. In this, ho,vever, I was
mistaken; for "\Vieland and Pleyel, as I judged by their
voices, earnest in dispute, ascended the hill.
"I waS not sensible that any inconvenience could
possibly have flo,ved from my former exertion; yet it was
followed with compunction, because it was a deviation
from a path ,vhich I had assigned to myself. Now my
aversion to this means of escape was enforced by an un-
authorized curiosity, and by the kno,vledge of a bushy
hollow on the edge of the hill, 'v here I should be safe
from discovery. Into this hollo,v I thrust myself.
" The propriety of removal to Europe ,vas the question
eagerly di
cussod. Pleyel intimated that his anxiety to
go was augmented by the silence of Theresa de Stolberg.
The telnptation to interfere in this dispute was irresist-
ible. In vain I contended with inveterate habits. I
disguised to myself the in1propriety of my conduct, by
recollecting the benefits ,vhich it might produce. Pleyel's
proposal ,vas un,vise, yet it was enforced ,vith plausible
arguments and indefatigable zeal. Your brother might
be puzzled and ,vearied, but could not be convinced. I
conceived that to terminate the controversy in favour of
the latter was conferring a benefit on all parties. For
this end I profited by an opening in the conversation,
and assured them of Catharine's irreconcilable aversion
to the scheme, and of the death of the Saxon barone8a.

220

WIELAND,. OR,

The latter event ,vas merely a conjecture, but rendered
extremely probable by Pleyel's representations. My
purpose, you need not be told, was effected.
"My passion for mystery, and a species of imposture,
which I deemed harmless, was thus awakened afresh.
This second lapse into error made my recovery more
difficult. I cannot convey to you an adequate idea of
the kind of gratification which I derived froln these ex-
ploits; yet I meditated nothing. My views were bounded
to the passing moment, and commonly suggested by the
momentary exigence.
"I must not conceal any thing. Your principles teach
you to abhor a voluptuous temper; but, with whatever
reluctance, I acknowledge this temper to be mine. You
imagine your servant Judith to be innocent as well as
beautiful; but you took her from a family where hypo-
crisy, as well as licentiousness, was ,vrought into a system.
My attention was captivated by her charms, and her
principles were easily seen to be flexible.
"Deem me not capable of the iniquity of seduction.
Your servant is not destitute of feminine and virtuous
qualities; but she was taught that the best use of her
charms consists in the sale of them. My nocturnal visits
to Mettingen were now prompted by a double view, and
my correspondence ,vith your servant gave me, at all
times, access to your house.
"The second night after our interview, so brief and so
little foreseen by either of us, some demon of mischief
seized me. According to my companion's report, your
perfections were little less than divine. Her uncouth
but copious narratives converted you into an object of
,vorship. She chiefly dwelt upon your courage, because
she herself was deficient in that quality. You held
apparitions and goblins in contempt. You took no pre-
cautions against robbers. You were just as tranquil and
secure in this lonely dwelling as if you were in the midst
of a crowd.
"Hence a vague project occurred to me to put this
courage to the test. A 'VOlnan capable of recollection
in danger, of warding off groundless panics, of discern-
ing the true mode of proceeding and profiting by her

THE 1" RANSFORAfA TION.

221

best resources, is a prodigy. I ,vas desirous of ascertain-
ing whether you were such a one.
"
Iy expedient was obvious and simple. I was to
counterfeit a murderous dialogue; but this was to be so
conducted that another, and not yourself, should appear
to be the object. I ,vas not aware of the possibility that
you should appropriate these menaces to yourself. Had
you been still and listened, you would have heard the
struggles a,nd prayers of the victim, who would likewise
have appeared to be shut up in the closet, and whose
voice would have been Judith's. This scene would have
been an appeal to your compassion; and the proof of
cowardice or courage which I expected from you would
have been your remaining inactive in your bed, or your
entering the closet with a vie,v to assist the sufferer.
Some instances which Judith related of your fearlessness
and promptitude -made me adopt the latter supposition
with some degree of confidence.
"By the girl's direction I found a ladder, and mounted
to your closet window. This is scarcely large enough
to admit the head, but it answered my purpose too well.
"I cannot express my confusion and surprise at your
abrupt and precipitate flight. I hastily removed the
ladder; and, after some pause, curiosity and doubts of
your safety induced me to follo,v you. I found you
stretched on the turf before your brother's door without
sense or motion. I felt the deepest regret at this unlooked-
for consequence of my scheme. I kne,v not \vhat to do
to procure you relief. The idea of awakening the family
naturally presented itself. This emergency was critical,
and there was no time to deliberate. It ,vas a sudden
tbought that occurred. I put my lips to the keyhole,
and sounded an alarm which effectually roused the
sleepers. lYly organs 'vere naturally forcible, and had
been improved by long and assiduous exercise.
"Long and bitterly did I repent of my scheme. I was
somewhat consoled by reflecting that my purpose had
not been evil, and renewed my fruitless vows never to
attempt such dangerous experÏ1nents. For some time I
adhered, ,vith laudable forbearance, to this resolution.
"
ly life has been a ljfe of harJship and exposure

222

IVIELAND,. OR,

In the summer I prefer to Inake Iny bed of the smooth
turf, or, at most, the shelter of a summer-house suffices.
In all my rambles I never found a spot in ,yhich so
many picturesque beauties and rural delights were as..
sembled as at Mettingen. No corner of your little do-
main unites fragrance and secrecy in so perfect a degree
as the recess in the bank. The odour of its leaves, the
coolness of its shade, and the music of its waterfall, had
early attracted my attention. Here my sadness was
converted into peaceful melancholy; here my slumbers
were sound, and my pleasures enhanced.
"As most free from interruption, I chose this as the
Bcene of my midnight interviews with Judith. One
evening, as the sun declined, I was seated here, when I
was alarmed by your approach. It was with difficulty
that I effected my escape unnoticed by you.
"At the customary hour I returned to your habita-
tion, and was made acquainted by Judith with your un-
usual absence. I half suspected the true cause, and felt
Wleasiness at the danger there was that I should be de-
prived of my retreat, or, at least, interrupted in the
possession of it. The girl like,vise informed me that,
among your other singularities, it was not uncommon for
you to leave your bed and walk forth for the sake of
night-airs and starlight contemplations.
" I desired to prevent this inconvenience. I found you
e3sily swayed by fear. I was influenced in my choice
of means by the facility and certainty of that to which I
had been accustomed. All that I foresaw ,vas, that, in
future, this spot ,vould be cautiously shunned by you.
"I entered the recess with the utmost caution, and
discovered, QY your breathings, in what condition you
were. The unexpected interpretation which you placed
upon my former proceeding suggested my conduct on
the present occasion. The mode in ,vhich heaven is said
by the poet to interfere for the prevention of crimes* was
somewhat analogous to my province, and never failed to
occur to me at seasons like this. It was requisite to

'* -" Peeps through the blanket of tàe dark, and cries
Hold! hold!" SUAKSPEARE

THE TRANSFOl
MA TIOi\r.

2 .......
..:."

break your slumbers; and for this end I uttered the
powerful monosyl1able, 'IIold! hold!' 1\Iy purpose was
not prescribed by duty, yet surely it ,vas far from being
atrocious and inexpiable. To effect it, I uttered what
was false; but it was well suited to my purpose. No-
thing less was intended than to injure you. Nay, the
evil resulting from my former act was partly removed
by assuring you that in all places but this you were safe.

CHAPTER XXIII.

"My morals will appear to you far from rigid, yet my
conduct will fall short of your suspicions. I am now to
confess actions less excusable; and yet surely they will
not entitle me to the name of a desperate or sordid
criminal.
" Your house was rendered, by your frequent and
long absences, easily accessible to my curiosity. My
meeting with Pleyel was the prelude to direct intercourse
with you. I had seen much of the world; but your
character exhibited a specilnen of human pOVv
ers that
was wholly new to me. My intercourse with your ser-
vant furnished me with curious details of your domestic
management. I was of a different sex; I was not your
husband; I was not even your friend; yet my knowledge
of you was of that kind which conjugal intimacies can
give, and, in some respects, more accurate. The obser-
vation of your domestic was guided by me.
" You will not be surprised that I should sometimes
profit by your I absence, and adventure to exan1ine with
my own eyes the interior of your chamber. Upright
and sincere, you used no watchfulness, and practised no
precautions. I scrutinized every thing and pried every-
where. Your closet was usually locked; but it was once
my fortune to find the key on a bureau. I opened and
found new scope for my curiosity in your books. One
of these was manuscript, and written in characters
which essentially agreed with a short-hand system which
I had learned from a Jesuit missionary.
"I cannot justify my conduct; yet my only crime
was curiosity. I perused this volume with eagerness.
The intellect which it unveiled ,vas brighter than my
224

THE TRA NS.lt'ORlJlA TION.

