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WIELAND
OR THE TRANSFORMATION
TOGETHER WITH
MEMOIRS OF CARWIN THE BILOQUIST
A FRAGMENT
BY
CHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN
EDITED WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY
FRED LEWIS PATTEE
<  *
* *:.::'"
NEW YORK
HARCOURT, BRACE AND COMPANY




COPYRIGHT, 1926, BY
HARCOURT, BRACE AND COMPANY, INC.:*: 0
* a


Printed in the U. S. A.




AMERICAN AUTHORS SERIES


The chief purposes of the present series of volumes are
two. The first is to provide for college students, teachers,
and general readers authentic texts, with explanatory and
critical commentary, of books in American literature
unexploited but secure in reputation. Such a book is
Wi.eland, by Charles Brockden Brown. The second purpose is to furnish complete texts of individual writers
rather than selections from them. An illustration of this
principle may be observed in The Connecticut Wits. It
will not invariably be possible to include all the writing
of an author, or even all of a particular book, but enough
material will always be given to afford the reader an
opportunity to know the writer thoroughly, rather than
to encounter slight portions of his work.
Since the second aim of the series is, within given limits,
completeness, the emphasis will be upon the text of a book
rather than upon annotation or critical apparatus. Aside
from a moderate number of footnotes and a brief selected
bibliography, editorial comment, for reasons of space,
will be limited to a comprehensive introduction. Early
texts will be reproduced, so far as practicable for their
study in college classes, with the original spelling and
punctuation.
The American Authors Series will also include texts
of the standard writers of our literature.
S. T. W.








CONTENTS
PAGE
INTRODUCTION.................................... ix
NOTE ON TEXT.................................. X1Vl
SELECTED READING LIST.........................XlVifi
WIELAND, OR THE TRANSFORMATION.................I
MEMOIRS OF CARWIN, THE BILOQUIST..............275


vil




top




INTRODUCTION


I
AMERICAN literature, strictly speaking, is as old only
as the republic. Before 1790 prose and poetry were
by-products, the experimental off-shootings of pens that
usually were busy with "useful" matters. Of fiction
there had been substantially none. Poetry had been
for the most part polemical or religious jiggings, or crude
balladry, or, as one finds it in amazing volume in the
newspapers and the magazines of the later period, mere
rhymed doggerel. The essay, the chief literary form
used in America even until the mid-nineteenth century,
had been but a weapon for pamphleteering, a journalistic rapier often deadly only in its dullness. Literature
with literary purpose-"mere literature "-produced by
a writer who wrote because he had literature in his soul
and was devoting his life to it, came not to America
till the first decade of the republic, until well into those
hectic fin de siecle years which were to bring into the
world so many unheard-of things. And even then America produced but one such writer of literature: it was a
generation before Washington Irving came as the second.
The term [Father of American literature" belongs
unquestionably to Charles Brockden Brown, To him
belong also the first two decades of our republican literary history. He was an innovator in a revolutionary
age, a literary genius in a land barren of literary men,
a pioneer with courage to stand against even his own
family and the ideals of his own generation. Says Dunlap, his earliest biographer, writing with contemporary
ix




X


INTRODUCTION


knowledge: "To become exclusively an author' was at
that time a novelty in the United States, and If we except
the editors of newspapers, no one had relied solely upon
the support of his talents, and deliberately chosen this
station in society." But what is even more significant,
Brown chose for his profession fiction, a literary form
almost untried in America, and one attacked by prejudice, denounced in every pulpit, and thundered against
by all the moralists.
With Brown began not only a native American literature, but a literature created for the first time in
America for mere literature's sake. With him began a
literary period," and it is noteworthy that it began elsewhere than in New England. The novel, and other
forms of literature designed for mere entertainment,
have never flourished in a puritanic environment. Brown,
Irving, Cooper, and Poe would have perished in the
New England atmosphere; Dennie, Halleck, and Willis
survived only because they left it. But Philadelphia,
the capital of the new republic, and New York City,
the swiftly growing metropolis, were cosmopolitan,
not self-contained like Boston, tolerant, open freely
to "worldliness."  Philadelphia, though fundamentally
Quaker in its population, had been exposed on every
side to broadening influences. Through returned ambassadors like Jefferson, through foreign adventurers
and officials, it had caught the spirit of foreign lands.
As the seat of Congress even from revolutionary days,
it had been a real middle ground between the northern
and the southern states. It was inevitable that real
literature should flourish first in these central capitals.
In this primitive American period Brown stands not
only as a leader, but as a typical figure. He was a native of Philadelphia, born in 1771, from  old Quaker




INTRODUCTION


xi


stock, by his inheritance mystical of soul, meditative,
non-combative. Then, as a result of environment, in his
adolescent years he turned rebel, was possessed for a
time by French deism, by Godwinism with its Wollstonecraft corollary of women's rights, by Utopianism
extreme even in that golden age of American Utopian
dreams. Another important factor explaining the man
was his frail physical endowment. He had not been an
active lad, a boy among boys: he grew up rather as a
chimney-corner youth, a porer over books, reading
eagerly everything he could obtain. At ten he was
accounted an authority on geography and a prodigy of
general information.  His schooling exphasized his
bookishness. For five years, until he was sixteen, he
studied Latin and Greek in the select Quaker school of
Robert Proud, later to be known as the historian of
Pennsylvania. Recognizing the delicate physique and
eager spirit of his pupil, this famous master had sent
him on daily walks into the country, wisely, from the
physical standpoint, but unwisely in other respects, since
it laid the foundations of that solitariness of soul and
those habits of morbid introspection and gloomy foreboding so characteristic of Brown's later years.
Over his Latin, perhaps over his Barlow's Vision oj
Columbus, then among the new books, he dreamed of
himself as a poet, a creator, like Barlow, of American
epics commensurate with the glory of the new republic.
"At the age of sixteen," records Dunlap, "he sketched
plans of three distinct epic poems, one on the discovery
of America, another on Pizarro's conquest of Peru, and
a third on Cortez's expedition to Mexico. With these
he was much engrossed, and for some time thought
life only desirable as a mean for their accomplishment."
There was none to advise or sympathize with the lad in




xii               INTRODUCTION
his dreaming. The counsel from his own home was
Franklinian in its common sense. The voice of America
on such matters poetic was that of James Madison,
who as early as 1774 wrote in a letter to the young musestruck Bradford:
I myself use to have too great a hankering after those amusing
studies. Poetry, wit, and criticism, romances, plays, &c. captivated me much: but I began to discover that they deserve but a
moderate portion of a mortal's time and that something more substantial, more durable, more profitable befits our riper age.
It was the voice of America. Fifty years later we find
the elder Longfellow writing to his son at Bowdoin,
"A literary life, to one who has the means of support,
must be very pleasant, but there is not enough wealth
in this country to afford encouragement and patronage
to merely literary men."
Brown yielded, therefore, like Bradford and Madison
and Dennie before him and like Bryant and Longfellow
and Lowell after him, to the words of necessity, and
settled himself to the study of law. This profession,
he wrote in later years, "is withal, in this country, one
of the roads to opulence, and the most certain path to
political importance and fame." His family had found
him a place in the office of Alexander Wilcox, a leading barrister of Philadelphia, and for a time he threw
himself into his new studies with all the impetuous
enthusiasm of his nature. A club of legal students gave
exercise for a time to his forensic powers, but he still
continued his literary studies. He attempted the mastery
of French; "he studied with assiduity the writings of
the best English authors" intent upon the attainment
of "felicity of style"; and he soon found himself leader
of a more congenial group, the Belles Lettres Club, nine
young men as enamoured of literature as himself.




INTRODUCTION                  xiii
The law became more and more distasteful. By the
time he was nineteen he had awakened to the nature of
his powers. Literature had laid hold upon him. He
poured out poetry in profusion, some of which in later
years he published anonymously in his magazines. In
August, 1789, he began in the Columbian Magazine
a series of literary essays entitled "The Rhapsodist,"
papers previously read before his club, sophomoric in
style and over-elevated in sentiment, yet real accomplishments in that dreary age, and rich in promise.
His final break with the law just as he was ready to
commence practice brought him into sharp discord not
only with his home but with all Philadelphia. In that
intensely practical period it was a step without precedent. It branded the youth as "queer," but he held
his ground. Criticism served only to drive him to more
solitary wanderings, far extended now, even into the
wilds of Pennsylvania where he found materials to be
used later in his romance Edgar Huntley, and where he
increased his morbid introspection and gloom even to
thoughts of suicide. "Dissatisfied with himself," says
Dunlap, "and with the most gloomy prospects of the
future scenes destined for his lot in life, Charles, as if
to avoid the presence of his disappointed friends, rambled
from home without ahy apparently defined object."
His low opinion of the law he had not learned from
Godwin. The Political Justice with its caustic arraignment of all things legal did not appear until 1793. It
came from conviction deliberately arrived at, from
Utopian dreamings, and from a growing desire to devote
his life to activities distinctively humanitarian. Godwin undoubtedly helped him to explain his step in later
years. In Ormond, written by Brown in 1798, Mr. Dudley, ruined by a sharper, and forced to find employment




xiv


INTRODUCTION


in a lawyer's office, "was perpetually encumbered with
the rubbish of law, and waded with laborious steps
through its endless tautologies, its impertinent circuities, its lying assertions and hateful artifices.... It
was one tedious round of scrawling and jargon; a tissue
made up of the shreds and remnants of barbarous antiquity, polluted with the rust of ages, and patched, by
the stupidity of modern workmen, into new deformity."
Surely this passage in style and sentiment is Godwinian,
but Brown formed independently his own convictions.
II
The link connecting the "Hartford Wits" with the
Philadelphia and New York writers of the early national
period was Dr. Elihu Hubbard Smith, a native of Litchfield, Connecticut, born in the same year as Brown.
Graduated at Yale at the age of fifteen, he had been
sent for a period of graduate training to Timothy Dwight,
later President of Yale and leader of the Connecticut
"Pleiades." Dwight had directed him strongly toward
literary studies, especially poetry. For the completion
of his medical course he came later to Philadelphia,
a course which, like Brown's in the law, he mingled
copiously with literature. The two poets met early
and became inseparable friends-lso inseparable indeed
that the friendship may be called the deciding event
of Brown's career. Both contributed to the magazines,
Smith under the pseudonym "Ella." The young Connecticut poet's taste had turned strongly to dramatics.
In 1791 he wrote the first version of his opera Edwin and
Angelina, or the Bandetti. Three years later this was
successfully staged, and again three years later was
published as a book. Brown was still enamoured of
poetry. Judging from his " Devotion. An Epistle,"




INTRODUCTION                        xv
a poem of 536 lines first printed in the American Register, Vol. III, there was genuine poetry in the youth.
Even in England in 1794, four years before the Lyrical
Ballads, few writers could equal certain passages in
this poem. It is poetical autobiography: it throws light
upon those unrecorded yet formative years after Brown
had abandoned the law.
In Fancy's fairy land, my steps have long
Been wont to stray, where Schuylkill pours her tide
'Twixt unaspiring banks, low-brow'd, and rich
In naught but waving rushes, sight deform'd
And indelectable....
Plain Nature, in her flow'ry paths, has long
Detain'd me, lost in her enchanting maze
Awhile; anon, delighted more to trace
The footsteps of Linnean guide, and out
Of such sweet prison wind me, by the clue,
Spun by Upsalian hands, conducted safe
Through pleasant paths....
'Twas here that first my eyes beheld
My mystic guide, my genius, my divine
Instructress, better angel, heavenly friend,
Etherial messenger, with Heaven's behests
Encharg'd; my heart and fancy's queen, my Muse...
In this recess I sat
And saw, or dream'd I saw, an airy shape,
And heard aerial notes, a voice that far
Outwarbled dulcent breath that whispers love
At bridal hours; out-talk'd impassioned strings
Kiss'd by enamour'd fingers, or by airs,Eolian kiss'd, it sung, and this the song:
But whither would thy steps, advent'rous youth,
Lead thee? Who told thee that Calista's ear
Would deem the accents of thy friendship sweet?
Nor dress her eye in terrors when thou com'st
Before her in this questionableshape?




I


xvi                INTRODUCTION
In November, 1794, Brown wrote to Dunlap:
It used to be a favorite maxim with me, that the genius of a
poet should be sacred to the glory of his country.... National
songs, strains which have a peculiar relation to the political or
religious transactions of the poet's country, seem to be the most
precious morcels, which do not require a dissatisfying brevity,
nor preclude the most exalted flights of genius: for in this class I
rank the Iliad and Oneid, and Orlando (the last is a truly national
song, since the streets of every Italian city have re-echoed with
it for this hundred years or two) as well as Chevy Chase, or the
song of Roland.
Does it appear to you, that to give poetry a popular currency
and universal reputation, a particular cast of manners and state
of civilization is necessary? I have sometimes thought so.
The presence of Smith brought to the starved young
poet, revolving such themes in his solitary wanderings
a breath from what the times considered the chief ares
of poetry in America. When the young physician had'
completed his studies and had settled for the practice
of his profession not far from Yale, Brown soon followed
him. Says Dunlap, "He visited Connecticut and made
acquaintance with many of the friends of his beloved
Elihu H. Smith." He saw, we know, President Dwight,
by many then considered the leading American poet.
Smith had been adopted into the little constellation of
the "Pleiades"; he had contributed to the Echo; and in
1793 had made himself the anthologist of the group,
issuing at Litchfield, Connecticut, his American Poems,
Selected and Original. The greater number of these were
drawn from the work of Trumbull, Dwight, Barlow,
Humphreys, Hopkins, and Alsop; they made up the first
general collection of American verse.
In 1794 Dr. Smith removed to New York where he
became known as one of the most promising of its younger
physicians. We need not follow his medical career,




INTRODUCTION


Xvi


which within its very brief span was brilliant. Brown
visited him early in his new environment and through
him became acquainted with another who was to influence strongly the current of his life, William Dunlap, painter and dramatist, who later was to become
his biographer. In August, 1794, we find him writing
to his new friend: " My excursion to New York will long
be remembered by me with the most pleasing emotions."
In the little New York group which had gathered about
Smith, many of them graduates of Yale, he found not
only sympathy and comprehension, but constructive advice. In September, 1795, he again writes to Dunlap:
Soon after my return, I began the design of which we talked
so much. I had planned so that I could finish a work equal in extent to Caleb Williams in less than six weeks; and I wrote a quantity
equivalent to ten of his [Godwin's] pages daily, till the hot weather
and inconvenient circumstances obliged me to relax my diligence.
Great expedition does not seem very desirable. Tenets so momentous require a leisurely and deep examination; and much meditation, reading and writing, I presume, are necessary to render
my system of morality perfect in all its parts, and to acquire a
full and luminous conviction; but I have not stopped-I go on,
though less precipitately than at first, and I hope finally to produce something valuable for its utility.
Nothing came of this early project. In the following December he wrote Dunlap that "after wandering through fifty pages" he had come to the thorough
consciousness that he was "unfitted for the instructor's chair" and that his style was fatally "feeb16-and
diffuse." What he had attempted was undoubtedly
a work modeled on the plan suggested by Godwin's
Political Justice, a humanitarian tract with Utopian
embellishments. "His journals of this time," says
Dunlap, at whose home at Perth Amboy he was a resident for six months in 1796, "are interspersed with




xviii              INTRODUCTION
plans and scraps of Utopias, which are left in so unfinished a situation as to be unintelligible. In common
with many ardent minds filled with a love of their fellowcreatures, he sought for some plan by which to improve
and secure human happiness. Many delightful visions
floated in his imagination... but these schemes were
none of them ever so arranged as to produce a complete
or finished work."
A little later he is in New York living in rooms with
Smith and William Johnson, a young lawyer of his own
age, a graduate of Yale, and like Smith intensely interterested in poetry and the drama. He was now with
congenial souls who understood him and who brought
out the best that was in him. The Friendly Club, a
remarkable little circle when one examines its roll of
membership in the light of later years, added him to
their number. Dunlap says:
"The Friendly Club" continued for several years to meet weekly
at the house of one or other of the members, to discuss literary or
other subjects; and occupied part of the time in conducting a review.
The members of this club were William Johnson, esq.; the Rev.
Dr. Samuel Miller; Dr. S. L. Mitchell; James Kent, Esq.; Anthony
Bleecher, esq.; Dr. E. H. Smith; Charles Adams, esq.; John Wells,
esq.; W. W. Woolsey, esq.; C. B. Brown, and the writer. With
most of the members of the Friendly Club Brown was in the
habits of the strictest intimacy, and enjoyed their society unreservedly on other occasions, as well as the stated times of periodical
meeting.
Under the influence of this group Brown turned more
and more to prose. In the later months of 1797, inspired undoubtedly by Godwin, he produced a series
of papers on the rights of women which he published
the same year under the title Alcuin. He was now in the
full tide of the city's intellectual life. Dunlap was concerned more and more with dramatic production, and his




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INTRODUCTION


xxi


his sudden death from yellow fever closed the history
of this the first of Brown's completed novels. The
manuscript was without doubt destroyed with the rest
of the unfortunate young man's papers and effects.
The loss of this first book did not trouble Brown. His
completed work always was so much at variance with
his first conceptions of it that it filled him with disgust.
He was soon off on another and more ambitious literary
venture. By September 5 he could write to Dunlap:
"This afternoon I revised the last sheet of Wieland.
It will form a handsome volume of three hundred pages."
Before, however, the book was off the press yellow fever
of the most malignant type broke out in the city, and
a reign of terror, such as is described in Ormond and
Arthur Mervyn, took possession of New York. Dr. Smith
was held in the city by his profession and by his
eager desire to study the disease, and Brown refused
to leave him. Amid terror and death on every hand
he began a new novel. But in September Dr. Smith,
whose rooms he was sharing, died of the fever, and Brown
himself was stricken, though not with the malignant
form of the disease.
By late autumn he was again at work with redoubled
energy. With the second volume of The Weekly Magazine appeared the first installment of Arthur Mervyn,
a romance centering about the Philadelphia epidemic
of 1793 which Brown had himself experienced.      Before the first part was finished he had started another
novel and was racing with the press. In mid-December
he wrote his brother in Philadelphia:
Some time since, I bargained with the publisher of Wieland for
a new performance, part of which only was written: and the publication commencing immediately, I was obliged to apply with
the utmost diligence to the pen, in order to keep pace with the




xxii


INTRODUCTION


press. Absorbed in this employment, I was scarcely conscious of
the lapse of time; and, when the day's task was finished, felt myself
thoroughly weary and unfit for a continuance of the same employment in any new shape.
I call my book Ormond; or, The Secret Witness. I hope to finish the writing and the publication together, before new-year's-day.
In the same letter he tells the news of another literary interest, one destined to change again the current
of his life:
Proposals have been issued here for the publication of a Monthly
Magazine, of which I am to be the editor, and whose profits are
to belong to me. The uncommon zeal of my friends here promises
success to this project. If it answer expectation, it will commence
in February or March.
It was April 1 before the new periodical appeared,
The Monthly Magazine and American Review, a work
that kept even Brown's headlong pen at top speed
during the next year and a half. Fiction seemed for
a time to obsess the man.       At one period he had in
progress as many as five uncompleted novels. In the
first number of the Monthly appeared a fragment entitled Edgar Huntley-that part (chapters 16-19, inclusive) which deals with Indian adventure. That he had
added a new motif and a new background for American
fiction, Brown seems to have been aware. In an editorial note in the magazine he says:
The following narrative is extracted from the memoirs of a young
man who resided some years since on the upper branches of the
Delaware. These memoirs will shortly be published.... Similar
events have frequently happened on the Indian borders; but,
perhaps, they were never before described with equal minuteness.
As to the truth of these incidents, men acquainted with the perils
of an Indian war must be allowed to judge. Those who have ranged
along the foot of the Blue-Ridge from the Wind-Gap to the WaterGap will see the exactness of the local descriptions. It may also be
mentioned that "Old Deb" is a portrait faithfully drawn from nature.




INTRODUCTION


xxiii


In the July number appeared this note:
"A new Romance written by the Author of Mervyn, Wieland,
Ormond, &c., and entitled Edgar Huntley is now printing in Philadelphia."
In the meantime, in the May number, had begun
the serial Memoirs of Stephen Calvert, a novel destined
after a long run to be unfinished. In addition to all this
fiction, there was demanded of the editor an enormous
amount of miscellaneous writing, sometimes even the
creation of practically an entire number of the magazine.
This venture was not the financial success that Brown had
anticipated, and he brought it to a close with the December (1800) number and removed to his old home.
During the rest of his life Brown devoted himself to
magazine work in Philadelphia.  In 1801, he produced
two more novels, Jane Talbot and Clara Howard, but
both were inferior work, written without enthusiasm.
Fiction had ceased to interest him: it brought, in the
first place, no financial returns. To his brother he wrote
in April, 1800, "Book-making, as you observe, is the
dullest of all trades, and the utmost any American can
look for, in his native country, is to be reimbursed his
unavoidable  expenses."  He missed, moreover, the
inspiration which had come from Dr. Smith and Dunlap and his other New York friends. In the presence
of his brothers and in the Philadelphia atmosphere his
thoughts turned more and more to the practical. "From
the regions of poetry and romance," records Dunlap,
"from visionary schemes of Utopian systems of government and manners, Mr. Brown, like many others, became a sober recorder of things as they are." The novelist within him died with the eighteenth century.
Literature now appealed to him wholly in terms of
magazines. In 1803 he started in Philadelphia the




Xxiv


INTRODUCTION


Literary Magazine and American Register, whose object
was to furnish "useful information and rational amusement." It was to be intensely practical. The editor,
he explained, "will carefully compile the news, foreign
and domestic, of the current month, and give in a concise and systematic order, that intelligence which the
common newspapers communicate in a vague and indiscriminate way." It was to be pre-eminently "an American Review in which the history of our native literature shall be carefully detailed," and it was to be in
all things safe and conservative-"a supreme regard will
be paid to the interests of religion and morality." It
ran with distinction for five years, whereupon Brown
abandoned it for his final experiment, Thte American
Register, a comprehensive year-book encyclopedic in its
variety. "Besides annals of Europe and America this
work contained an abstract of laws and public acts,
a review of literature, a chronicle of memorable occurrences, foreign and domestic scientific intelligence, American and foreign state-papers, and miscellaneous articles,"
-a work unique in the new world. Five distinctive volumes he was able to prepare before death stayed his hand.
More and more in this later period Brown became
interested in historical composition and political propaganda. He issued three pamphlets, one on the Louisiana purchase, one on the British treaty, and one on
foreign commerce. His historical surveys in the Register, done with thoroughness and accuracy and literary
v skill, would fill a large volume. They make Brown
unquestionably the pioneer American historian in the
modern manner, just as earlier he had been the pioneer
American novelist.  His earlier literary enthusiasms
seemed completely outgrown.  He even deplored his
New York activities. "I am far," he wrote, "from




INTRODUCTION


xxv


wishing that my readers should judge of my exertions
by my former ones. I have written much, but I take
much blame to myself for something which I have written,
and take no praise for anything. I should enjoy a larger
share of my own respect, at the present moment, if
nothing had ever flowed from my pen, the production
of which could be traced to me." Had he lived, unquestionably more and more he would have devoted himself to practical writings: history, statistics, political
argument, informational articles.
From its morning of gloom, Brown's life was now
turning towards a noon of exceptional happiness. He
had married the brilliant sister of John Blair Linn, the
poet; there were children in his home; his fame as a
writer was gradually increasing. But his health, always
precarious, now took an alarming turn. Tuberculosis
had fastened upon him, and quickly it had turned into
a " galloping consumption." The final picture of him is
by Sully, the portrait painter. It is a prose poem:
I saw him a little before his death. I had never known him,
never heard of him, never read any of his works. He was in a deep
decline. It was in the month of November,-our Indian summer,when the air is full of smoke. Passing a window one day I was
caught by the sight of a man, with remarkable physiognomy, writing at a table in a dark room. The sun shone directly upon his
head. I shall never forget it. The dead leaves were falling then.
It was Charles Brockden Brown.
Brown died February 19, 1810, aged thirty-nine years.
III
Not enough has been said by modern students of the
critical powers of Brown.   He was unquestionably the
father of American criticism. His reviews in the maga



xxvi


INTRODUCTION


zines of which he was editor are often informative and
penetrating. The writing of fiction was to him no haphazard matter despite the fact that he wrote always
too rapidly and always without revision. He brought
to his novels a surprisingly full knowledge of literary
technique: from   his various reviews one might gather
a small treatise on the nature and the art of fiction. To
him the novel was the most effective of the literary
forms:
The selection of a theme truly important, adorning it with the
lustre of eloquence, supplying, with judicious hand, the deficiencies.ophistory, in the statements of motives and the enumerati6'i ofcircumstances; fashioning falsehood by the most rigid standard of
probability, and suggesting to the readers beneficial truths, is the
sublimest province that can be assigned to man. It is questionable
whether verse be a more advantageous garb of such a theme than
prose; but whatever superiority we ascribe to verse, this superiority is small. All that constitutes the genuine and lasting excellence
of narratives; all the subtilties of ratiocination, the energies and
ornaments of rhetoric, and the colours of description, are compatible with prose. Numbers are an equivocal, or, at least, not an
essential attribute of a moral and useful tale.
Not at all did he share the prejudice of his time against
the novel:
They who prate about the influence of novels to unfit us for
solid and useful reading are guilty of a double error: for in the first
place, a just and powerful picture of human life in which the connection between vice and misery, and between felicity and virtue,
is vividly pourtrayed, is the most solid and useful reading that a
mortal and social being (exclusive of particular cases and professional engagements) can read; and in the second place, the most
trivial and trite of these performances are, to readers of certain
ages and intellects, the only books which they will read. If they
were not thus employed, they would be employed in a way far more
trivial or pernicious.... My fancy has received more delight, my
heart more humanity, and my understanding more instruction
from a few novels I could name, than from any other works.