225

limited and feeble organs could bear. I was naturally
inquisitive as to your ideas respecting my deportment
and the mysteries that had lately occurred.
"You know what you have written. You know that
in this volume the key to your inmost soul was contained.
If I had been a profound and malignant impostor, what
plenteous materials were thus furnished me of stratagems
and plots!
"The coincidence of your dream in the summer-house
with my exclamation was truly wonderful. The voice
which warned you to forbear was, doubtless, mine, but
mixed, by a common process of the fancy, with the
train of visionary incidents.
"I saw in a stronger light than ever the dangerous-
ness of that instrument which I employed, and renewed
my resolutions to abstain from the use of it in future;
but I was destined perpetually to violate my resolutions.
By some perverse fate, I was led into circumstances in
which the exertion of Iny powers was the sole or the best
means of escape.
"On that memorable night on which our last inter-
view took place, I came as usual to l\Iettingen. I was
apprized of your engagement at your brother's, froln
which you did not expect to return till late. Some inci-
dent suggested the design of visiting your chamber.
Among your books which I had not examined might be
something tending to illustrate your character or the
history of your family. Some intimation had been
dropped by you in discourse, respecting a performance
of your father, in which some important transaction in
his life was recorded.
"I was desirous of seeing this book; and such was
my habitual attachment to mystery, that I preferred the
clandestine perusal of it. Suc
were the motives that
induced me to make this attempt. Judith had disap-
peared, and, finding the house unoccupied, I supplied
myself with a light and proceeded to your chamber.
"I found it easy, on experiment, to lock and unlock
your closet door without the aid of a key. I shut myself
in this recess, and was busily exploring your shelves,
when I heard some one enter the room belo,v. I was at
15

226

WIELAND,. OR,

a loss ,vho it could be,-whether you or your servant.
Doubtful, however, as I was, I conceiv
d it prudent to
extinguish the light. Scarcely was this done, when
some one entered the chamber. The footsteps were
easily distinguished to be yours.
"My situation was now full of danger and perplexity.
For some time I cherished the hope that you would leave
the room so long as to afford me an opportunity of
escaping. As the hours passed, this hope gradually
deserted me. It was plain that you had retired for the
night.
"I knew not how soon you might find occasion to
enter the closet. I was alive to all the horrors of detec-
tion, and ruminated without ceasing on the behaviour
which it would be proper, in case of detection, to adopt.
I was unable to discover any consistent method of ac-
counting for my being thus immured.
"It occurred to me that I might withdraw you from
your chamber for a few minutes by counterfeiting a
voice from without. Some message from your brother
might be delivered, requiring your presence at his house.
I was deterred from this scheme by reflecting on the
resolution I had formed, and on the possible evils that
might result from it. Besides, it was not improbable
that you would speedily retire to bed, and then, by the
exercise of sufficient caution, I might hope to escape
unobserved.
"Meanwhile I listened with the deepest anxiety to
every motion from without. I discovered nothing ,vhich
betokened preparation for sleep. Instead of this, I
heard deep-drawn sighs, and occasionally a half-ex-
pressed and mournful ejaculation. Hence I inferred
that you were unhappy. The true state of your mind
with regard to Pleyel your own pen had disclosed; but
I supposed you to be framed of such materials, that,
though a momentary sadness might affect you, you were
impregnable to any permanent and heartfelt grief. In-
quietude for my own safety was for a moment suspended
by sympathy with your distress.
"To the former consideration I was quickly recalled
by a motion of yours which indicated I kne,v not what.

THE TRANSFORl1fATION.

2
7

I fostered the persuasion that you ,,"ould now retire to
bed; but presently you approached the closet, and detec-
tion seemed to be inevitable. You put your hand upon
the lock. I had formed no plan to extricate myself
from the dilemma in which the opening of the door ,,,"ould
involve me. I felt an irreconcilable aversion to detec-
tion. Thus situated, I involuntarily seized the door,
with a resolution to resist your efforts to open it.
" Suddenly you receded from the door. This deport-
ment was inexplicable; but the relief it afforded me was
qnickly gone. You returned, and I once more was thro,vn
into perplexity. The expedient that suggested itself was
precipitate and in artificial. I exerted my organs and
called upon you to hold.
" That you should persist in spite of this admonition
was a subject of astonishment. I again resisted your
efforts; for, the first expedient having failed, I knew
not what other to resort to. In this state, ho,v ,vas
my astonishment increased when I heard your excla-
mations !
" It was now plain that you knew me to be within.
Further resistance was unavailing and useless. The
door opened, and I shrunk backward. Seldom ha.ve I
felt deeper mortification and more painful perplexity. I
did not consider that the truth ,vould be less injurious
than any lie which I could hastily frame. Conscious as
I was of a certain degree of guilt, I conceiyed that you
would form the most odious suspicions. The truth ,,-ould.
be imperfect, unless I were like,vise to explain the mys-
terious admonition ,vhich had been given; but that ex-
planation was of too great moment, and involved too
extensive consequences, to make me suddenly resolve to
gi ve it.
" I was aware that this discovery,vould associate itself
in your mind with the dialogue formerly heard in this
closet. Thence would your suspicions be aggravated,
and to escape from these suspicions would be Í1npoRsible.
But the mere truth ,vollld be sufficiently opprobrious, and
deprive me forever of your good opinion.
" Thus "'"as I rendered desperate, and my mind rapidly
passed to the contemplation of the use that might be

228

WIELAND,. OR,

made of previous events. Some good genius would ap-
pear to you to have interposed to save you from injury
intended by me. 'Why,' I said, 'since I must sink in
her opinion, should I not cherish this belief? Why not
personate an enemy, and pretend that celestial inter-
ference has frustrated my schemes? I must fly; but let
me leave wonder and fear behind me. Elucidation of
the mystery will always be practicable. I shall do no
injury, but merely talk of evil that was designed, but is
now past.'
"Thus I extenuated my conduct to myself; but I
scarcely expect that this will be to you a sufficient expli-
cation of the scene that follo,ved. Those habits which
I have imbibed, the rooted passion which possesses me
for scattering around me amazement and fear, you enjoy
no opportunities of knowing. That a man should wan-
tonly impute to himself the most flagitious designs will
hardly be credited, even though you reflect that my
reputation was already, by my own folly, irretrievably
ruined; and that it ,vas always in my power to commu-
nicate the truth and rectify the mistake.
" I left you to ponder on this scene. My mind was
full of rapid and incongruous ideas. Compunction, self-
upbraiding, hopelessness, satisfaction at the view of those
effects likely to flow from my new scheme, misgivings as
to the beneficial result of this scheme, took possession of
my mind, and seemed to struggle for the mastery.
" I had gone too far to recede. I had painted myself
to you as an assassin and ravisher, withheld from guilt
only by a voice from heaven. I had thus reverted into
the path of error, and now, having gone thus far, my
progress seemed to be irrevocable. I said to myself, 'I
must leave these precincts forever. My acts have blasted
my fame in the eyes of the Wielands. For the sake of
creating a mysterious dread, I have made myself a vil-
lain. I may complete this mysterious plan by some
new imposture, but I cannot aggravate my supposed
guilt. '
" My resolution was formed, and I was 8,viftly rumi-
nating on the means for executing it, when Pleyel ap-
peared in sight. This incident decided my conduct. It

TI-IE TRANS.F'OR]}IA TION.

229

was plain that Pleyel was a devoted lover, but he ,vas,
at the same time, a man of cold resolves and exquisite
sagacity. To deceive him would be the sweetest triulnph
I had ever enjoyed. The deception would be momentary,
but it would like,vise be complete. That his delusion
would so soon be rectified was a recommendation to my
scheme; for I esteemed him too much to desire to entail
upon him lasting agonies.
" I had no time to reflect further, for he proceeded,
with a quick step, to"\vards the house. I was hurried
onward involuntarily and by a mechanical impulse. I
followed him as he passed the recess in the bank, and,
shrouding myself in that spot, I counterfeited sounds
which I knew would arrest his steps.
" He stopped, turned, listened, approached, and over-
heard a dialogue "Those purpose was to vanquish his
belief in a point where his belief was most difficult to
vanquish. I exerted all my powers to imitate your
voice, your general sentiments, and your language.
Being master, by means of your journal, of your per-
Bonal history and most secret thoughts, my efforts were
the more successful. When I review the tenor of this
dialogue, I cannot believe but that Pleyel was deluded.
When I think of your character, and of the inferences
which this dialogue was intended to suggest, it seems
incredible that this delusion should be produced.
"I spared not myself. I called myself murderer,
thief, guilty of innumerable perjuries and misdeeds. That
you had debased yourself to the level of such a one, no
evidence, methought, would suffice to convince him who
knew you so thoroughly as Pleyel; and yet the impos-
ture a.mounted to proof ,rhich the most jealous scrutiny
would find to be unexceptionable.
"He left his station precipitately and resumed his
way to the house. I saw that the detection of his error
would be instantaneous, since, not having gone to bed,
an immediate interview would take place between you.
At first this circumstance was considered with regret;
but, as time opened my eyes to the possible consequences
of this scene, I regarded it with pleasure.
" In a short time the infatuation which had led me

23 0

WIELAND,. OR,

thus far began to subside. The remembrance of fornlcr
reasonings and transactions was renewed. flow often I
had repented this kind of exertion; how many evils
were produced by it which I had not foreseen; what
occasions for the bitterest remorse it had administered,
now passed through my mind. The black catalogue of
stratagems was now increased. I had inspired you ,vith
the most vehement terrors; I had filled your mind with
faith in shadows and confidence in dreams; I had de-
praved the imagination of Pleyel; I had exhibited you
to his understanding as devoted to brutal gratifications
and consummate in hypocrisy. The evidence which
accompanied this delusion would be irresistible to one
whose passion had perverted his judgment, whose jea-
lousy with regard to me had already been excited, and
who, therefore, would not fail to overrate the force of
this eviùence. What fatal act of despair or of vengeance
might not this error produce?
"With regard to myself, I had acted with a frenzy
that surpassed belief. I had warred against my peace
and my fame; I had banished myself from the fellow-
ship of vigorous and pure minds; I was self-expelled
from a scene which the munificence of nature had
adorned with unrivalled beauties, and from haunts in
which all the muses and humanities had taken refuge.
" I was thus torn by conflicting fears a.nd tumultuous
regrets. The night passéd away in this state of con-
fusion; and the next morning, in the gazette left at my
obscure lodging, I read a description and an offer of
reward for the apprehension of my person. I was said
to have escaped from an Irish prison, in which I was
confined as an offender convicted of enormous and com-
plicated crimes.
" This was the work of an enemy, who, by falsehood
and stratagem, had procured my condemnation. I was,
indeed, a prisoner, but escaped, by the exertion of lllY
powers, the fate to which I was doomed, but which I did
not deserve. I had hoped that the malice of my foe was
exhausted; but I no,v perceived that my precautions had
been wise, for that the intervention of an ocean was in-
sufficient for my security.