INTRODUCTION                     Xxvii
The English fiction of the decade in which Brown
wrote was certainly open to the criticism of moralists.
Dennie, the contemporary of Brown in Philadelphia,
was thundering in his Port Folio against the excesses
of the Gothic school:
Horrible description predominates. The authors go out of the
walks of nature to find some dreadful incident. Appalling noises
must be created. Ghosts must be manufactured by the dozens.
A door is good for nothing, in the opinion of a romance writer,
unless it creak. The value of a room is much enhanced by a few
dismal groans. A chest full of human bones is twice as valuable
as a casket of diamonds. Every grove must have its quiet disturbed, by the devil, in some shape or other. Not a bit of tapestry
but must conceal a corpse; not an oak can grow without sheltering
banditti.
In one respect Brown belongs to this school: he constantly strove for sensation. He felt that to have his
reader with him to the end he must stimulate his curiosity and keep him in a state of excitement. Concerning Arthur Mervyn he once wrote: "To excite and baffle
curiosity, without shocking belief, is the end to be contemplated. I have endeavoured to wind up the reader's
passions to the highest pitch, and to make the catastrophe, in the highest degree, unexpected and momentous." He took exception to the Gothic romance, however, in that it was not true to nature. A novel, he declared, should be true, based upon the fundamentals of
actual human life:
Give the human agents you employ qualities to command good
will and esteem; let their manners be natural, and their sentiments
the genuine effusions of the human heart, in such circumstances
as those they are placed in; and then, perhaps, the more singular
their adventures, the wilder the scenes in which they are exposed,
the more capricious the beings to whose power they are subjected,
and the more seemingly inadequate the means by which all the




* *iii


INTRODUCTION


changes in their fate are accomplished; so much the more irresistibly will they engage, and transport, and chain down the attention,
and sway the passions of the spectator or reader.
Moreover, he was possessed from   the first with the
conviction that the American - romancer should work
only in American materials.  Romance, even of the
Gothic type, he found even in the environs of Philadelphia. All his fictions deal with American characters
set in American surroundings.
IV
The strongest of Brown's romances, the most noteworthy piece of fiction produced in America during the
first generation of the republic, is unquestionably Wieland,
or the Transformation. Built around a terror motif, with
the unexplained and supernatural always in the foreground, it was nevertheless int4aided byjts author to
be-a x4iled sermon. "His purpose," he declared in-his
preface, "is neither selfish nor temporary, but aims at
the illustration of some important branches of the moral
constitution of man." The novel ends like a fable of
~Esop with a carefuJy- formulated mojl.
To secure his Gothic effects in a new land bare of
castles and utterly free from ghosts called for materials
startlingly unusual and yet materials, in the opinion of
his readers, not impossible.  "The incidents related
are extraordinary and rare," he announced in his preface. "Some of them, perhaps, approach as nearly to
the nature of miracles as can be done by that which is
not truly miraculous," yet he is sure they "will be found
to correspond with the known principles of human nature."
His trll                     are three in number:
1. the spontaneous combustion of the father of the two




INTRODUCTION


xxix


main characters.the ventriloquism of Carwin;.and the
religious mania of Wieland that drove him to sacrifice
his entire family. Each of these phenomena Brown
carefully studied. The possibilities of spontaneous combustion he undoubtedly discussed with his room-mate
Dr. Smith and with other physicians of the Friendly
Club. In a learned foot-note he quotes "Merille, Chirurgien a Caen. Sur un effet singulier de la combustion.
Jour. de Medecine, Chirurgie, Pharmacie, etc." Paris
1783. T. 59, p. 140. And also "Muraire, maitre en
chirurgie a Aix in Provence. Sur un effet singulier de
la combustion." Ibid. pp. 440-443. M. Merille, reporting on the case of one Mlle. Thuars, declared that he
found instead of a body "nothing but a mass of ashes,
the bones, even the most solid, having lost their shape
and their consistency." And he added: "I believe that
I should call attention to the fact that this woman
was exceedingly fat, sixty-some years old, and greatly
addicted to wine and other liquors; that the very day
of her death she had drunk three bottles of wine, and
about a half pint of brandy; and that, finally, the burning of the body had taken place in less than seven hours,
though according to appearances, nothing in the vicinity
of the body had burned save the clothing of the woman."
The case reported by Dr. Muraire was also that of a
woman, one "Marie-Anne Jauffret, small of stature,
very fat, and addicted to drink." Here also the summoned physician found "only a mass of cinders and
some bones so calcined that they became reduced to
dust at the least pressure." Dr. Muraire, at the end of
his minute description of the condition of the charred
body, volunteered this explanation: "It is known that
human fat, less solid than that of quadrupeds, burns
much more easily. The fat was so abundant in the




XXX


INTRODUCTION


subject of this observation that it soaked through the
pores of the wood of the floor. The humors of Mlle.
Thuars and Marie-Anne Jauffret, more charged with
inflammatory material by reason of frequent use of alcoholic drinks, must have contributed greatly to their
combustibility. Marie-Anne Jauffret, a sexagenarian,
very sensitive to the cold, was overburdened with skirts.
At the first action of the fire, the adipose tissues were
burned, the fat ran out, the clothing became saturated
with it, and like-'candle wicks burned slowly, becoming
the glowing fire-box Sin which the body was consumed."
Concerning the probability of human spontaneous
combustion much has since been written. Woodman
and Tydy, in their Forensic Medicine, make the remark
that "there is no subject in the whole range of medical
jurisprudence on which so much romance has been
built as this.... Dickens, in Bleak House, Marryat,
in Jacob Faithful, and Herman Melville, in Redbourne,
have each finished off a character by the process of
spontaneous combustion.... That spontaneous combustion can occur in a living body, which Leibig says
is 75 per cent water, has never been proved indubitably; yet we have in medico-legal history the fact that,
by the theory of spontaneous combustion of the human
body, a man named Millet, of Rheims, France, escaped
the extreme penalty of the law about the year 1725."
It should be noted that the violent explosions and
the mysterious and flitting lights attending the combustion of the elder Wieland are details of Brown's own
l invention. He says nothing to indicate that his victim
was corpulent or that he was unduly addicted to alcohol.
Brown's second device, ventriloquism, was in 1798 as
vague and mysterious a thing as even spontaneous combustion-a monstrosity of horrible connotation. Prac



INTRODUCTION


Xxxi


tically all that he knew about it he had gathered
from the Encyclopedia; or, a Dictionary of the Arts and
Sciences, the American edition of which in eighteen
huge volumes was published in Philadelphia during
the same year that Wieland was issued. That Brown
had consulted this work we are reasonably certain. He
reviewed it afterwards at length in his Monthly Magazine and with high commendation as the latest authority on all matters literary and scientific. Defining ventriloquism as "an art by which certain persons can so
modify their voice as to make it appear to the audience
to proceed from any distance and in any direction,"
the encyclopaedia authority proceeded to give notable
instances, some of which unquestionably suggested to
Brown scenes which he used in Wieland and in Carwin
the Biloquist. First, came one recorded by Brodeau
in the sixteenth century:
"The fellow, whose name was Louis Brabant, had fallen desperately in love with a young, handsome, and rich heiress; but
was rejected by the parents as an unsuitable match for their daughter, on account of the lowness of his circumstances. The young
lady's father dying, he made a visit to the widow, who was totally
ignorant of his singular talent. Suddenly, on his first appearance,
in open day, in her own house, and in the presence of several persons who were with her, she heard herself accosted, in a voice perfectly resembling that of her dead husband, and which seemed to
proceed from above, exclaiming, 'Give my daughter in marriage to
Louis Brabant: He is a man of great fortune, and of an excellent
character. I now endure the inexpressible torments of purgatory,
for having refused her to him. If you obey this admonition, I shall
soon be delivered from this place of torment. You will at the same
time provide a worthy husband for your daughter, and procure
everlasting repose to the soul of your poor husband.'
"The widow could not for a moment resist this dread summons,
which had not the most distant appearance of proceeding from
Louis Brabant; whose countenance exhibited no visible change,
and whose lips were close and motionless, during the delivery of




xxxii               INTRODUCTION
it. Accordingly, she consented immediately to receive him for
her son-in-law. Louis's finances, however, were in a very low situation; and the formalities attending the marriage contract rendered
it necessary for him to exhibit some show of riches, and not to give
the ghost the lie direct. He accordingly went to work upon a fresh
subject, one Cornu, an old and rich banker at Lyons; who had
accumulated immense wealth by usury and extortion, and was
known to be haunted by remorse of conscience on account of the
manner in which he had acquired it.
"Having contracted an intimate acquaintance with this man,
he, one day while they were sitting together in the usurer's little
back parlour, artfully turned the conversation on religious subjects, on demons and spectres, the pains of purgatory, and the
torments of hell. During an interval of silence between them, a
voice was heard, which to the astonished banker seemed to be
that of his deceased father, complaining, as in the former case, of his
dreadful situation in purgatory, and calling upon him to deliver him
instantly from thence, by putting into the hands of Louis Brabant,
then with him, a large sum for the redemption of Christians then
f slavery with the Turks; threatening him at the same time with
eternal damnation if he did not take this method to expiate likewise his own sins. The reader will naturally suppose that Louis
Brabant affected a due degree of astonishment on the occasion;
and further promoted the deception, by acknowledging his having
devoted himself to the prosecution of the charitable design imputed
to him by the ghost. An old usurer is naturally suspicious. Accordingly the wary banker made a second appointment with the ghost's
delegate for the next day; and, to render any design of imposing
upon him utterly abortive, took him into the open fields, where
not a house, or a tree, or even a bush, or a bit, were in sight, capable
of screening any supposed confederate. This extraordinary caution
excited the ventriloquist to exert all the powers of his art. Wherever
the banker conducted him, at every step his ears were saluted
on all sides with the complaints and groans, not only of his father,
but of all his deceased relations, imploring him for the love of God,
and in the name of every saint in the Kalendar, to have mercy on
his own soul and theirs, by effectually seconding with his purse
the intentions of his worthy companion. Cornu could no longer
resist the voice of heaven, and accordingly carried his guest home
with him, and paid him down 10,000 crowns; with which the honest
ventriloquist returned to Paris and married his mistress.-The