THE TRdNSFORAfA TION.

23 1

"Let me not dwell on the sensations which this dis-

overy produced. I need not tell by what steps I was
induced to seek an interview with you, for the purpose
of disclosing the truth, and repairing, as far as possible,
the effects of my misconduct. It was unavoidable that
this gazette would fall into your hands, and that it would
tend to confirm every erroneous impression.
"IIaving gained this interview, I purposed to seek
some retreat in the wilderness, inaccessible to your in-
quiry and to the malice of my foe, where I might hence-
forth employ myself in composing a faithful narrative
of my actions. I designed it as my vindication from the
aspersions that had rested on my character, and as a
lesson to mankind on the evils of credulity on the one
hand, and of imposture on the other.
"I wrote you a billet, which was left at the house of
your friend, and which I knew would, by some means,
speedily come to your hands. I entertained a faint
hope that my invitation would be complied with. I knew
not what use you ,vould make of the opportunity which
this proposal afforded you of procuring the seizure of my
person; but this fate I was determined to avoid, and I
had no doubt but due circumspection, and the exercise
of the faculty which I possessed, would enable me to
avoid it.
"I lurked through the day in the neighbourhood ()f
J\Iettingen; I approached your habitation at the ap..
pointed hour: I entered it in silence, by a trap-door
which led into the cellar. This had formerly been
bolted on the inside, but Judith had, at an early pe-
riod in our intercourse, removed this impediment. I
ascended to the first floor, but met ,vith no one, nor
any thing that indicated the presence of a human
being.
"I crept softly up-stairs, and at length perceived your
chamber door to be opened and a light to be within. It
was of moment to discover by whom this light was
accompanied. I was sensible of the inconveniences to
which my being discovered at your chamber door by
anyone ,vithin would subject me; I therefore caned out
in IllY own voice, but so moùified that it sholJld appear

23 2

WIELAND,. OR,

t.o ascend from the court below, 'Who is in the cham.
ber? ]8 it Miss Wieland ?'
" No answer was returned to this summons. I listened,
but no motion could be heard. After a pause I repeated
my call, but no less ineffectually.
"I now approached nearer to the door, and adventured
to look in. A light stood on the table, but nothing
human was discernible. I entered cautiously, but all
was solitude and stillness.
"I knew not what to conclude. If the house were
inhabited, my call would have been noticed; yet some
suspicion insinuated itself that silence was studiously
kept by persons who intended to surprise me. My ap-
proach had been wary, and the silence that ensued my
call had likewise preceded it; a circumstance that tended
to dissipate my fears.
"At length it occurred to me that Judith might pos-
sibly be in her own room. I turned my steps thither:
but she was not to be found. I passed into other rooms,
and was soon convinced that the house was totally de-
serted. I returned to your chamber, agitated by vain
surmises and opposite conjectures. The appointed hour
had passed, and I dismissed the hope of an interview.
"In this state of things I determined to leave a few
lines on your toilet, and prosecute my journey to the
mountains. Scarcely had I taken the pen when I laid
it aside, uncertain in what manner to address you. I
rose from the table and walked across the floor. A
glance thrown upon the bed acquainted me with a spec-
tacle to which my conceptions of horror had not yet
reached.
"In the midst of shuddering and trepidation, the sig-
nal of your presence in the court below recalled me to
myself. The deed was newly done; I only was in the
house; what had lately happened justified any suspi-
cions, however enormous. It was plain that this catas-
trophe was unknown to you; I thought upon the wild
commotion which the discovery would awaken in your
breast; I found the confusion of my own thoughts un-
conquerable, and perceived that the (
nd for which I
Bought an intervie,v was not now to be accompliahed.

THE TRANSFORl1:fA TION.

233

"In this state of things, it ,vas like,vise expedient to
conceal my being within. I put out the light and hur-
ried down the stairs. To my unspeakable surprise, not-
withstanding every motive to fear, you lighted a candle
and proceeded to your chamber.
"I retired to that room below from which a door
leads into the cellar. This door concealed me from
your view as you passed. I thought upon the spectacle
which was about to present itself. In an exigence so
abrupt and 80 little foreseen, I was again subjected to
the empire of mechanical and habitual impulses. I
dreaded the effects which this shocking exhibition,
bursting on your unprepared senses, might produce.
"Thus actuated, I stepped swiftly to the door, and,
thrusting my head forward, once more pronounced the
mysterious interdiction. At that moment, by some un-
toward fate, your eyes were cast back, and you saw me
in the very act of utterance. I fled through the dark-
some avenue at which I entered, covered with the shame
of this detection.
""\Vith diligence, stimulated by a thousand ineffable
emotions, I pursued my intended journey. I have a
brother ,vhose farm is situated in the bosom of a fertile
desert, near the sources of the Lehigh; and thither J
now repaired.

CHAPTER XXIV.

"DEEPLY did I ruminate on the occurrences that had
just passed. Nothing excited my wonder so much as
the means by which you discovered my being in the
closet. This discovery appeared to be made at the mo-
ment when you attempted to open it. How could you
have otherwise remained so long in the chamber appa-
rently fearless and tranquil? And yet, having made
this discovery, how could you persist in dragging me
forth ?-persist in defiance of an interdiction so em-
phatical and solemn?
"But your sister's death was an event detestahle and
ominous. She had been the victim of the most dreadful
species of assassination. How, in a state like yours,
the murderous intention could be generated, was wholly
inconceivable.
"I did not relinquish my design of confessing to you
the part which I had sustained in your family; but I
was willing to defer it till the task which I had set my-
self was finished. That being done, I resumed the re-
solution. The motives to incite me to this continually
acquired force. The more I revolved the events hap-
pening at Mettingen, the more insupportable and omi-
nous my terrors became. My waking hours and my
sleep were vexed by dismal presages and frightful inti-
mations.
"Catharine was dead by violence. Surely my malig-
nant stars had not made me the cause of her death; yet
had I not rashly set in motion a machine over whose
progress I had no control, and which experience had
shown me was infinite in power? Every day might add
to the catalogue of horrors of which this was the source,
234

7"HE TRANSFOR.l'rIA TION.

235

and a seasonable disclosure of the truth might prevent
numberless ills.
"Fraught "\vith this conception, I have turned my
steps hither. I find your brother's house desolate; the
furniture removed, and the walls stained with damps.
Your own is in the same situation. Your chamber is
dismantled and dark, and you exhibit an image of in-
curable grief and of rapid decay.
" I have uttered the truth. This is the extent of my
offences. You tell me a horrid tale of Wieland being
led to the destruction of his ,vife and children by some
mysterious agent. You charge me with the guilt of this
agency; but I repeat that the amount of my guilt has
been truly stated. The perpetrator of Catharine's
death ,yas unknown to me till now; nay, it is still un-
known to me."
At that moment, the closing of a door in tbe kitchen
was distinctly heard by us. Carwin started and paused.
"There is some one coming. I must not be found here
by my enemies, and need not, since my purpose is
answered.' ,
I had drunk in, with the most vehement attention,
every ,vord that he had uttered. I had no breath to
interrupt his tale by interrogations or comments. The
power that he spoke of was hitherto unknown to me;
its existence was incredible; it was susceptible of no
direct proof.
He owns that his were the v0ice and face which I heard
and saw. He attempts to give a human explanation of
these phantasms; but it is enough that he owns himself
to be the agent: his tale is a lie, and his nature devilish.
As he deceived me, he likewise deceived my brother, and
now do I behold the author of all our calamities!
Such were my thoughts when his pause allowed me to
think. I should have bade him begone if the silence
had not been interrupted; but now I feared no more for
myself; and the milkiness of my nature ,vas curdled into
ha.tred and rancour. Some one was near, and this enemy
of God and man might possibly be brought to justice
I reflected not that the preternatural power which he
lUHl hitherto exerted ,vould avail to rescue him from any

23 6

WIEL.AND
. OR,

toils in which his feet might be entangled. Meanwhile,
looks, and not words, of menace and abhorrence, were
all that I could bestow.
He did not depart. He seemed dubious whether by
passing out of the house, or by remaining somewhat
longer where he was, he should most endanger his safety.
His confusion increased when steps of one barefoot were
heard upon the stairs. He threw anxious glances some-
times at the closet, sometimes at the window, and some-
times at the chamber door; yet he was detained by some
inexplicable fascination. He stood as if rooted to the
spot.
As to me, my soul was. bursting with detestation and
revenge. I had no room for surmises and fears respect-
ing him that approached. It was doubtless a human
being, and would befriend me so far as to aid me in
arresting this offender.
The stranger quickly entered the room. My eyes
and the eyes of Carwin were at the same moment darted
upon him. A second glance ,vas not needed to inform
us who he was. His locks were tangled, and fell con-
fusedly over his forehead and ears. His shirt was of
coarse stuff, and open at the neck and breast. His coat
was once of bright and fine texture, but now torn and
tarnished with dust. His feet, his legs, and his arms,
were bare. His features were the seat of a wild and
tranquil solemnity, but his eyes bespoke inquietude and
curiosity.
He advanced ,vith a firm step, and looking as in search
of some one. He saw me and stopped. He bent his
sight on the floor, and, clenching his hands, appeared
suddenly absorbed in meditation. Such were the figure
and deportment of Wieland! Such, in his fallen state,
were the aspect and guise of my brother!
Carwin did not fail to recognise the visitant. Care
for his own safety was apparently swallowed up in the
amazement which this spectacle produced. His station
was conspicuous, and he could not have escaped the roving
glances of Wieland; yet the latter seemed totally un-
cop.scious of his presence.
Grief at this scene of ruin and blast was at first the

THE TRANSFORMA TION.

237

only sentiment of which I ,vas conscious. A fearful
stillness ensued. At length "\Vieland, lifting his hands,
which were locked in each other, to his breast, exclaimed,
"Father! I thank thee. This is thy guidance. Hither
thou hast led me, that I might perform thy will. Yet
let me not err; let me hear again thy messenger!"
He stood for a minute as if listening; but, recovering
from his attitude, he continued, "It is not needed. Das-
tardly wretch! thus eternally questioning the behests of
thy Maker! weak in resolution, wayward in faith!"
He advanced to me, and, after another pause, re-
sumed :-" Poor girl! a dismal fate has set its mark upon
thee. Thy life is demanded as a sacrifice. Prepare
thee to die. l\Iake not my office difficult by fruitless
opposition. Thy prayers might subdue stones; but none
but he who enjoined my purpose can shake it."
These words were a sufficient explication of the scene.
The nature of his frenzy, as described by my uncle, was
remembered. I, who had sought death, was now thrilled
with horror because it was near. Death in this form,
death from the hand of a brother, was thought upon with
indescribable repugnance.
In a state thus verging upon madness, my eye glanced
upon Carwin. His astonishment appeared to have struck
him motionless and dumb.
1:y life was in danger, and
my brother's hand was about to be imbrued in my blood.
I firmly believed that Carwin's was the instigation. I
could rescue myself from this abhorred fate; I could dis-
sipate this tremendous illusion; I could save my brother
from the perpetratIon of new horrors, by pointing out
the devil who seduced him. To hesitate a moment was
to perish. These thoughts gave strength to my limbs
and energy to my accents; I started on my feet:-
"Oh, brother! spare me! spare thyself! There is thy
betrayer. He counterfeited the voice and face of an
angel, for the purpose of destroying thee and me. He
has this moment confessed it. He is able to speak where
he is not. lIe is leagued with hell, but will not avow it;
yet he confesses that the agency was his."

Iy brother turned slowly his eyes, and fixed them
upon Car,vin. Every joint in the fralllc of the latter

23 8

WIELAND,- OR,

trembled. IIis complexion was paler than a ghost's.
Ilis eye dared not meet that of Wieland, but wandered
with an air of distraction from one space to another.
"Man," said my brother, in a voice totally unlike that
which he had used to me, "what art thou? The charge
has been made. Answer it. The visage-the voice-at
the bottom of these stairs-at the hour of eleven-to
\vhom did they belong? To thee?"
Twice did Carwin attempt to speak, but his words died
away upon his lips. My brother resumed, in a tone of
greater vehemence:-
"Thou falterest. Faltering is ominous. Say yes or
no; one word will suffice; but beware of falsehood.
Was it a stratagem of hell to overthrow my family?
Wast thou the agent?"
I now saw that the wrath which had been prepared
for me was to be heaped upon another. The tale that I
heard from him, and his present trepidations, were abun-
dant testimonies of his guilt. But what if Wieland
should be undeceived! What if he shall find his act to
have proceeded not from a heavenly prompter, but from
human treachery! Will not his rage mount into whirl-
wind? Will not he tear limb from limb this devoted
wretch?
Instinctively I recoiled from this image; but it gavo
place to another. Carwin may be innocent, but the
impetuosity of his judge may misconstrue his answers
into a confession of guilt. Wieland knows not that
mysterious voices and appearances were likewise witnessed
by me. Carwin may be ignorant of those which misled
my brother. Thus may his answers unwarily betray
himself to ruin.
Such might be the consequences of my frantic pre-
cipitation, and these it was necessary, if possible, to pre-
vent. I attempted to speak; but Wieland, turning
suddenly upon me, commanded silence, in a tone furious
and terrible. My lips closed, and my tongue refused its
office.
"What art thou?" he resulued, addressing himself to
Carwin. "Answer me: whose form-whose voice,-was
it thy contrivance? Answer me."

THE TRANSFORJÝL4 TION.

239

The ans,ver was now given, but confusedly and scarcely
articulated. "I meant nothing-I intended no ill-if I
understand-if I do not mistake you-it is too true-I
did appear-in the entry-did speak. The contrivance
was mine, but "
These words were no sooner uttered, than my brother
ceased to ,year the same aspect. His eyes were down-
cast; he was motionless; his respiration became hoarse,
like that of a man in the agonies of death. Carwin
seemed unable to say more. lIe might have easily
escaped; but the thought which occupied him related to
what was horrid and unintelligible in this scene, and not
to his own danger.
Presently the faculties of Wieland, which, for a time,
were chained up, were seized with restlessness and
trembling. IIe broke silence. The stoutest heart would
have been appalled by the tone in which. he spoke. He
addressed himself to Carwin:-
"'Vhy art thou here? Who detains thee? Go and
learn better. I will meet thee, but it must be at the bar
of thy Maker. There shall I bear witness against
thee. "
Perceiving that Carwin did not obey, he continued,
"Dost thou wish me to complete the catalogue by thy
death? Thy life is a worthless thing. Tempt me no
more. I am but a man, and thy presence may awaken
a fury which may spurn my control. Begone !"
Carwin, irresolute, striving in vain for utterance, his
complexion pallid as death, his knees beating one against
another, slowly obeyed the mandate and withdrew.

" .

CHAPTER XXV.

A FEW woras more and I lay aside the pen forever.
Yet why should I not relinquish it now? All that I
have said is preparatory to this scene, and my fingers,
tremulous and cold as my heart, refuse any further ex..
ertion. This must not be. Let my last energies sup-
port me in the finishing of this task. Then will I lay
down my head in the lap of death. Hushed will be all
my murmurs in the sleep of the grave.
Every sentiment has perished in my bosom. Even
friendship is extinct. Your love for me has prompted
me to this task; but I would not have complied if it had
not been a luxury thus to feast upon my woes. I have
justly calculated upon my remnant of strength. When
I lay down the pen the taper of life will expire; my
existence will terminate with my tale.
Now that I was left alone with Wieland, the perils of
my situation presented themselves to my mind. That
this paroxysm should terminate in havoc and rage it
was reasonable to predict. The first suggestion of my
fears had been disproved by my experience. Carwin
had acknowledged his offences, and yet had escaped.
The vengeance which I had harboured had not been
admitted by Wieland; and yet the evils "\\yhich I had en..
jured, compared with those inflicted on my brother, were
as nothing. I thirsted for his blood, and was tormented
with an insatiable appetite for his destruction; but my
brother was unmoved, and had dismissed him in safety.
Surely thou wast more than man, while I am sunk belo,v
the beasts.
Did I place a right construction on the conduct of
Wieland? Was the error that mislcd him so easily rec..
240

TIIE TRANSFORl1IA TION.

24 1

tified ? Were views so vivid and faith so strenuous
thus liable to fading and to change? "\Vas there not
reason to doubt the accuracy of my perceptions? With
images like these was my mind thronged, till the deport-
ment of my brother called away my attention.
I saw his lips move and his eyes cast up to heaven.
Then would he listen and look back, as if in expectation
of some one's appearance. Thrice he repeated these
gesticulations and this inaudible prayer. Each time
the mist of confusion and doubt seemed to grow darker
and to settle on his understanding. I guessed at the
meaning of these tokens. The words of Carwin had
shaken his belief, and he was employed in summoning
the messenger who had formerly communed ,,
ith him, to
attest the value of those new doubts. In vain the sum-
mons was repeated, for his eye met nothing but vacancy,
and not a sound saluted his ear.
He walked to the bed, gazed with eagerness at the
pillow which had sustained the head of the breathless
Catharine, and then returned to the place where I sat.
I had no po,ver to lift my eyes to his face: I was du-
bious of his purpose; this purpose might aim at my life.
Alas! nothing but subjection to danger and exposure
to temptation can sho,v us ,vhat we are. By this test
was I now tried, and found to be cowardly and rash.
Men can deliberately untie the thread of life, and of this
I had deemed myself capable. It was now that I stood
upon the brink of fate, that the knife of the sacrificer
was aimed at my heart, I shuddered, and betook myself
to any means of escape, ho"ever monstrous.
Can I bear to think-can I endure to relate the out-
rage which my heart meditated? "There ,vere 111Y means
of safety? Resistance was vain. Not even the energy
of despair could set me on a level with that strength
which his terrific prompter had bestowed upon Wieland.
Terror enables us to perform incredible feats; but terror
was not then the state of n1Y mind: ,vhere then were
my hopes of rescue?

Iethinks it is too much. I stand aside, as it were"
from nlyself; I estinlate my o.wn deservings; a hatred,
immortal ancl inexorable, is my due. I listen to my own
IG

24 2

WIELAND,. OR,

pleas, and find them elnpty and false: yes, I acknow-
ledge that my guilt surpasses that of mankind; I con-
fess that the curses of a world and the frowns of a
Deity are inadequate to n1Y demerits. Is there a thing
in the world worthy of infinite abhorrence? It is I.
What shall I say? I was menaced, as I thought, with
death, and, to elude this evil, my hand was ready to
inflict death upon the menacer. In visiting my house, I
had made provision against the machinations of Carwin.
In a fold of my dress an open penknife was concealed.
This I now seized and drew forth. It lurked out of
view; but I now see that my state of mind would have
rendered the deed inevitable if my brother had lifted his
hand. This instrument of my preservation would have
been plunged into his heart.
o insupportable remembrance! hide thee from my
view for a time; hide it from me that my heart was
black enough to meditate the stabbing of a brother!
a brother thus supreme in misery; thus to"rering in
virtue !
He was probably unconscious of my design, but pre-
sently drew back. This interval was sufficient to restore
me to myself. The madness, the iniquity, of that act
which I had purposed rushed upon my apprehension.
For a moment I was breathless with agony. At the
next moment I recovered my strength, and threw the
knife with violence on the floor.
The sound awoke my brother from his reverie-. lIe
gazed alternately at me and at the weapon. With a
movement equally solemn he stooped and took it up.
He placed the blade in different positions, scrutinizing it
accurately, and maintaining, at the same time, a pro-
found silence.
Again he looked at me; but all that vehemence and
loftiness of spirit which had so lately characterized his
features were flown. Fallen muscles, a forehead con-
tracted into folds, eyes dim with unbidden drops, and a
ruefulness of aspect which no words can describe, were
now visible.
His looks touched into energy the saIne sympathies in
me, and I poured forth a flood of tears. This passion

THE TRANSFORfllA TION.