I




INTRODUCTION


xxxiii


catastrophe was fatal. The secret was afterwards blown, and
reached the usurer's ears, who was so much affected by the loss of
his money, and the mortifying railleries of his neighbours, that he
took to his bed and died.
"This trick of Louis Brabant is even exceeded by an innocent
piece of waggery played off not 40 years ago by another French
ventriloquist on a whole community. We have the story from
M. de la Chapelle, who, informs us, that M. St Gile the ventriloquist and his intimate friend, returning home from a place whither
his business had carried him, sought for shelter from an approaching
thunder storm in a neighbouring convent. Finding the whole
community in mourning, he inquired the cause and was told that
one of their body had died lately, who was the ornament and delight
of the whole society. To pass away the time, he walked into the
church, attended by some of the religious, who showed him the
tomb of their deceased brother, and spoke feelingly of the scanty
honours they had bestowed on his memory. Suddenly a voice was
heard, apparently proceeding from the roof of the quire, lamenting
the situation of the defunct in purgatory, and reproaching the
brotherhood with their lukewarmness and want of zeal on his account.
The friars, as soon as their astonishment gave them power to speak,
consulted together, and agreed to acquaint the rest of the community with this singular event, so interesting to the whole society.
M. St Gile, who wished to carry on the joke still farther, dissuaded
them from taking this step; telling them that they would be treated
by their absent brethren as a set of fools and visionaries. He recommended to them, however, the immediately calling of the whole
community into the church, where the ghost of their departed
brother might probably reiterate his complaints. Accordingly
all the friars, novices, lay-brothers, and even the domestics of the
convent, were immediately summoned and collected together.
In a short time the voice from the roof renewed its lamentation
and reproaches, and the whole convent fell on their faces, and vowed
a solemn reparation. As a first step, they chanted a De profundis
in a full choir; during the intervals of which the ghost occasionally
expressed the comfort he received from their pious exercises and
ejaculations on his behalf. When all was over, the prior entered
into a serious conversation with M. St Gile; and on the strength of
what had just passed, sagaciously inveighed against the absurd
incredulity of our modern sceptics and pretended philosophers
on the article of ghosts or apparitions. M. St Gile thought it now




Xxxiv


INTRODUCTION


high time to disabuse the good fathers. This purpose, however,
he found it extremely difficult to effect, till he had prevailed upon
them to return with him into the church, and there be witnesses
of the manner in which he had conducted, this ludicrous deception."
The concluding sentences of the article may, perhaps, have suggested to Brown the possibilities of this
little-known art for uses in fiction. A statement like
this, for instance, may account for the atmosphere which
he threw about Carwin in Wieland and in Carwin the
Biloquist: "Though it is proper to make the existence
of such an art universally known, it will readily occur
to every reflecting mind, that the attainment of it should
not be rendered easy to those who, like Louis Brabant,
might make it subservient to the purposes of knavery
and deception." It gave him, too, a basis for that moral
lesson which to him was inseparable from all worthy
fiction.
Brown's third device, the murder by a fanatic of his wife
and five children, he considered the most daring of the
three. "Some readers," he noted in his preface, "may
think the conduct of the younger Wieland impossible."
That it was fully possible, however, he had not only the
testimony of physicians, he declared, but an actual happening: " Most readers will probably recollect an authentic
case, remarkably similar to that of Wieland."
The story of this case had been given at length in the
New York Weekly Magazine of July 20 and 28, 1796.1 The
story is that of a farmer living near Tomhannock, New
York, a man of great gentleness and nobility and piety,
who on a Sunday afternoon became suddenly the victim
of religious mania and killed his wife and his four children.
The likeness of this tragedy to the case of Wieland is
I Summarized by Dr. Carl Van Doren in the Nation, November
12, 1914.




INTRODUCTION


xxxv


striking. The details of both are practically the same.
In some instances even the phraseology of the original
article has been taken by Brown, as, for instance, concerning the horrible mangling of one of the victims:
"not a lineament remained."
V
The influence of Caleb Williams upon Wieland has
been overstressed by critics. Godwin's theories concerning fiction undoubtedly had their effect upon Brown,
and undoubtedly they set the key not only of Wieland
but of Ormond and Arthur Mervyn. Godwin had sounded
a new note in fiction. In the original preface to Caleb
Williams he had written, "The question now afloat in
the world Respecting things as they are is the most interesting that can be presented to the human mind." The
novelist, he contended, must dominate his reader, hold
him by a very powerful interest, even terrorize him.
The novel must have a moral purpose and the reader
must be changed because of his reading. It must be a
tale "that shall constitute an epoch in the mind of the
reader, that no one, after he has read it, shall ever be
exactly the same man that he was before." And yet,
though woven of the most amazing and horrible and
uncommon of materials, the novel must move at every
point "within the laws and established course of nature
as she operates in the planet we inhabit." It was his
task as a novelist, he contended, "to mix human feelings and passions with incredible situations, and thus
render them impressive and interesting."
The style of Godwin-headlong, intense-had undoubtedly its effect upon Brown, as did also Godwin's humanitarian objectives and his obvious moralizing. Wie



xxxvi


INTRODUCTION


land is spiced thickly with apothegms and axioms of the
Godwin variety:
The law is a system of expense, delay, and uncertainty.
Self-denial, seasonably exercised, is one means of enhancing
our gratifications.
Those sentiments which we ought not to disclose it is criminal
to harbor.
There are no devils but those which are begotten upon selfishness and reared by cunning.
Let that man who shall purpose to assign motives to the actions
of another blush at his folly and forbear.
The most perfect being must owe his exemption from vice to
the absence of temptation. No human virtue is secure from degeneracy.
Moreover, the rough first sketch of Carwin presented
in the novel is of Caleb Williams texture. Despite seeming monstrous crimes, Carwin is defended. He is "an
unfortunate man," a thing to be pitied, a victim in the
hands of an unscrupulous master who attempts to make
him his cat's-paw, and he is also, like Williams, the victim of an uncontrollable curiosity.
The romance is braided of three other strands. The
second, and by far the most conspicuous, may be called
Richardsonian. The book is to be classed with the seduction novels so popular at the close of the eighteenth century-a book of the Clarissa Harlowe type. The tale
is told in the first person, and "addressed," as the author carefully explains in his preface, "in the epistolary
form, by the lady whose story it contains, to a small
number of friends."    The heroine is of the     Ria
son type, incrediy            be "      ing_ after. whom
saes may mde        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." She is of




INTRODUCTION


xxxvii


sensibility all compact, living in a world that contains
only the superlative degree.     Five times during the
progress of the tale, she faints, she sinks "into a fit,"
she falls "upon the floor lifeless" "into the sleep of
death"; she shrieks-"while I had breath I shrieked";
and she languishes for weeks in the "rage of fever and
the effusions of delirium." When not at this extreme
she is at the other-she treads upon the clouds in ecstasy.
She believes her lover is about to propose; Clarissa herself was never more dithyrambic:
The moon will rise at eleven, and at that hour we shall wind
along this bank. Possibly that hour will 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 wings to thy speed, sweet
evening; and thou, moon, I charge thee, shroud thy beams at the
moment when my Pleyel whispers love. I would not for the world
that the burning blushes and the mounting raptures of that moment
should be visible.
In the midst of her happiness the villain appears,
the seducer, the first sight of whom sends her into spasms
of she knows not what. "This face, seen for a moment,
continued for hours to occupy my fancy, to the exclusion
of almost every other image." With feverish hand
she makes a sketch of the face from memory and sits
half the night and all the next day contemplating it
with growing horror. The man soon justifies her blackest fears, pursues her through half the volume like
another Lovelace, with weapons never before used in
warfare against weak woman. Seduction, despite her
utmost exertions, seems inevitable, and to her "The
gulf that separates man from insects is not wider than
that which severs the polluted from the chaste among
women." Carwin has read Godwin evidently: he has




xxxviii


INTRODUCTION


no such prejudices. He hides in her closet and appears
at her bedside at midnight advancing the cool argument:
"Even if I execute my purpose, what injury is done?
Your prejudices will call it by that name, but it merits
it not." Then follows a new phase of the seduction
motif: the seducer declares himself restrained by an unseen benignant personality whose voice could be heard
but with no visible evidence of his presence in the room.
"But for him I should long ere now have borne away
the spoils of your honor."
There is another Richardsonian element: The heroine is constantly anayziq haerown_ emotions. -^he
pauses at dramatic moments when the reader is eager
to be on with the story, to count the links in the chain
of circumstances leading to the situation, to introspect
and classify her sensations, and to tell in minutest detail
all the reactions physical and psychological produced
byvthe adventure. Hearing a shriek in her closet at
midnight, she stands for five minutes and studies her
sensations.  She makes a psychological dissection at
wearisome length when the reader is anxious to know
what caused the fearful shriek "beyond the compass
of human vocal organs." The method became a mannerism with Brown; he was almost a forerunner of
Henry James. "An accurate history," he once wrote,
"of the thoughts and feelings of any man, for one hour,
is more valuable for some minds than a system of geography; and you, you tell me, are one of those who would
rather travel into the mind of a ploughman than into
the interior of Africa. I confess myself of your way
of thinking." Brown was, records Dunlap, "ever fond
of analysis."
The thirl rr    s the  adC    element.  Wieland is
a tale of terror not unlike The Mysteries of Udolpho.


A




INTRODUCTION


xxxix


Carwin is a man of horror closely akin to Mrs. Radcliffe's Italian. Compare the two men. This is Carwin:
His cheeks were pallid and lank, his eyes sunken, his forehead
overshadowed by coarse, straggling hairs, his teeth large and irregular, though sound and brilliantly white, and his chin discolored
by a tetter.... And yet his forehead, so far as shaggy locks would
allow it to be seen, his eyes lustrously black, and possessing, in
the midst of haggardness, a radiance inexpressibly 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.
And this is the villain Schedoni described in The Italian:
There was something terrible in his air, something almost superhuman. His cowl, too, as it threw a shade over the livid paleness of his face, increased its severe character, and gave an effect
to his large melancholy eye which approached to horror.... There
was something in his physiognomy extremely singular, and that
cannot easily be defined. It bore the traces of many passions,
which seemed to have fixed the features they no longer animated.
An habitual gloom and austerity prevailed over the deep lines of
his countenance, and his eyes were so piercing that they seemed
to penetrate at a single glance into the hearts of men, and to read
their most secret thoughts.
Carwin's eyes, it will be remember, had a like power:
"His eyes wandered from one object to another. When
these powerful organs were fixed upon me, I shrunk
into myself."
Mrs. Radcliffe leads her characters to spectacles that
freeze their blood, but she keeps the nature of the horrible object carefully from the reader until the final
general unveiling. Emily in The Mysteries of Udolpho
lifts the curtain from what she believes to be a picture
-but "What it concealed was no picture, and, before
she could leave the chamber, she dropped senseless to the
floor." Not until near the end of the book is the reader




xl


INTRODUCTION


enlightened as to what she saw. This device became
characteristic of Brown: he is far more suggestive than
even Mrs. Radcliffe. The reader is lured on and on
irresistibly by mysteries that he feels soon are to be
explained, and, as in The Mysteries of Udolpho, at last
all the ghosts and supernatural machinery are carefully brought out and exhibited as mere natural phenomena-to the modern reader's disgust.
The final strand, the real soul of the romance, however, was of Brown's own creation. Despite the fact
that Clara and Carwin dominate the first half of the
book to the almost total exclusion of the title character, Wieland is the central figure, and his "transformation" is the central motif. The work is a tragedy, Grecian in its unities and in its intensities of horror. The
dominating note is struck at the very beginning: the
ghastly death of the elder Wieland because he believed
he had deliberately disobeyed a divine command-by
inference the sacrifice of his family. "I was led to ponder on the mysterious end of my father": over and over
this occurs like a recurring chord in music, until at last
it is seen to be the device that binds the whole into a
unity. The Wieland family is abnormal, but the reader
holds the key to this abnormality. The novelist has skillfully furnished all the materials for a clinic. The book
is a study in dementia: all four of the main characters
are touched with it.
The romance of Wieland has been grotesquely misunderstood. The ventriloquism is only an incident in
the book. Wieland did not kill his family because he
mistook Carwin's counterfeit for the voice of God. The
device of ventriloquism belongs to the strand of seduction. Carwin used his strange power only seven times
in all, and in every case but two he used it either to