243

was quickly checked by fear, which had now no longer
my own but his safety for their object. I watched his
deportment in silence. At length he spoke :-
" Sister," said he, in an accent mournful and mild,
"I have acted poorly my part in this world. 'Vhat
thinkest thou? Shall I not do better in the next ?"
I could make no ans,ver. The mildness of his tone
astonished and encouraged me. I continued to regard
him with ,vistful and anxious looks.
" I think," resumed he, "I will try.
Iy wife and my
babes have gone before. Happy wretches! I have sent
you to repose, and ought not to linger behind."
These ,vords had a meaning sufficiently intelligible. I
looked at the open knife in his hand and shuddered, but
knew not how to prevent the deed which I dreaded.
lIe quickly noticed my fears, and comprehended them.
Stretching towards me his hand, with an air of increas-
ing mildness, " Take it," said he; "fear not for thy o,vn
sake, nor for mine. The cup is gone by, and its tran-
sient inebriation is succeeded bv the soberness of truth.
"Thou angel whom I was
ont to worship! fearest
thou, n1Y sister, for thy life? Once it was the scope of
my labours to destroy thee, but I ,vas prompted to the
deed by heaven; such, at least, was my belief. Think-
est thou that thy death ,vas sought to gratify malevo-
lence ? No. I am pure from all stain. I believed that
my God ,vas my mover!
"Neither thee nor myself have I cause to injure. I
have done my duty; and surely there is merit in having
sacrificed to that all that is dear to the heart of lnan.
If a devil has deceived me, he came in the habit of fl n
angel. If I erred, it ,vas not Iny judgnlcnt that de-
ceived me, but my senses. In thy sight, Being of beings!
I am stil1 pure. Still will I look for my reward in thy
justice !"
Did my ears truly report these sounds? If I dirl not
err, my brother was restored to just perceptions. He
kne,v hÏ1nself to have been betrayed to the murder of
hi
"Tife and children, to have becn the victim of infernal
artifice; yet he found consolation in the rectitude of
his Inotives. lIe ,vas not devoid of sorro,v, for this ,,-as

244

WIELAND,. OR,

written on his countenance; but his soul was tranquil
and sublime.
Perhaps this was merely a transition of his former
madness into a new shape. Perhaps he had not yet
awakened to the memory of the horrors which he had
perpetrated. Infatuated wretch that I was! To set
myself up as a model by which to judge of my heroic
brother! My reason taught me that his conclusions
were right; but, conscious of the impotence of reason
over my own conduct, conscious of my cowardly rash-
ness and my crÏlninal despair, I doubted whether any
one could be steadfast and wise.
Such was my weakness, that even in the midst of
these thoughts Iny mind glided into abhorrence of Car-
win, and I uttered, in a low voice, "0 Car,vin! Carwin!
what hast thou to answer for?"
My brother immediately noticed the involuntary ex-
clalnation. "Clara!" said he, "be thyself. Equity
used to be a theme for thy eloquence. Reduce its les-
sons to practice, and be just to that unfortunate man.
The instrument has done its work, and I am satisfied.
"I thank thee, my God, for this last illulnination!
My enemy is thine also. I deemed hin1 to be man,-
the man with ,vhom I have often communed; but now
thy goodness has unveiled to me his true nature. As
the performer of thy behests, he is my friend."
My heart began now to misgive me. Ilis mournful
aspect had gradually yielded place to a serene brow. A
new soul appeared to actuate his frame, and his eyes to
beam with preternatural lustre. These symptoms did
not abate, and he continued :-
"Clara, I must not leave tbee in doubt. I know not
what brought about thy interview with the being whom
thou callest Carwin. For a time I was guilty of thy
error, and deduced from his incoherent confessions that I
had been made the victim of human malice. lIe left us
at my bidding, and I put up a prayer that my doubts
should be removed. Thy eyes ,vere shut and thy ears
sealed to the vision that answered my prayer.
" I was indeed deceived. The form thou hast seen was
the incarnation of a dClllon. The visage and v)ice

TE-IE TRANSFORJIA TION.

245

,,
hich urged me to the sacrifice of my faluily ,ycre his.
N o\v he personates a hunlan form; then he ,vas envi-
roned ,,'"jth the lustre of heaven.
" Clara," he continued, advancin b oloser to me, "thy
death must come. This minister is evil, but he from
,vhom his commission was received is God. Submit then
with all thy wonted resignation to a decree that cannot
be reversed or resisted.
Iark the clock. Three
minutes are allowed to thee, in which to call up thy
fortitude and prepare thee for thy doom." There he
stopped.
Even now, when this s(,ene exists only in memory,
,vhen life and all its functions have sunk into torpor, my
pulse throbs, and my hairs uprise; my brows are knit,
as then, and I gaze around me in distraction. I ,vas
unconquerably a \
erse to death; but death, imminent
and full of agony as that which ,vas threatened, was
nothing. This ,vas not the only or chief inspirer of my
fears.
For hilu, not for Inyself, was my soul tormented. I
n1Ïght die, and no crime, surpassing the reach of mercy,
,,,"ould pursue me to the presence of IUY Judge; but my
assassin ,yould survive to contemplate his deed, and that
assassin "as 'Vieland!
"rings to bear me beyond his reach I had not. I could
not vanish ,vith a thought. The door was open, but Iny
murderer ,vas interposed between that and nle. Of self-
defence I ,vas incapable. The frenzy that lately prompted
me to blood was gone: my state was desperate; my
rescue was impossible.
The weight of these accumulated thoughts could not
be borne.
fy sight becanle confused; Iny lilubs were
seized with convulsion; I spoke, but my words were
half formed:-
"Spare me, my brother! Look down, righteous
Judge! snatch me from this fate! take away this fury
from him, or turn it elsewhere !"
Such ,,-as the agony of my thoughts that I noticed
not steps entering my apartment. Supplicating eyes
"
ere cast up,vard; but ,vhen my prayer 'V3S breathed I
once more ,vilùly gazcd at the door. A form met my

24 6

IV.lELAND,. OR,

sight; I shudderltì as if the God \vhom I invoked were
present. It ,ras Car\vin that again intruded, and who
stood before me, erect in attitude and steadfast in look!
The sight of him awakened new and rapid thoughts.
Ilis recent tale was remembered; his magical transitions
and mysterious energy of voice. Whether he w"ere in-
fernal or miraculous or human, there was no power and
no need to decide. Whether the contriver or not of this
l3pell, he \vas able to unbind it, and to check the fury of
my brother. lIe had ascribed to himself intentions not
malignant. IIere no,v ,vas afforded a test of his truth.
Let him interpose, as from above; revoke the savage
decree ,vhich the madness of Wieland has assigned to
heaven, and extinguish forevcr this passion for blood!
l\Iy mind detected at a glance this avenue to safety.
The recommendations it possessed thronged as it were
together, and made but one impression on n1Y intellect.
Remoter effects and collateral dangers I sa'v not. Per-
haps the pause of an instant had sufficed to call them
up. The improbability that the influence \vhich go-
verned Wieland was external or hUlnan; tbe tendency
of this stratagem to sanction so fatal an error or substi-
tute a more destructive rage in place of this; the insuffi-
ciency of Carwin's mere nluscular forces to counteract
the efforts and restrain the fury of Wieland, might, at a
second glance, have been discovered; but no second
glance "'"as allo,vcd. 1tly first thought hurried me to
action, and, fixing my eyes upon Car,vin, I exclaimed,-
" 0 wretch! once morc hast thou come? Let it be to
abjure thy lualice; to counter\vork this hellish strata-
gem; to turn fron1 me and from my brother this deso.
la ting rage !
"Testify thy innocence or thy remorse; exert the
powers \vhich pertain to thee, whatever they" be, to turn
aside this ruin. Thou art the author of these horrors !
What have I done to deserve thus to die? How have I
merited this unrelenting persecution? I adj ure thee, by
t.hat God whose voice thou hast dared to counterfeit, to
sa ve my life!
"Wilt thou then go ?-leave me! Succourless!"
Carwin li8tened to n1Y entreaties unmoved, and turned

THE TRANSFORLJIA TION.

247

from nle. He seemed to hesitate a moment,-then
glided through the door. Rage and despair stifled my
utterance. The interval of respite was past; the pangs
reserved for me by Wieland were not to be endured; my
thoughts rushed again into anarchy. Having received
the knife from his hand, I held it loosely and without
regard; but no,v it seized again my attention, and I
grasped it with force.
He seemed to notice not the entrance or exit of Car-
,vine My gesture and the murderous weapon appeared
to have escaped his notice. His silence was unbroken;
his eye, fixed upon the clock for a time, was now with-
dra,vn; fury kindled in every feature; all that was
human in his face gave way to an expression supernatural
and tremendous. I felt lilY left arnl ,yithin his grasp.
Even now I hesitated to strike. I shrunk from his
assault, but in vain.
IIere let me desist. 'Vhy should I rescue this event
from oblivion? 1Vhy should I paint this detestable con-
flict? 'Vhy not terminate at once this series of horrors?
-IIurry to the verge of the precipice, and cast myself
forever beyond renlenlbrance and beyond hope?
Still I live; ,vith this load upon my breast; with this
phantoln to pursue my steps; ,vith adders lodged in my
bosom, and stinging Ine to madness; still I consent to live!
Yes! I will rise above the sphere of mortal passions;
I will spurn at the co,vardly remorse that bids me seek
inlpunity in silence, or comfort in forgetfulness. My
nerves shall be new-strung to the task. Have I not re-
solved? I wi]l die. The gulf before me is inevitable
and near. I will die, but then only when my tale is at
an end.

CHAPTER XXVI.

My right hand, grasping the unseen knife, was still
disengaged. It was lifted to strike. All my strength
was exhausted but what was sufficient to the perfoJ:mance
of this deed. Already was the energy awakened and
the impulse given that should bear the fatal steel to his
heart, when 'Vieland shrunk back; his hand was
withdrawn. Breathless with affright and desp.eration, I
stood, freed from his grasp; unassailed; un touched.
Thus long had the power which controlled the scene
forborne to interfere: but now his might ,vas irresistible;
and vVieland in a moment ,vas disarmed of all his pur-
poses. A voice, louder than human organs could pro-
duce, shriller than language can depict, burst from the
ceiling and commanded him-to hold!
Trouble and disnlay succeeded to the steadfastness
that had lately been displayed in the looks of Wieland.
I-lis eyes roved from one quarter to another, with an ex-
pression of doubt. lIe seemed to wait for a furthpr
intimation.
Carwin's agency was here easily recognised. I had
besought him to interpose in my defence. lIe had
flown. I had imagined him deaf to my prayer, and
resolute to see me perish; yet he disappeared merely to
devise and execute the means of my relief.
"Thy did he not forbear when this end was accom-
plished ? Why did his misjudging zeal and accursed
precipitation overpass that limit? Or meant he thus to
crO\VI1 the scen{\, and conduct his inscrutable plots to
this consuIDlllation?
Such ideas ,vere the fruit of subsequent contemplation.
This moment was pregnant with fate. I had no power
248

THE TRANSÞORAfA TION.

249

to reason. In the career of my tempestuous thoughts,
rent into pieces as my mind was by accumulating horrors,
Car,vin ,vas unseen and unsuspected. I partook of
Wieland's credulity, shook with his amazement, and
panted with his awe.
Silence took place for a moment: so much as allowed
the attention to recover its post. Then new sounds
,vere uttered from above:-
"l\Ian of errors! cease to cherish thy delusion; not
heaven or hell, but thy senses, have misled thee to com-
mit these acts. Shake off thy frenzy, and ascend into
rational and human. Be lunatic no longer."
l\Iy brother opened his lips to speak. His tone was
terrific and faint. He muttered an appeal to heaven.
It was difficult to conlprehend the theme of his inquiries.
They implied doubt as to the nature of the impulse that
hitherto had guided him, and questioned whether he had
acted in consequence of insane perceptions.
To these interrogatories the voice, which now seemed
to hover at his shoulder, loudly answered in the affirma-
tive. Then uninterrupted silence ensued.
Fallen from his lofty and heroic station; now finally
restored to the perception of truth; weighed to earth by
the recollection of his own deeds; consoled no longer by
a consciousness of rectitude for the loss of offspring and
,vife,-a loss for ,vhich he ,vas indebted to his own mis-
guided hand,-\Vieland was transformed at once into the
nzan of 8o f rrow8!
lIe reflected not that credit should be as reasonably
denied to the last as to any former intilnation; that one
might as justly be ascribed to erring or diseased senses
as the other. He saw not that this discovery in no de-
gree affected the integrity of his conduct; that his
motives had lost none of their claims to the homage of
mankind; that the preference of supreme good, and the
boundless energy of duty, were undiminished in his
bosom.
It is not for me to pursue him through the ghastly
changes of his countenance. 'V ords he had none. Now
he sat upon the floor, motionless in all his limbs, with his
eyes glazed and fixed, a n10nument of woe.

25 0

WIELAND,. OR,

Anon a spirit of tempestuous but undesigning activity
seized him. He rose from his place and strode across
the floor, tottering and at random. II is eyes were with-
out moisture, and gleamed with the fire that consumed
his vitals. The muscles of his face were agitated by
convulsions. His lips moved, but no sound escaped
him.
That nature should long sustain this conflict was not
to be believed. 1\iy state was little different from that
of my brother. I entered, as it were, into his thoughts.
My heart was visited and rent by his pangs. "Oh that
thy frenzy had never been cured! that thy madness,
with its blissful visions, would return! or, if that must
not be, that thy scene would hasten to a close I-that
death would cover thee with his oblivion!
""\Vhat can I wish for thee? Thou who hast vied
with the great Preacher of thy faith in sanctity of motives,
and in elevation above sensual and selfish! Thou whom
thy fate has changed into parricide and savage! Can I
wish for the continuance of thy being? No."
For a time his movements seemed destitute of purpose.
If he walked; if he turned; if his fingers were entwined
with each other; if his hands were pressed against oppo-
site sides of his head ,vith a force sufficient to crush it
into pieces; it was to tear his mind from self-contempla-
tion; to waste his thoughts on external objects.
Speedily this train was broken. A beam appeared to
be darted into his mind which gave a purpose to his
efforts. An avenue to escape presented itself; and now
he eagerly gazed about him. When my thoughts became
engaged by his demeanour, nlY fingers were stretched as
by a mechanical force, and the knife, no longer heeded
or of use, escaped from my grasp and fell unperceived
on the floor. IIis eye now lighted upon it; he seized it
with the quickness of thought.
I shrieked aloud, but it was too late. He plunged it
to the hilt in his neck; and his life instantly escaped
with the streanl that gushed from the wound. He was
stretched at my feet; and my hands were sprinkled with
his blood as he fell.
Such was thy last deed, my brother! For a spccta-::
(I

THE 7 RANSFORlJIA 7'ION.

25 1

like this \yas it my fate to be reserved! Thy eyes .were
closed-thy face ghastly with death-thy arms, and the
spot where thou lyedst, floated in thy life's blood! These
in1ages have not for a moment forsaken me. Till I am
breathless and cold, they must continue to hover in my
sight.
Carwin, as I said, had left the room; but he still
lingered in the house. 1\ly voice summoned him to my
aid; but I scarcely noticed his re-entrance, and now
faintly recollect his terrified looks, his broken exclama-
tions, his vehement avo"
als of innocence, the effusions
of his pity for me, and his offers of assistance.
I did not listen-I answered him not-I ceased to
upbraid or accuse. IIis guilt was a point to which I ,vas
indifferent. Ruffian or devil, black as hell or bright as
angels, thenceforth he ,yas nothing to me. I was in-
capable of sparing a look or a thought from the ruin that
,vas spread at my feet.
'Vhen he left me, I ,vas scarcely conscious of any
variation in the scene. lIe informed the inhabitants of
the hut of ,yhat had passed, and they fle,v to the I5pot.
Careless of his o,yn safety, he hasted to the city to in-
forn1 my friends of my condition.
J\Iy uncle speedily arrived at the house. The body of
Wieland ,vas removed froll1 my presence, and they sup-
posed that I ,yould follo,v it; but no, my home is ascer-
tained; here I have taken up my rest, and never ,viII I
go hence, till, like 'Vieland, I am borne to my grave.
Importunity ,vas tried in vain. They threatened to
remove n1e by violence,-nay, violence ,vas used; but
my soul prizes too dearly this little roof to endure to be
bereaved of it. Force should not prevail when the
hoary locks and supplicating tears of my uncle 'vere
ineffectual. l\Iy repugnance to n10ve gave birth to fero-
ciousness and frenzy ,yhen force ,vas employed, and they
were obliged to consent to my return.
They besought.lne-they rClnonstrated-they appealed
to every duty that connected me ,yith Him that made me
and with my fello,v-men-in vain. 'Vhile I live I will
not go hence. Have I not fulfilled my destiny?
'Vhy "ill ye torlnent me ,vith your reasonings and

25 2

WIELAND.

reproofs? Can ye restore to me the hope of Iny better
days? Can ye give Ine back Catharine and her babes?
Can ye recall to life him who died at my feet?
I will eat-I ,viII drink-I "\villlie down and rise up-
at your bidding; all I ask is the choice of my abode.
What is there unreasonable in this demand? Shortly
will I be at peace. This is the spot which I have chosen
in which to breathe my last sigh. Deny me not, I be-
seech you, so slight a boon.
Talk not to me, 0 my reverend friend! of Carwin.
He has told thee his tale, and thou exculpatest him from
all direct concern in the fate of Wieland. This scene of
havoc was produced by an illusion of the senses. Be it
so; I care not from ,vhat source these disasters have
flowed; it suffices that they have swallowed up our hopes

nd our existence.
'Vhat his agency began, his agency conducted to a
close. He intended, by the final effort of his power, to
rescue me and to banish his illusions from my brother.
Such is his tale, concerning the truth of which I care
not. Henceforth I foster but one wish: I ask only
'1uick deliverance from life and all the ills that attend it.
Go, wretch! torment me not ,vith thy presence and
thy prayers.-Forgive thee? Will that avail thee when
thy fateful hour shall arrive? Be thou acquitted at
thy own tribunal, anù thou needest not fear the verdict
of others. If thy guilt be capable of blacker hues, if
hitherto thy conscience be without stain, thy crime will
be made more flagrant by thus violating my retreat.
Take thyself away from my sight if thou wouldst not
behold my death!
Thou art gone! murmuring and reluctant! And DOW
my repose is coming-my work is done!

CHAPTER XXVII.