INTRODUCTION


xli


extract himself or Clara from awkward predicaments.
Once he tested the courage of Clara with the device and
once he used it to confound his rival, Pleyel. The voices
which Wieland heard commanding him to kill came not
from Carwin but from his own imagination deluded by
years of brooding on the ancestral tragedy. The mystery of the voices of Carwin undoubtedly precipitated
the final action, but they did not cause it. The careful reader awakes at last to the fact that the deed was
caused by dementia and that he has been watching the
cumulative growth of the insidious obsession from the
earliest chapters. And it has been presented as an old
Greek would have presented it, as Nemesis: a man of
happiness transformed into a man of sorrows unutterable and through no fault of his own, innocent yet crucified for the sins of others. Clara cries out in agony
of soul: "What 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." Clara and Carwin too have been in the grip of
diabolic forces and, innocent of intended crime, have
been punished like felons. The book is pure tragedy.
Into the opening chapter the reader plunges as into
an infernal gloom and not once does he emerge into
the sunlight until the victim of divine wrath has been
destroyed.
VI
There is much to criticise in the romance. The style is
over-ornate and inflated, grotesque with circumlocutions.
Instead of the wind blew we have "the elemental music
was remarkably sonorous"; he fell in love becomes "he




xlii


INTRODUCTION


had not escaped the amorous contagion." Everywhere
may be heard the Johnsonian ring and Latinized diction:
"His elocution was less sweet than sonorous, and, therefore, better adapted than the mellifluences of his friend
to the outrageous vehemence of this drama." But we
must not forget that the book was written at the time
when all American prose was rhetorical, nor must we
forget when laughing at its other absurdities that the
book was created in the eighteenth century.
Other flaws in Brown's style are far more serious: his
gaspingly short sentence unit-whole paragraphs with sentences like firecrackers; his wordiness; his faulty diction
and even faulty grammar. Headlong rapidity of composition accounts partly for these defects. Brown never
revised; he never reread his works; slovenliness was inevitable. The most serious structural defect in Wieland
came from this very source. The Conway element in the
plot was not worked out as originally planned. There
is no reason for Louisa Conway's presence in Wieland's
family. The attempt at the close of the book to explain the Conway incident by means of the new character Maxwell and a new subplot is ludicrous. The
tragedy ends in a sprawl.
The reason for this is clear. The mother of Louisa
Conway was to have been presented as a victim of Carwin. Halfway through the book Carwin is wanted in
Ireland as a felon, for robbery and for the murder of
Lady Jane Conway. Brown has even forgotten the name
he first gave his victim. As in The Ring and the Book
each actor in the tragedy tells the story from his own
point of view, Clara, Pleyel, and Wieland at length.
Carwin also defends himself and explains, but the tale
of Carwin, following the Caleb Williams formula, took
possession of Brown and hurried him to such lengths




INTRODUCTION


xi.i.


that it became too unwieldy for inclusion in the novel.
Accordingly he cast it aside and improvised an entirely
new ending that seemed to give his final moral a double
emphasis.
The scars caused by this amputation are very evident.
Carwin on his final visit to Clara explains to her his
motives and the amazing series of accidents that created her tragedy and Wieland's, declaring that he himself had been victim as much as they, whereupon he
adds that when he had disappeared it had been "to
seek some retreat in the wilderness, inaccessible to your
inquiry and to the malice of my foe, where I might henceforth employ myself in composing a faithful narrative
of my actions." This narrative, by Brown's original
intent, was to have been added to the romance as the
final document. When, however, he began to write, it
swiftly exceeded the bounds of his first intention. Before he realized it he had laid the ground plan of another
Caleb Williams-an unsophisticated and very capable
boy in the power of an unscrupulous villain. To a slight
extent there was family history in the tale: Charles
Brockden, his namesake, had escaped to America under
remotely similar circumstances. Suddenly Brown awoke
to the fact that what he was writing was another novel.
On September 5, 1798, in the letter to Dunlap informing
him that Wieland was ready for the press, he added: "I
have written something of the history of Carwin, which
I will send. I have deserted for the present from the
prosecution of this plan, and betook myself to another,
which I mean to extend to the size of Wieland, and to
finish by the end of this month, provided no yellow fever
disconcerts my schemes."
Yellow fever, as we have seen, did almost immediately
destroy  the plan.  The incomplete manuscript was




X11V


INTRODUCTION


thrown aside and forgotten until November, 1803, when
he heeded material for his new Literary Magazine. The
Memoirs of Carwin the Biloquist began as a serial and
continued until May of the following year. That it was
printed from the original version intended for Wieland
appears from such sentences as this, "Your own ears
have witnessed the success of these efforts," sentences
that have no meaning at all when severed from the Wieland context. With the May installment the original
manuscript ended. There was no June installment. To
his brother-in-law, J. B. Linn, Brown wrote:
The manuscript of Carwin is exhausted, and it was impossible
to piece the thread and continue it in due season for that number.
It goes on, however, in the present (for July) the whole original
department of which I have been obliged to spin out of my own
brain.
A short installment he did furnish for the July number
but he wrote nothing more until the following February.
Again he attempted to "piece the thread," but the effort
was a tour de force. The tale was running wild into areas
unforeseen in the first plan, and after the March installment Brown abandoned it. He had lost his first
conception of his plot and motif, he had lost his enthusiasm, he had created a maze from which he was powerless to escape, and he gave up the struggle.
The value of the fragment as a commentary on Wieland is obvious, though only Griswold, of all the critics,
has noted it. His observation in the Prose Writers of
America needs no revision: "It contains the early history
of one of his most striking characters, the real hero of
Wieland, and must be read before that work can be properly appreciated. It should always be printed as an introduction to it." Until the present edition of Wieland
this advice has been neglected.




INTRODUCTION


xlv


VII
Brown has been underestimated: he had powers that
approached genius. It has been the commonplace to
rate him as the strongest man in a feeble age, one
who seemed brilliant because of the utter crudeness of
the American wilderness into which his life had been
cast. But Brown would have been a notable figure in
any country and in any age. Had he been born in
England and had the encouragement and the advice
and the literary atmosphere that he needed he could
not have failed even there to be a leading figure in his
age. He had a creative imagination. He possessed the
power, rare in any epoch, to originate new literary effects. In his own estimation he had but "one merit,that of calling forth the passion and engaging the sympathy of the reader by means hitherto unemployed by
preceding authors." He had, more than this, the power
to project his reader into the inner life of his characters;
he was able to analyze and to dissect the springs of action; he had poetic vision that cast life into images of
beauty; and he had that narrative enthusiasm, rare indeed, that seizes the reader at the start and hurries him
despite himself breathless to the end of the tale. John
Neal in 1824, in Blackwood's, rated him as one of the
three original writers that America had produced, Neal
including himself among the three. He had, Neal wrote,
"a sort of absolute sincerity, like that of a man, who is
altogether in earnest, and believes every word of his own
story.... You feel, after he has described a thing-and
you have just been poring over the description, not as if
you had been reading about it; but, as if you, yourself,
had seen it; or at least,-as if you had just parted with
a man who had seen it-a man, whose word had never




xlvi            INTRODUCTION
been doubted; and who had been telling you of it-with
his face flushed." High praise indeed from a man who
almost never praised anything American.
Brown's chief defects arose from the speed of his
pen. He lacked repose, he lacked finish, he lacked the
patience that could recast and replan. These defects
proper literary environment would have remedied. The
crudeness of his product is partly attributable, as was
that of Philip Freneau, his contemporary, to the crude
environment in which he was forced to work. His
total lack of humor, however, no environment could
have supplied, and without this endowment he could
never have become a creator of pre-eminent rank. He
must be included among that group of talented writers
who appeared so suddenly and so dramatically in Europe and America at the close of the eighteenth century
and at the opening of the nineteenth, but he must alsobe rated as one who was not equipped by nature for
the highest flights of genius.
FRED LEwIs PATTEE.




NOTE ON THE TEXT


In Wieland I have followed closely the text of the
first edition of 1798, retaining such eighteenth century
spellings as "shew," "gulph," "lanthorn," and "stile."
I. have also reproduced the original punctuation and
capitalization and have retained such obvious misspellings as "scite," "cieling," "vurtue," "heritic,"
and "alloweances." All later editions, listed on another
page, even-the carefully edited McKay reprint of 1887,
have modernized the first edition text. For the fragment Carwin the Biloquist I have followed precisely the
text in the Literary Magazine, 1803-1805. Only this
version of Carwin ever passed under the eye of the author.
Dunlap reprinted the fragment in his Life and Selections from Brown, 1815, Volume II, pp. 200-261, but
edited it with severity, correcting what he considered
faulty syntax and awkward expression and sometimes
leaving out whole sentences. The present edition is
the first that has attempted to reproduce the novel and
the fragment as Brown left them.
F. L. P.


xlvii




SELECTED READING LIST
Wieland; or, the Transformation. An American Tale. New York,
1798.
The Literary Magazine and American Register, Philadelphia, 1803-7.
Edited by Brown. "Carwin the Biloquist" ran as a serial
from November, 1803, monthly till May, 1804. Then three
other installments appeared irregularly in July, 1804, February,
and March, 1805. At the end of the last installment were the
words "To be Continued," but Brown abandoned the tale at
this point.
The Life of Charles Brockden Brown; together with Selections
from the Rarest of his printed works, from his Original Letters
and from his Manuscripts before unpublished. By William
Dunlap. 2 vols. Philadelphia, 1815.
Wieland, An American Tale. 3 vols. London, 1822.
Memoirs of Charles Brockden Brown, the American Novelist,
Author of Wieland, Ormond, Arthur Mervyn, &c. With
Selections from his Original Letters and Miscellaneous Writings. By William Dunlap. London, 1822.
Carwin the Biloquist, and Other American Tales and Pieces, by
Charles Brockden Brown, Author of Wieland, Ormond, Arthur
Mervyn, &c., &c., 3 vols. London, 1822. Contains Carwin,
Stephen Calvert, Jessica, and The Scribbler.
Uniform edition of Brown's Novels. Published by S. C. Goodrich. Seven Volumes in six. Boston, 1827.
A Library of American Biography. Edited by Jared Sparks. New
York, 1834. Volume I. Charles Brockden Brown by W. H.
Prescott.
The Prose Writers of America, by Rufus W. Griswold. Philadelphia, 1847.
Novels of Charles Brockden Brown in six volumes. Philadelphia,
1857.
Novels of Charles Brockden Brown, edited and published by David
McKay, Philadelphia, 1887.
Charles Brockden Brown: A Study of Early American Fiction. By
Martin S. Vilas. Burlington, Vermont, 1904.
Heralds of American Literature: A Group of Patriot Writers of the
xlviii




SELECTED      READING      LIST            xlix
Revolutionary and National Periods. By Annie Russell Marble,
Chicago, 1907.
"Early American Realism." By Carl Van Doren. The Nation, November 12, 1914.
"Charles Brockden Brown and the Rights of Women," by David
Lee Clark, University of Texas Bulletin, No. 2212 (March,
1922).
"Charles Brockden Brown: A Critical Biography." By David Lee
Clark. New York, 1903.




I
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WIELAND;
OR THE
TRANSFORMATION.
AN
AMERICAN TALE.
From Virtue's blifsful paths away
The double-tongued are fure to ftray;
Good is a forth-right journey ftill,
And mazy paths but lead to ill.
COPY-RIGHT SECURED.


NEW-YORK:
Printed by T. &5 J. SwoRDs, for H. CARITAT.
-1798.



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ADVERTISEMENT


THE following Work is delivered to the world as the
first of a series of performances, which the favorable
reception of this will induce the Writer to publish. His
purpose is neither selfish nor temporary, but aims at
Tihie  stration of some important branches of the moral
constitution of man. Whether this tale will be claissied
with te 6ordinary or frivolous sources of amusement,
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 solution 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 uncommon, is supported by the same strength of historical
evidence.
Some readers may think the conduct of the younger
Wieland impossible. In support of this 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 in3




4                ADVERTISEMENT
structive and memorable forms. If history furnishes one
parallel fact, it is a sufficient vindication 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 small 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 memoirs 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.




WIELAND, OR THE TRANSFORMATION
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 for the
benefit of mankind. I acknowledge your right 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 communicated to the world, it will inculcate the
duty of avoiding deceit. It will exemplify the force of
early impressions, and show the immeasurable evils that
flow from an erroneous or imperfect discipline.
My state is not destitute of tranquillity. The sentiment 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
nothing more to fear. Fate has done its worst. Henceforth, 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, admits of no recal. No doubt it squares with the
maxims of eternal equity. That is neither to be ques'The narrator is Clara Wieland, the sister of Wieland,
5




6


WIELAND, OR


tioned 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 obstacle was dissipated by its rage; till
every remnant of good was wrested from our grasp and
exterminated.
How 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 corroborations, 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 deserve 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
grand-father was a younger brother, and a native of Saxony. He was placed, when he had reached the suitable
age, at a German college. During the vacations, he employed himself in traversing the neighbouring territory.
On one occasion it was his fortune to visit Hamburg.
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. Thenceforward he was entirely disowned and rejected by them.