[Written t
ree years after the foregoing, and dated at
Iontpellier.l

I IMAGINED that I had forever laid aside the pen;
and that I should take up my abode in this part of the
world wa.s of all events the least probable. j)Iy destiny
I believed to be accomplished, and I looked forward to
a speedy termination of my life with the fullest confi-
dence.
Surely I had reason to be weary of existence, to be
impatient of every tie which held me from the grave.
I experienced this impatience in its fullest extent. I
was not only enamoured of death, but conceived, from
the condition of my frame, that to shun it was impossi-
ble, even though I had ardently desired it; yet here am I,
a thousand leagues from my native soil, in full possession
of life and of health, and not destitute of happiness.
Such is man. Time ,yill obliterate the deepest im-
pressions. Grief the most vehement and hopeless will
gradually decay and wear itself out. Arguments may
be employed in vain; every moral prescription may be
ineffectually tried; remonstrances, however cogent or
pathetic, shall have no power over the attention, or shall
be repelled ,vith disdain; yet, as day follows day, the
turbulence of our emotions shall subside, and our fluc-
tuations be finally succeeded by a calm.
Perhaps, however, the conquest of despair was chiefly
owing to an accident ,yhich rendered DIY continuance in
my own house impossible. At the conclusion of my long,
and, as I then supposed, Iny last, letter to you, I men-
tioned my resolution to ,vait for death in the very spot
which had been the principal scene of U1Y n1Ïsfortunes.

53

254

WIELAND,. OR,

Froln this resolution my friends exerted themselves 'with
the utmost zeal and perseverance to make me depart.
They justly imagined that to be thus surrounded by me-
morials of the fate of my family would tend to foster .
my disease. A s,vift succession of new objects, and the
exclusion of every thing calculated to remind me of my
loss, was the only method of cure.
I refused to listen to their exhortations. Great as my
calamity was, to be torn from this asylum was regarded
by me as an aggravation of it. By a perverse consti-
tution of mind, he was considered as my greatest enemy
who sought to withdraw me from a scene which supplied
eternal food to my melancholy, and kept my despair
from languishing.
In relating the history of these disasters I derived a
similar species of gratification. My uncle earnestly dis-
suaded me from this task; but his remonstrances were
as fruitless on this head as they had been on others.
They would have ,vithheld from TIle the implements of
,,-riting; but they quickly perceived that to withstand
would be TIl0re injurious than to comply ,vith my wisbes.
Ilaving finished my tale, it seemed as if the scene were
closing. A fever lurked in my veins, and my strength
was gone. Any exertion, however slight, was attended
with difficulty, and, at length, I refused to rise from
my bed.
I now see the infatuation and injustice of my conduct
in its true colours. I reflect upon the sensations and
reasonings of that period ,yith ,yonder and hUlniliation.
That I should be insensible to the claims and tears of
my friends; that I should overlook the suggestions of
duty, and fly from that post in ,vhich only I could be
instrumental to the benefit of others; that the exercise
of the social and benefic0nt affections, the contemplation
of nature, and the acquisition of wisdom, should not be
seen to be means of happiness still 'within my reach, is,
at this time, scarcely credible.
It is true that I am now changed; but I have not the
consolation to reflect that my change ,vas o,ving to my
fortitude or to lllY capacity for instruction. Better
thoughts grew up in my u1ind ilnperceptibly. I cannot

TI-IE TR.AiYSFORlJIA l'JO
V,

255

but congratulate nlyself on the change, thGugh, perhaps,
it merely argues a fickleness of temper and a defect of
sensibility.
After my narrative was ended, I betook myself to my
bed, in the full belief that my career in this world was
on the point of finishing. l\1y uncle took up his abode
with DIC, and performed for me every office of nurse,
physician, and friend. One night, after some hours of
restlessness and pain, I sunk into deep sleep. Its tran-
quillity, ho,vever, was of no long duration. My fancy
became suddenly distempered, and my brain was turned
into a theatre of uproar and confusion. It would not be
easy to describe the wild and fantastical incongruities
that pestered me. My uncle, "\Vieland, Pleyel, and Oar-
win were successively and momently discerned amidst
the storm. Sometimes I was swallowed up by whirl-
pools, or caught up in the air by half-seen and gigantic
forms, and thrown upon pointed rocks or cast among the
billows. Sometilnes gleams of light ,vere shot into a
dark abyss, on the verge of which I ,vas standing, and
enabled me to discover, for a moment, its enormous depth
and hideous precipices. Anon, I was transported to
some ridge of Etna, and made a terrified spectator of
its fiery torrents and its pillars of smoke.
However strange it may seem, I ,vas conscious, even
during my dream, of my real situation. I knew myself
to be asleep, and struggled to break the spell by mus-
cular exertions. These did not avail, and I continued
to suffer these abortive creations till a loud voice at my
bedside, and SOllie one shaking me ,vith violence, put an
end to my reverie. lVly eyes ,vere unsealed, and I started
from lilY pillow.
My chamber ,vas filled with smoke, which, though in
some degree luminous, would pernlit me to see nothing,
and by which I was nearly suffocated. The crackling
of flames, and the deafening clam our of voices without,
burst upon my ears. Stunned as I ,vas by this hubbub,
scorched ,vith heat, and nearly choked by the accumu..
lating vapours, I was unable to think or act for lny own
preservation; I ,vas incapable, indeed, of comprehend.
ing Iny danger.

25 6

WIELAND,. OR,

I was caught up, in an instant, by a pair of sinewy
arms, borne to the window, and carrietl ùown a ladder
which had been placed there. My uncle stood at the
bottom and received me. I was not fully aware of my
situation till I found myself sheltered in the hut and
surrounded by its inhabitants.
By neglect of the servant, some unextinguished em-
bers had been placed in a barrel in the cellar of the
building. The barrel had caught fire; this was commu-
nicated to the beams of the lower floor, and thence to
the upper part of the structure. I t ,vas first discovered
by some persons at a distance, who hastened to the spot
and alarmed my uncle and the servants. The flames
had already made considerable progress, and my condi-
tion was overlooked till n1Y escape was rendered nearly
impossible.
My danger being known, and a ladder quickly pro-
cured, one of the spectators ascended to my chamber,
and effected my deliverance in the manner before re-
la ted.
This incident, disastrous as it may at first seem, had,
in reality, a beneficial effect upon my feelings. I was,
in some degree, roused from the stupor ,vhich had seized
my faculties. The monotonous and gloomy series of
my thoughts was broken. l\1y habitation was levelled
with the ground, and I was obliged to seek a ne,v one.
A new train of images, disconnected 1vith the fate of
my family, forced itself on my attention; and a belief
insensibly sprung up that tranquillity, if not happi-
ness, was still within my reach. N ot",-ithstanding the
shocks which my frame had endured, the anguish of
my thoughts no sooner abated than I recovered lllY
health.
I now willingly listened to my uncle's solicitations to
be the companion of his voyage. Preparations were
easily made, and, after a trdious passage, 1ve set our feet
on the shore of the ancient world. The memory of the
past did not forsake me; but the lnelancholy ,vhich it
generated, and the tears with ,yhich it filled my eyes,
were not unprofitable. l\fy curiosity ,vas revived, and I

THE TRANSFORð/A TION.

257

contemplated with ardour the spectacle of living man-
ners and the monuments of past ages.
In proportion as nlY heart was reinstated in the pos...
session of its ancient tranquillity, the sentiment which I
had cherished with regard to Pleyel returned. In a
short time he was united to the Saxon "
oman, and
made his residence in the neighbourhood of Boston. I
was glad that circumstances would not permit an inter-
view to take place between us. I could not desire their
misery; but I reaped no pleasure from reflecting on
their happiness. Time, and the exertions of my forti-
tude, cured me, in some degree, of this folly. I con-
tinued to love him, but my passion was disguised to
myself; I considered it merely as a more tender species
of friendship, and cherished it without compunction.
Through my uncle's exertions, a meeting was brought
about between Carwin and Pleyel, and explanations
took place which restored me at once to the good opi-
nion of the latter. Though separated so widely, our
correspondence was punctual and frequent, and paved
the way for that union which can only end with the
death of one of us.
In my letters to him I made no secret of my former
sentiments. This was a theme on which I could talk
without painful though not without delicate emotions.
That knowledge which I should never have imparted
to a lover, I felt little scruple to communicate to a
friend.
A year and a half elapsed when Theresa was snatched
from him by death, in the hour in ,vhich she gave him
the first pledge of their mutual affection. This event
was borne by him with his customary fortitude. It in-
duced him, ho,vever, to make a change in his plans.
lIe disposed of his property in America, and joined my
uncle and me, who had terminated the wanderings of
two years 8.t ßlontpellier, which ,viII henceforth, I be-
lieve, be our permanent abode.
If you reflect upon that entire confidence which had
subsisted from our infancy between Pleyel and myself,
on the pas
ion that I had contracted, and ,,
hich was
merely smothered for a time, and on the esteell1 ,yhich
17

25 8

WIELAND,. OR,

was mutual, you will not, perhaps, be surprised that the
renovation of our intercourse should give birth to that
union which at present subsists. When the period had
elapsed necessary to weaken the relnelnbrance of The-
resa, to whom he had been bound by ties more of honour
than of love, he tendered his affections to me. I need
not add that the tender was eagerly accepted.
Perhaps you are some,vhat interested in the fate of
Carwin. He saw, when too late, the danger of impos.
ture. So much affected was he by the catastrophe to
which he was a witness, that he laid aside all regard to
his own safety. lIe sought my uncle, and confided to
him the tale which he had just related to me. He
found. a more impartial and indulgent auditor in 1\'11'.
Cambridge, who imputed to maniacal illusion the con-
duct of "Vieland, though he conceived the previous and
unseen agency of Carwin to have indirectly but power-
fuBy predisposed to this deplorable perversion of mind.
It was easy for Car,vin to elude the persecutions of
Ludloe. It was merely requisite to hide himself in a
remote district of Pennsylvania. This, when he parted
from us, he determined to do. lIe is now probably en-
gaged in the harmless pursuits of agriculture, and may
come to think, without insupportable remorse, on the
evils to which his fatal talents have given birth. The
innocence and usefulness of his future life may, in some
degree, atone for the miseries so rashly or so thought-
lessly inflicted. .
1\'Iore urgent considerations hindered me from men-
tioning, in the course of my former mournful recital,
any particulars respecting the unfortunate father of
Louisa Conway. That man surely was reserved to be a
monument of capricious fortune. Ilis southern journeys
being finished, he returned to Philadelphia. Before he
reached the city he left the high,vay, and alighted at
my brother's door. Contrary to his expectation, no one
came forth to welcome him or hail his approach. He
attempted to enter the house; but bolted doors, barred
windows, and a silence broken only by unanswered calls,
showed him that the Iuausion waR deserted.
lIe proceeded thence to lHY habitation, which he

THE TRANSFORMA TION.