THE TRANSFORMATION


7


They refused to contribute anything to his support.
All intercourse ceased, and he received from them merely
that treatment to which 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 grand-father found
it incumbent on him to search out some mode of independent subsistence. His youth had been eagerly devoted to literature and music.  These had hitherto been
cultivated merely as sources of amusement. They were
now converted into the means of gain. At this period
there were few works of taste in the Saxon dialect. My
ancestor 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 Wieland.' His life was
spent in the composition of sonatas and dramatic pieces.
They were not unpopular, but merely afforded him a
scanty subsistence. He died in the bloom of his life, and
was quickly followed 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.
My father was not fortunate in the character of him
under whose care he was now placed. He was treated
with rigor, and full employment was provided for every
hour of his time. His duties were laborious and mechan1 Christoph Martin Wieland (1773-1813), a distinguished epic poet
of the classic period of German literature.




8


WIELAND, OR


ical. He had been educated with a view to this profession, and, therefore, was not tormented with unsatisfied desires. He did not hold his present occupations
in abhorrence, because they withheld 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 apartment, or traversing narrow and
crowded streets. His food was 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 rigor. In this respect
he supposed the condition of others, bound like himself
to mercantile service, to resemble his own; yet every
engagement was irksome, and every hour tedious in its
lapse.
In this state of mind he chanced to light upon a book
written by one of the teachers of the Albigenses, or
French Protestants. He entertained no relish for books,
and was wholly unconscious of any power they possessed
to delight or instruct. The 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 occasions 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




THE TRANSFORMATION


9


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. His 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 themselves 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 Camissards,l 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 now 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. His understanding had received a particular direction. All his reveries were fashioned in the same
mould. His progress toward the formation of his creed
' A name attached to the peasantry of the Cevennes who, early in
the eighteenth century, resisted the persecutions in the Huguenot
provinces of France after the revocation of the Edict of Nantes.




IO


WIELAND, OR


was rapid. Every fact and sentiment in this book were
viewed through a medium which the writings of the Camissard apostle had suggested. His constructions of the
text were hasty, and formed on a narrow scale. Everything was viewed 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, were
proscribed. His air was mournful and contemplative.
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 Majesty inexpiable 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 emotions 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.
YHis apprenticeship was now almost expired. On his
arrival of age he became entitled, by the will of my grandfather, to a small sum. This sum would 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 impos



THE TRANSFORMATION


I I


sible, 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 ar-opinion that it was his duty to disseminate the truths of the gospel among the unbelieving
nations. He was terrified at first by the perils and hardships to which the life of a missionary is exposed. This
cowardice made him diligent in the invention of objections 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 passions, 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 themselves 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. Here
his fears were revived, and a nearer survey of savage
manners once more shook his resolution. For a-while he
relinquished 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 laborious
manner. In this time new objects, new employments,
and new associates appeared to have nearly obliterated the
devout impressions of his youth. He now became acquainted with a woman of a meek and quiet disposition,
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



12


WIELAND, OR


cerns. He enjoyed leisure, and was visited afresh by
devotional contemplation. The reading of the scriptures,
and other religious books, became once more his favorite
employment. His ancient belief relative to the conversion
of the savage tribes, was revived with uncommon energy.
To the former obstacles were 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 impediment.
His efforts were attended with no permanent success.
His exhortations had sometimes a temporary power, but
more frequently were repelled with insult and derision.
In pursuit of this object he encountered the most imminent perils, and underwent incredible fatigues, hunger,
sickness, and solitude. The license of savage passion,
and the artifices 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 his constitution somewhat decayed, 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. Social 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 en



THE TRANSFORMATION


I3


cumbered with dwarf cedars and stony asperities, he built
what to a common eye would have seemed a summerhouse. The eastern verge of this precipice was sixty feet
above the river which flowed at its foot. The view 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 was slight and airy.
It was no more than a circular area, twelve feet in diameter, whose flooring was the rock, cleared of moss and
shrubs, and exactly levelled, edged by twelve Tuscan
columns, and covered by an undulating dome. My father
furnished the dimensions and outlines, but allowed the
artist whom he employed to complete the structure on his
own plan. It was without seat, table, or ornament of any
kind.
This was the temple of his Deity. Twice in twentyfour hours he repaired hither, unaccompanied by any
human being. Nothing but physical inability to move was
allowed to obstruct or postpone this visit. He did not
exact from his family compliance with his example. Few
men, equally sincere in their faith, were as sparing in their
censures and restrictions, with respect to the conduct of
others, as my father. The character of my mother was
no less devout; but education had habituated her to a
different mode of worship. The loneliness of their dwelling 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.1 My father refused to
interfere in her arrangements. His own system was embraced not, accurately speaking, because it was the best,
I Nikolous Ludwig, Count von Zinzendorf (1700-1760), founder
of the reorganized Moravian Church, or United Brethren. His
writings were frequently of a mystical character.




14


WIELAND, OR


but because it had been expressly prescribed to him.
Other modes, if practiced by other persons, might be
equally acceptable.
His deportment to others was full of charity and mildness. A sadness perpetually overspread his features, but
was unmingled with sternness or discontent. The tones
of his voice, his gestures, his steps, were all in tranquil
unison. His conduct was characterized by a certain forbearance and humility, 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 candor and invariable integrity. His 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 anything. When he designed to be communicative, he hinted
that his peace of mind was flown, in consequence of deviation from 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 was incapable of expiation. No one could
contemplate the agonies which he seemed to suffer without the deepest compassion. Time, instead of lightening
the burthen, appeared to add to it. At length he hinted
to his wife, that his end was near. His imagination did




THE TRANSFORMATION


15


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.
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 more
than ordinary degree conspicuous. My 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 increased. He sat with his family as usual, but took no
part in their conversation. He appeared fully engrossed
by his own reflections. Occasionally his countenance
exhibited tokens of alarm; he gazed steadfastly and wildly
at the ceiling; and the exertions of his companions were
scarcely sufficient to interrupt his reverie. On recovering
from these fits he expressed no surprize; but pressing his
hand to his head, complained, in a tremulous and terrified
tone, that his brain was scorched to cinders. He would
then betray marks of insupportable anxiety.




I6


WIELAND, OR


My uncle perceived, by his pulse, that he was indisposed, 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 persuasion
of my mother he even undressed and went to bed. Nothing could abate his restlessness. He checked her tender
expostulations with some sternness. "Be silent," said he,
"for that which I feel there is but one cure, and that will
shortly come. You can help me nothing. Look to your
own condition and pray to God to strengthen you under
the calamities that await you." "What am I to fear?"
she answered. "What 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
command to be silent.
She had never before known him in this mood. Hitherto all was benign in his deportment. Her heart was
pierced with sorrow at the contemplation of his change.
She was utterly unable to account for it, or to figure
to herself the species of disaster that was menaced.
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 contrived as to
strike a very hard stroke at the end of every sixth hour.
That which was now approaching was the signal for
retiring to the fane at which he addressed his devotions.
Long habit had occasioned him to be always awake
at this hour, and the toll was 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 toward twelve
his anxiety visibly augmented.  The trepidations of




THE TRANSFORMATION


17


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. He 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 concluded that it was 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 steps as they hastily descended
the stairs. She half resolved to rise and pursue him,
but the wildness of the scheme quickly suggested itself.
He was going to a place whither no power on earth could
induce him to suffer an attendant.
The window of her chamber looked toward 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 window. 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
undistinguishable 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 she feared? Some disaster impended
over her husband or herself. He had predicted evils,
but professed himself ignorant of what nature they were.




i8


WIELAND, OR


When were they to come? Was this night, or this hour,
to witness the accomplishment?   She was tortured
with impatience, and uncertainty. All her fears were
at present 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.
An half hour passed away in this state of suspense.
Her eyes were fixed upon the rock; suddenly it was
illuminated. 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 were
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
brother's chamber.  My uncle had been previously
roused by the noise, and instantly flew to the window.
He also imagined what he saw to be fire. The loud
and vehement shrieks which succeeded the first explosion, seemed to be an invocation of succour. The incident was inexplicable; 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 TRANSFORMATION


I9


the house and the rock. The shrieks were no longer to
be heard; but a blazing light was clearly discernible
between 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 which the
rude staircase conducted you. My uncle speedily gained
this spot. His strength was for a moment exhausted
by his haste. He paused to rest himself. Meanwhile
he bent the most vigilant attention toward the object
before him.
Within the columns he beheld what he could no better
describe, than by saying that it resembled a cloud impregnated with light. It had the brightness of flame,
but was without its upward motion. It did not occupy
the whole area, and rose but a few feet above the floor.
No part of the building was on fire. This appearance
was astonishing. He approached the temple. As he
went forward the light retired, and, when he put his
feet within the apartment, utterly vanished. The suddenness of this transition increased the darkness that
succeeded in a tenfold degree. Fear and wonder rendered
him powerless. An occurrence like this, in a place assigned
to devotion, was adapted to intimidate the stoutest heart.
His wandering thoughts were recalled by the groans
of one near him. His sight gradually recovered its power,
and he was able to discern my father stretched on the
floor. At that moment, my mother and servants arrived
with a lanthorn, and enabled my uncle to examine more
closely this scene. Mvly father, when he left the house,
besides a loose upper vest and slippers, wore a shirt
and drawers. Now he was naked, his skin throughout
the greater part of his body was scorched and bruised.




20 _j


0WIELAND, OR


iHis right arm exhibited marks as of having been struck by
Zsome heavy body. His clothes had been removed, and it
was not immediately perceived that they were reduced to
ashes. His slippers and his hair were untouched.
He was removed to his chamber, and the requisite
attention paid to his wounds, which gradually became
more painful. A mortification speedily shewed itself in
the arm, which had been most hurt. Soon after, the
other wounded parts exhibited the like appearance.
Immediately subsequent to this disaster, my father
seemed nearly in a state of insensibility. He was passive under every operation. He scarcely opened his
eyes, and was with difficulty prevailed upon to answer
the questions that were put to him. By his imperfect
account it appeared, that while engaged in silent orisons,
with thoughts full of confusion and anxiety, a faint
gleam suddenly shot athwart the apartment. His fancy
immediately pictured to itself, a person bearing a lamp.
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 whole 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 wonderfully 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 insupportable exhalations and crawling putrefaction had
driven from his chamber and the house every one whom
their duty did not detain.




THE TRANSFORMATION


21


Such was the end of my father. None surely was
ever more mysterious. When we recollect his gloomy
anticipations and unconquerable anxiety, the security
from human 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 blow 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 inference to be drawn from these facts? Their
truth cannot be doubted.     My 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 new 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
1 A case, in its symptoms exactly parallel to this, is published
in one of the Journals of Florence. See, likewise, similar cases
reported by Messrs. Mlerrille and Auraire, in the "Journal de Medicine" for February and May, 1783. The researches of Mlaffei and
Fontana have thrown some light upon this subject.-Brown's Noir.




22


WIELAND, OR


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.
CHAPTER III
THE shock which this disastrous occurrence occasioned
to my mother, was the foundation of a disease which
carried her, in a few months, to the grave. My brother and
myself were children at this time, and were now reduced
to the condition of orphans. The property which our
parents left was 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 we had lost a mother.
The years that succeeded were tranquil and happy. Our
lives were molested by few of those cares that are incident
to childhood. By accident more 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 knowledge, 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 intimacy. Her
name was Catharine Pleyel. She was rich, beautiful, and




THE TRANSFORMATION


23


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 which was amply returned. Between her and myself there was every circumstance tending to produce and foster friendship. Our sex and age
were the same. We lived within sight of each other's
abode. Our tempers were remarkably congenial, and the
superintendents of our education not only prescribed to us
the same pursuits, but allowed 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 not devoted to each other. My brother's advance
in age made no change in our situation. It was 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 was furnished by casual
inspection, or by closet study. The attention that was
paid to this subject did not seclude him for any long time
from us, on whom time had no other effect than to augment our impatience in the absence of each other and of
him. Our tasks, our walks, our music, were seldom performed but in each other's company.
It was easy to see that Catharine and my brother were
born for each other. The passion which they mutually
entertained quickly broke those bonds which extreme
youth had set to it; confessions were made or extorted,
and their union was postponed only till my brother had
passed his minority. The previous lapse of two years was
constantly and usefully employed.




24


WIELAND, OR


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, was serene. Time was supposed to have only new
delights in store. I mean not to dwell on previous incidents
longer than is necessary to illustrate or explain the great
events that have since happened. The nuptial day at
length arrived. My brother took possession of the house
in which he was born, and here the long-protracted marriage was solemnized.
My father's property was equally divided between us.
A neat dwelling, situated on the bank of the river, threequarters of a mile from my brother's, was now occupied by
me. These domains were called, from the name of the
first possessor, Mettingen. I can scarcely account for
my refusal to take up my abode with him, unless it were
from a disposition to be an economist of pleasure. Selfdenial, seasonably exercised, is one means of enhancing
our gratifications. I was, beside, desirous of administering a fund, and regulating an household, of my own. The
short distance allowed us to exchange visits as often as we
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. We were left to the guidance of our own understanding, and the casual impressions which society might make
upon us. My friend's temper, as well 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 was a mixed




THE TRANSFORMATION                 25
and casual sentiment, seldom verbally expressed, or solicitously sought, or carefully retained. In the midst
of present enjoyment, no thought was bestowed 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 was indebted to sublimer views
for this disposition. Human life, in his opinion, was made
up of changeable elements, and the principles of duty were
not easily unfolded. The future, either as anterior, or
subsequent to death, was a scene that required some
preparation and provision to be made for it. These
provisions we could not deny, but what distinguished him
was a propensity to ruminate on these truths. The images
that visited us were blithsome and gay, but those with
which he was most familiar were of an opposite hue. They
did not generate affliction and fear, but they diffused over
his behaviour a certain air of forethought and sobriety.
The principal effect of this temperwas visible in his features
and tones. These, in general, bespoke a sort of thrilling
melancholy. I scarcely ever knew him to laugh. He 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 variegated, but not tarnished or disordered by it. It hindered
the element in which we moved from stagnating. Some
agitation and concussion is requisite to the due exercise
of human understanding. In his studies, he pursued an




26


WIELAND, OR


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 indispensable 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 between him and my
father, in their conceptions of the importance of certain
topics, and in the light in which the vicissitudes of human
life were accustomed to be viewed. Their characters were
similar, but the mind of the son was enriched 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 environs
of Modena. 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 performance, without waiting for the sanction of connoisseurs. We 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 harpsichord,
sheltered by a temporary roof from the weather. 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 with this edifice. Here the performances of our musical and poetical ancestor were rehearsed.
Here my brother's children received the rudiments of
their education; here a thousand conversations, pregnant
with delight and improvement, took place; and here the




THE TRANSFORMATION


27


social affections were accustomed to expand, and the tear
of delicious sympathy to be shed.
My brother was an indefatigable student. The authors
whom he read were numerous, but the chief object of his
-veneration was Cicero. He was never tired of conning and
rehearsing his productions. To understand them was not
sufficient. He was anxious to discover the gestures and cadences with which they ought to be delivered. He was
very scrupulous in selecting a true scheme of pronunciation
for the Latin tongue, and in adapting it to the words of
his (larlin, writer. 1-is favorite occupation consisted in
embellishing his rhetoric 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 procured,
and employed months of severe study in exploring and
comparing them. He never betrayed more satisfaction
than when he made a discovery of this kind.
It was not till the addition of Henry Pleyel, my friend's
only brother, to our society, that his passion for Roman eloquence was countenanced and fostered by a sympathy of
tastes. This young man 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 was greatly enlivened by the accession of a
new member. His conversation abounded with novelty.
His gayety was almost boisterous, but was capable of
yielding to a grave deportment when the occasion required
it. His discernment was acute, but he was prone to view
every object merely as supplying materials for mirth. His
conceptions were ardent but ludicrous, and his memory,
aided as he honestly acknowledged, by his invention, was
an inexhaustible fund of entertainment.




28


WIELAND, OR


His residence was at the same distance below the city as
ours was above, but there seldom passed a day without our
being favoured with a visit. My brother and he were endowed 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,
however, were in many respects opposite. Where one
discovered only confirmations of his faith, the other could
find nothing but reasons for doubt. Moral necessity, and
calvinistic inspiration, were the props on which my brother
thought proper to repose. Pleyel was the champion of
intellectual liberty, and rejected all guidance but that of
his reason. Their discussions were frequent, but, being
managed with candour as well as with skill, they were alV -    ways 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 violins, an
harpsichord, and three voices. We were frequently reminded how much happiness depends upon society. This
new friend, though, before his arrival, we were sensible
of no vacuity, could not now be spared. His departure
would occasion a void which 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
friend, and laid aside some part of his ancient gravity at
Pleyel's approach.
CHAPTER IV
Six years of uninterrupted happiness had rolled away,
since my brother's marriage. The sound of war had been
heard, but it was at such a distance as to enhance our




THE TRANSFORMATION


29


enjoyment by affording objects of comparison. The
Indians were repulsed on the one side, and Canada was
conquered on the other. Revolutions and battles, however calamitous to those who occupied the scene, contributed in some sort to our happiness, by agitating our
minds with curiosity, and furnishing causes of patriotic
exultation. Four children, three of whom were of an age,
to compensate, by their personal 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. Her education and manners bespoke her to
be of 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 to the attractions of this girl. Perhaps the tenderness she excited
might partly originate in her personal resemblance 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 epithet was surely




30


WIELAND, OR


misapplied in this case. This being was cherished by
those with whom she now resided, with unspeakable fondness. 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 surpassed. 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 travelling
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 Mrs. 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 eager and faultering tone,
"Who is she? whence does she come? what is her name?"
The answers that were given only increased the confu



THE TRANSFORMATION


3I


sion of his thoughts. He was successively told, that she
was the daughter of one whose name was Louisa Conway,
who arrived among us at such a time, who sedulously
concealed her parentage, and the motives of her flight,
whoseincurable 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 toward 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 possessed
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 with 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 persuaded 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 impatience of his absence. At
length, a new arrangement was made, and he was obliged
to repair from Westphalia to Canada. One advantage
attended this change. It afforded him an opportunity of




32


WIELAND, OR


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 an house of mourning. His father was overwhelmed with grief, and incapable of answering his
inquiries. The servants, sorrowful and mute, were equally
refractory. He explored the house, and called on the names
of his wife and daughter, but his summons was 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 disappearance. 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. Who 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 disappointment hastened his death; in consequence of which, Louisa's
father became possessor of his immense property."
This tale was 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.




THE TRANSFORMATION


33


By none of these were we furnished with 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 suitable to her new
character. She could not but readily embrace the scheme
which was proposed to her, to return with her father to
England. This scheme his regard for her induced him,
however, to postpone. Some time was necessary to prepare her for so great a change and enable her to think without agony of her separation from us.
I was not without hopes of prevailing on her father
entirely to relinquish this unwelcome design. Meanwhile,
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 manners of
the times.  Pleyel laboured to extenuate both these
species of merit, and tasked his ingenuity, to shew that
the orator had embraced a bad cause; or, at least, a doubtful one. He urged, that to rely on the exaggerations of an
advocate, or to make the picture of a single family a




34


WIELAND, OR


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 would decide the contest,
but an appeal to the volume. My brother was returning
to the house for this purpose, when a servant met him with
a letter from Major Stuart. He immediately returned 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 moon-light succeeded. There was no motion to resume our seats in the
temple. We therefore remained where we were, and engaged in sprightly conversation. The letter lately received
naturally suggested the topic. A parallel was drawn between the cataract there described, and one which Pleyel
had discovered among 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 no where
to be found. At length, he remembered to have left it
in the temple, and he determined to go in search for it.
His wife, Pleyel, Louisa, and myself, remained where we
were.
In a few minutes he returned. I was somewhat interested 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 wit}
remarkable despatch. My eyes were fixed upon him on
his entrance. Methought he brought with him looks




THE TRANSFORMATION


35


considerably different from those with which he departed.
Wonder, and a slight portion of anxiety were mingled in
them. His eyes seemed 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 which her attention was chiefly
engrossed.
The moment he saw her, his perplexity visibly increased.
He 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 which engaged them, and directed
their attention to Wieland. They thought that he only
waited for a pause in the discourse, to produce the letter.
The pause was uninterrupted by him. At length Pleyel
said, "Well, I suppose you have found the letter."
"No," said he, without any abatement of his gravity,
and looking steadfastly at his wife, "I did not mount
the hill."-" Why not?"-" Catharine, have you not
moved from that spot since I left the room?"-She was
affected with the solemnity of his manner, and laying
down her work, answered in a tone of surprise, "No;
why do you ask that question?"-His eyes were again
fixed upon the floor, and he did not immediately answer.
At length, he said, looking round upon us, "Is it true
that Catharine 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 unanimous; and yet I must deny credit to your assertions,
or disbelieve the testimony of my senses, which informed




36


6WIELAND, OR


me, when I was half-way up the hill, that Catharine was
at the bottom."
We were confounded at this declaration. Pleyel rallied
him with great levity on his behaviour. He listened to his
friend with calmness, but without anyrelaxation 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 reduced yourself. Certain it is, if our
eyes can give us certainty, that your wife has been sitting
in that spot during every moment 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."
"The conference," said he, "was short; and far from
being carried on in a whisper. You know with what
intention I left the house. Half 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 columns. It was so faint,
that it would not perhaps have been visible, if the moon
had not been shrowded. I looked again, but saw nothing. I never visit this building alone, or at night, without being reminded of the fate of my father. There
was nothing wonderful in this appearance; yet it suggested something more than mere solitude and darkness in the same place would have done.
"I kept on my way. The images that haunted me




THE TRANSFORMATION


3 7


were solemn; and I entertained an imperfect curiosity,
but no fear, as to the nature of this object. I had ascended
the hill little more than half way, when a voice- called
me from behind. The accents were clear, distinct, powerful, and were uttered, as I fullv 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 warning,
the tone of alarm with which it was given, and, above
all, the persuasion that it was my wife who spoke, were
enough to disconcert and make me pause. I turned
and listened to assure myself that I was not mistaken.
The deepest silence succeeded. At length I spoke in
my turn. Who calls? Is it you, Catharine? I stopped,
and presently received an answer. " Yes, it is I; go not
up; return instantly; you are wanted at the house.'"
Still the voice was Catharine's, and still it proceeded
from the foot of the stairs.
"What could I do? The warning was mysterious.
To be uttered by Catharine at a place, and on an occasion
like these 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.
When I reached the bottom, no one was visible. The
moon-light was once more universal and brilliant, and
yet, as far as I could see no human or moving figure
was discernible. If she had returned to the house, she
must have used wondrous expedition to have passed
already beyond the reach of my eye. I exerted my
voice but in vain. To my repeated exclamations, no
answner was returned.




38


WIELAND, OR


"Ruminating on these incidents, I returned hither.
There was no room to doubt that I had heard my wife's
voice; attending incidents were not easily explained;
but you now assure me that nothing extraordinary has
happened to urge my return, and that my wife has not
moved from her seat."
Such was my brother's narrative. It was heard by
us with different emotions. Pleyel did not scruple to
regard the whole as a deception of the senses. Perhaps
a voice had been heard; but Wieland's imagination
had misled him in supposing a resemblance to that of
his wife, 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 frequently treated it with ridicule.,He did
not believe that sober reasoning would convince his
friend, and gaiety, he thought, was useful to take away
the solemnities which, in a mind like Wieland'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 was accessible, on this quarter, to wonder and panic. That her voice should be thus
inexplicably and unwarrantably 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 more 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.




THE TRANSFORMATION


39


As to myself, my attention was engaged by this occurrence. I could not fail to perceive a shadowy resemblance between it and my father's death. On the latter
event, I had frequently reflected; my reflections never
conducted me to certainty, but the doubts that existed
were not of a tormenting kind. I could not deny that
the event was miraculous, and yet I was invincibly
averse to that method of solution. My wonder was
excited by the inscrutableness of the cause, but my
wonder was unmixed with sorrow or fear. It begat in
me a thrilling, 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 was, 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 condition of his frame, which 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  -
impossible to calculate the evils that may flow from  S
the consequent deductions of the understanding.
I said, this man is of an ardent and melancholy character. 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 immoveable hold upon his mind. The
conclusions which long habit has rendered familiar, and, in
some sort, palpable to his intellect, are drawn from the
deepest sources.  All his actions and practical sentiments are linked with long and abstruse deductions




40  -.              WIELAND, OR
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 subtilties.
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. He was less disposed than formerly to converse
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 which it made upon him.
He never introduced the subject into conversation,
and listened with a silent and half-serious smile to the
satirical effusions of Pleyel.
One evening we chanced to be alone together in the
temple. 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-"How
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 what way you
considered the late extraordinary incident."  "There
is no determinate way in which 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.