259

found, in like manner, gloomy and tenantless. His
surprise may be easily conceived. The rustics who oc-
cupied the hut told him an imperfect and incredible tale
lIe hasted to the city, and extorted from lVlrs. Baynton
a full disclosure of late disasters.
He was inured to adversity, and recovered, after no
long time, from the shocks produced by the disappoint-
ment of his darling scheme. Our intercourse did not
terminate ,vith his departure from America. We have
since met with him in France, and light has at length
been thrown upon the motives which occasioned the dis-
appearance of his ,vife in the manner ,vhich I formerly
related to you.
I have dwelt upon the ardour of their conjugal attach-
ment, and mentioned that no suspicion had ever glanced
upon her purity. This, though the belief ,vas long
cherished, recent discoveries have sho,vn to be question-
able. No doubt her integrity would have survived to
the present moment if an extraordinary fate had not
befallen her.
l\tlajor Stuart had been engaged, while in Germany,
in a contest of honour with an aide-de-camp of the l\Iar-
quis of Granby. His adversary had propagated a ru-
mour injurious to his character. A challenge was sent;
a meeting ensued; and Stuart wounded and disarmed
the calumniator. The offence ,vas atoned for, and his
life secured by suitable concessions.
Max,vell (that was his name) shortly after, In conse-
quence of succeeding to a rich inheritance, sold his
cOInmission and returned to London. His fortune was
speedily auglnented by an opulent marriage. Interest
,vas his sole inducement to this marriage, though the
lady had been swayed by a credulous affection. The
true state of his heart ,vas quickly discovered, and a
separation, by mutual consent, took place. The lady
withdrew to an estate in a distant county, and Max,vell
continued to consume his time and fortune in the dissi-
pation of the capital.
ßlax,vell, though deceitful and sensual, possessed
great force of nlind and specious accolllplishulents. lIe
contrived to mislead the generous mind of Stuart, aud

260

WIELAND; OR,

to regain the esteem which his misconduct for a tim6
had forfeited. He ,vas recommended by her husband to
the confidence of Mrs. Stuart. Maxwell was stimulated
by revenge, and by a lawless passion, to convert this
confidence into a source of guilt.
The education and capacity of this woman, the worth
of her husband, the pledge of their alliance "\\'hich time
had produced, her maturity in age and knowledge of the
world,-all combined to render this attempt hopeless.
lVlaxwell, however, was not easily discouraged. The
most perfect being, he believed, must owe his exemption
from vice to the absence of temptation. The impulses
of love are so subtle, and the influence of false reason-
ing, when enforced by eloquence and passion, so un-
bounded, that no human virtue is secure from degene-
racy. All arts being tried, every temptation being
summoned to his aid, dissimulation being carried to its
utmost bound, Maxwell, at length, nearly accomplished
his purpose. The lady's affections were withdra,vn
from her husband and transferred to him. She could
not, as yet, be reconciled to dishonour. All efforts to
induce her to elope with him were ineffectual. She per-
mitted herself to love, and to avow her love; but at this
limit she stopped, and was immovable.
Hence this revolution in her sentiments was produc-
tive only of despair. Her rectitude of principle pre-
served her from actual guilt, but could not restore to her
her ancient affection, or save her from being the prey
of remorseful and impracticable wishes. Her husband's
absence produced a state of suspense. This, however,
approached to a period, and she received tidings of his
intended return. Max,vell, being likewise apprized of
this event, and having made a last and unsuccessful
effort to conquer her reluctance to accompany him in a
journey to Italy, whither he pretended an invineible
necessity of going, left her to pursue the measures which
despair might suggest. At the same time she received
a letter from the wife of Maxwell, unveiling the true
character of this man, and rcvealing facts which the
artifices of her seducer had hitherto concealed from her.
1\I1's. Maxwell had been prompted to this disclosure by a

T.lIE TRANSFOR !tEA TION.

26 T

kno,vleùge of her husband's practices, with which his
own impetuosity had made her acquainted.
This discovery, joined to the delicacy of her scruples
and the anguish of remorse, induced her to abscond.
This scheme was adopted in haste, but effected with
consummate prudence. She fled, on the eve of her hus-
band's arrival, in the disguise of a boy, and embarked
at Falmouth in a packet bound for America.
The history of her disastrous intercourse with
Iax-
well, the motives inducing her to forsake her country,
and the measures she had taken to effect her design,
were related to Mrs. Maxwell, in reply to her communi-
cation. Between these women an ancient intimacy and
considerable similitude of character subsisted. This
disclosure was accompanied with solemn injunctions of
secrecy, and these injunctions were, for a long time,
faithfully observed.
Mrs. l\faxwell's abode was situated on the banks of
the Wey. Stuart was her kinsman; their youth had
been spent together; and Max,vell was in some degree
indebted to the man whom he betrayed for his alliance
with this unfortunate lady. Her esteem for the character
of Stuart had never been diminished. A meeting be-
tween them was occasioned by a tour ,rhich the latter
had undertaken, in the year after his return from Ame-
rica, to Wales and the western counties. This interview
produced pleasure and regret in each. Their o,vn trans-
actions naturally became the topics of their conversation;
and the untimely fate of his wife and daughter were
related by the guest.
Mrs. Maxwell's regard for her friend, as ,yell as for
the safety of her husband, persuaded her to conceal-
ment; but, the former being dead and the latter being
out of the kingdom, she ventured to produce l\Irs. Stu-
art's letter, and to communicate her own knowledge of
the treachery of l\Iax,vell. She had previously extorted
from her guest a promise not to pursue any scheme of
vengeance; but this promise was made while ignorant
of the full extent of Maxwell's depravity, and his pas..
sion refused to adhere to it.
At this time Iny uncle and I resiùed at Avignon.

262

WIELAND,. OR,

Among the EngI:,,;ll resident there, and with whom we
maintained a social intercourse, was Maxwell. This
man's talents and aùdress rendered him a favourite both
with my uncle and myself. lIe had even tendered me
his hand in marriage; but, this being refused, he had
sought and obtained permission to continue with us the
intercourse of friendship. Since a legal marriage was
impossible, no doubt his views were flagitious. Whether
he had relinquished these views I ,\yas unable to judge.
lIe was one in a large circle at a villa in the environs,
to which I had like'\vise been invited, when Stuart ab-
ruptly entered the apartment. He was recognised with
genuine satisfaction by me, and )vith seeming pleasure
by Maxwell. In a short time, some affair of moment
being pleaded, which required an immediate and exclu-
sive interview, Maxwell and he withdrew together.
Stuart and my uncle had been known to each other in
the German army; and the purpose contemplated by the
former in this long and hasty journey was confided to his
old friend.
A defiance was given and received, and the banks of
a rivulet, about a league from the city, was selected as
the scene of this contest. My uncle, having exerted
hinlself in vain to prevent a hostile meeting, consented
to attend them as a surgeon. Next morning, at sunrise,
was the time chosen.
I returned early in the evening to my lodgings. Pre-
liminaries being settled between the combatants, Stuart
had consented to spend the evening with us, and did not
retire till late. On the way to his hotel he was exposed
to no nlolestation; but just as he stepped within the
portico, a swarthy and malignant figure started from
behind a column and plunged a stiletto into his body.
The author of this treason could not certainly be dis-
covered; but the details communicated by Stuart re-
specting the history of }\iaxwell naturally pointed him
out as an object of suspicion. Noone expressed more
concern on account of this disaster than he; and he pre-
tended an ardent zeal to vindicate his character from
the aspersions that were cast upon it. Thenceforth,

THE TRANSFOR.ð'fA TION.

26 3

however, I denied myself to his visits; and shortly after
he disappeared from this scene.
Few possPsRed more estimable qualities, and a better
title to happiness and the tranquil honours of long life,
than the mother and the father of Louisa Conway; yet
they were cut off in the bloom of their days, and their
destiny was thus accomplished by the same hand. Max-
well was the instrument of their destruction, though the
instrument was applied to this end in so different a
manner.
I leave you to moralize on this tale. That virtue
should become the victim of treachery is, no doubt, a
mournful consideration; but it will not escape your
notice, tbat the evils of which Carwin and Maxwell
were the authors owed their existence to the errors of
the sufferers. All efforts would have been ineffectual to
subvert the happiness or shorten the existence of the
Stuarts, if their own frailty had not seconded these
efforts. If the lady had crushed her disastrous passion
in the bud, and driven the seducer from her presence
when the tendency of his artifices was seen; if Stuart
had not admitted the spirit of absurd revenge, we should
not have had to deplore this catastrophe. If 'Vieland
had framed juster notions of moral duty and of the
divine attributes, or if I had been gifted with ordinary
equanimity or foresight, the double-tongued deceiver
would have been baffled and repelled.

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