THE TRANSFORMATION


41


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. Time may convert one of them into
certainty. Till then it is useless to expatiate on them."
CHAPTER V
SOME time had elapsed when there happened another
occurrence, still more remarkable. Pleyel, on his return from Europe, brought information of considerable
importance to my brother. My ancestors were noble
Saxons, and possessed large domains in Lusatia. The
Prussian wars had destroyed those persons whose right
to these estates precluded mv 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.
Nothing 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. Contrary 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 happiness of his
friend and his sister, and his own partiality to the Saxon
soil, from which he had likewise sprung, and where he
had spent several years of his youth, made him redouble
his exertions to win Wieland's consent. For this end he
employed every argument that his invention could suggest. He painted, in attractive colours, the state of




42,


2WIELAND, OR


manners and government in that country, the security
of civil rights, and the freedom of religious sentiments.
He dwelt on the privileges of wealth and rank, and drew
from the servile condition of one class an argument in
favor 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 proportioned 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 shew that no spot on the globe enjoyed equal
security and liberty to that which he at present inhabited.
That if the Saxons had nothing to fear from mis-government, 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 always impend over them, till
Germany was seized and divided by Austrian and Prussian tyrants; an event which he strongly suspected was
at no great distance. But setting these considerations
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? What security had he
that in this change of place and condition, he should not
degenerate into a tyrant and voluptuary? 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 conferred.   Besides,
riches were comparative, and was he not rich already?




THE TRANSFORMATION


43


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,
whatever 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 law is a system of expence, delay and
uncertainty? If he should embrace this scheme, it would
lay him under the necessity of making a voyage to Europe,
and remaining for a certain period, separate from his
family. He must undergo the perils and discomforts of
the ocean; he must divest himself 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 ambiguous advantages which overgrown wealth
and flagitious tyranny have to bestow? For a precarious
possession in a land of turbulance and war? Advantages,
which will not certainly be gained, and of which the
acquisition, if it were sure, is necessarily distant.
Peyel was enamoured of his scheme on account of its
intrinsic benefits, but, likewise, for other reasons. His
abode at Leipsig made that country appear to him like
home. He was connected with this place by many social
ties. While there he had not escaped the amorous contagion. But the lady, though her heart was impressed
in 'his favor, was compelled to bestow 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 was anxious to obtain the company of Wieland; he could not bear to think
of an eternal separation from his present associates.
Their interest, he thought, would be no less promoted by




44


WIELAND, OR


the change than his own. Hence he was importunate
and indefatigable in his argument and solicitations.
He knew that he could not hope for mine or his sister's
ready concurrence in this scheme. Should the subject
be mentioned to us, we should league our efforts against
him, and strengthen that reluctance in Wieland which
already was sufficiently difficult to conquer. He, therefore, anxiously concealed from us his purpose. If Wieland were previously enlisted in his cause, he would find
it a less difficult task to overcome our aversion. My
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 considerably impair our tranquillity.
One day, about three weeks subsequent to the mysterious call, it was agreed that the family should be my
guests. Seldom had a day been passed by us, of more
serene enjoyment. Pleyel had promised us his company,
but we did not see him till the sun had nearly declined.
He brought with him a countenance that betokened disappointment and vexation. He did not wait for our inquiries, but immediately explained the cause. Two days
before a packet had arrived from Hamburgh by which
he had flattered himself with the expectation of receiving letters, but no letters had arrived. I never saw him
so much subdued by an ontoward event. His thoughts
were employed in accounting for the silence of.his friends.
He was seized with 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
concerted. Her sickness, or absence, or death, would
have increased the certainty of some one's having written.
No supposition could be formed but that his mistress had




THE TRANSFORMATION


45


grown indifferent, or that she had transferred her affections to another. The miscarriage of a letter was hardly
within the reach of possibility. From Leipsig to Hamburgh, and from Hamburgh 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 now 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
remained, 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 informed, would set out in a few weeks on her return.
Meanwhile he determined to make a new attempt to
shake the resolution of Wieland. The evening was somewhat 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 renewed the subject that was nearest his heart. He reurged all his former arguments, and placed them in more
forcible lights.
They promised to return shortly; but hour after hour
passed, and they made not their appearance. Engaged
in sprightly conversation, it was not till the clock struck
twelve that we were reminded of the lapse of time. The
absence of our friends excited some uneasy apprehensions.
We were expressing our fears, and comparing our conjectures 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 Catharine, who was eager to express her surprize and




46


WIELAND, OR


curiosity at the length of their walk. As they listened
to her, I remarked that their surprize was not less than
ours. They gazed in silence on each other, and on her.
I watched their looks, but could not understand the emotions 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 likewise was silent, but burned with impatience to
fathom this mystery. Presently my brother and his
wife, and Louisa, returned home. Pleyel proposed, of
his own accord, to be my guest for the night. This circumstance, in addition to those which preceded, gave
new 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 were suspended by the hope
that he would give me the information that I wanted
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
which were increased by their behaviour since their return, and solicited an explanation. He stopped when I
began to speak, and looked steadfastly at me. When I
had done, he said, to me, in a tone which faultered through
the vehemence of his emotions, " How were you employed




THE TRANSFORMATION


47


during our absence?" "In turning over the Della Crusca
dictionary, 1 and talking on different subjects; but just
before your entrance, we were tormenting ourselves
with omens and prognosticks relative to your absence."
"Catharine was with you the whole time?" "Yes."
"But are you sure?" "Most sure. She was not absent
a moment." He stood, for a time, as if to assure himself
of my sincerity. Then, clinching his hands, and wildly
lifting them above his head, "Lo," cried he, "I have
news to tell you. The Baroness de Stolberg is dead? "
This was her whom he loved. I was not surprised at
the agitations which he betrayed. "But how was the information procured? How was the truth of this news
connected with the circumstance of Catharine's remaining in our company? " He was for some time inattentive
to my questions. When he spoke, it seemed merely a
continuation of the reverie into which 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! Barely not impossible. And yet, if
the accent be oracular-Theresa is dead. No, no," continued he, covering his face with 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. Her strength of mind is inferior to yours. She
'The Accademia della Crusca was founded in Florence in 1582
with the primary object of purifying the Italian language. In
1612 it issued the famous dictionary Vocabulario delta Crusca.




48


48WIELAND, OR


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. He enumerated the objections which had
been made, and the industry with which he had endeavoured to confute them. He mentioned the effect upon his
resolutions produced by the failure of a letter. "During
our late walk," continued he, "I introduced the subject
that was nearest my heart. I re-urged all my former
arguments, and placed them in more forcible lights.
Wieland was still refractory. He expatiated on the perils
of wealth and power, on the sacredness of conjugal and
parental duties, and the happiness of mediocrity.
"No wonder that the time passed, unperceived, away.
Our whole 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, "We seem to be led hither by a
kind of fatality. Since we are so near, let us ascend and
rest ourselves a while. If you are not weary of this argument we will resume it there." 1
"I tacitly consented. XWe 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 congenial
with my disposition, for some time, uninterrupted by him.
At length, he said to me, "Suppose, now, that I, whom
argument has not convinced, should yield to ridicule, and
1 The punctuation of the first edition has been followed, though
often it is extremely faulty, especially in the matter of quotation
marks.




THE TRANSFORMATION


49


should agree that your scheme is eligible; what will you
have gained? Nothing. You have other enemies besides
myself to encounter. When you have vanquished me,
your toil has scarcely begun. There are my sister and
wife, with whom it will remain for you to maintain the
contest. And trust me, they are adversaries whom all
your force and stratagem will never subdue." I insinuated
that they would model themselves by his will: that
Catharine would think obedience her duty. He answered,
with 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 remaining where she is, here she shall remain." "But,"
said I, "when she knows your pleasure, will she not conform to it?" Before my friend had time to answer this
question, a negative was clearly and distinctly uttered
from another quarter. It did not come from one side or
the other, from before us or behind. Whence then did it
come? 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, "where are you?" No answer was returned.
I searched the room, and the area before it, but in vain.
Your brother was motionless in his seat. I returned to
him, and placed myself again by his side. My astonishment was not less than his."
"Well," said he, at length, "what think you of this?
This is the self-same voice which I formerly heard; you
are now convinced that my ears were well informed."




50o


WIELAND, OR


"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 propose to return. We 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 Wieland, "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 demand 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. Her 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, "Who is it
that speaks?" said I, "whence did you procure these
dismal tidings?" I did not wait long for an answer.
"From a source that cannot fail. Be satisfied. She is
dead." You may justly be surprized, that, in the circumstances in which I heard the tidings, and notwithstanding the mystery which environed him by whom they
were imparted, I could give an undivided attention to the
facts, which were the subject of our dialogue. I eagerly inquired, when and where did she die? What was the cause
of her death? Was her death absolutely certain? An
answer was returned only to the last of these questions;
"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 interrogatories.
"It was my sister's voice; but it could not be uttered by
her; and yet, if not by her, by whom was it uttered?




THE TRANSFORMATION


5I


When 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 whom could it come? Are the circumstances 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
enchantments 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
different from any that I had ever before known. Here
were proofs of a sensible and intelligent existence, which
could not be denied. Here was information obtained and
imparted by means unquestionalbly super-human.
That there are conscious beings, besides ourselves, in
existence, whose modes of activity and information surpass our own, can scarcely be denied. Is there a glimpse
afforded us into a world of these superior beings? My
heart was scarcely large enough to give admittance to so
swelling a thought. An awe, the sweetest and most solemn
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 was impressed with the belief
of mysterious, but not of malignant agency. Hitherto
nothing had occurred to persuade me that this airy minister
was busy to evil rather than to good purposes. On the
contrary, the idea of superior virtue had always been




52


WIELAND, OR


associated in my mind with that of superior power. The
warnings that had thus been heard appeared to have been
prompted by beneficent intentions. My brother had been
hindered by this voice from ascending the hill. He was
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 confirmation
to be deprecated or desired? By her death, the tie that
attached him to Europe was taken away. Henceforward
every motive would combine to retain him in his native
country, and we were rescued from the deep regrets 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 instrumental
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 enjoyment 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 him for her loss?
Twenty days after this, another vessel arrived from
the same port. In this interval, Pleyel, for the most
part, estranged himself from his old companions. He
was become the prey of a gloomy and unsociable grief.
His walks were limited to the bank of the Delaware.'
1 Dr. Ellis Paxson Oberholtzer identifies this location in the following letter to the editor:
" MY own impression is and has always been that the place which




THE TRANSFORMATION


53


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
picturesque than this. The shore is deformed with mud,
and encumbered with a forest of reeds. The fields, in
most seasons, are mire; but when they afford a firm
footing, the ditches by which they are bounded and intersected, are mantled with stagnating green, and emit the
most noxious exhalations. Health is no less a stranger to
those seats than pleasure. Spring and autumn are sure to
be accompanied with agues and bilious remittents.
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
ceaseless music by rocky points, murmuring on a sandy
margin, and reflecting on its surface, banks of all vaBrown had in mind in Wieland was the east or west bank of the
Schuylkill, about where the Wissahickon enters that river. This
point is above the Falls and about seven or eight miles above the
Philadelphia of that day. There were beautiful country seats of
our shipping merchants and other rich men on both banks of the
river on the way up to the Falls in the early part of the century
until the canal company built the dam for the business of bringing coal down from Mount Carbon. Brown, as well as his clumsy
imitator Lippard, 20 or 30 years afterward, found much romance
in the Wissahickon which at this day is for a fact one of the finest
natural glens incorporated in any park system in the world. The
miry country described is undoubtedly the malarial swamp in the
delta formed by the junction of the Schuylkill with the Delaware
which has, for long, been colloquially called 'the Neck.' It is
about to become the site of the coming Sesquicentennial. However, the other side of the Schuylkill, from the rather high seat of
the Hamilton family, 'the Woodlands,' in Kingsessing, as it was
then, running south toward the city of Chester, had the same character. Hollander's Creek was down that way."




54


WIELAND, OR


rieties of height and degrees of declivity. These banks
were chequered by patches of dark verdure and shapeless masses of white marble, and crowned by copses
of cedar, or by the regular magnificence of orchards,
which, at this season, were in blossom, and were prodigal
of odours. The ground which receded from the river
was scooped into valleys and dales. Its beauties were
enhanced by the horticultural skill of my brother, who
bedecked this exquisite assemblage of slopes and risings
with every species of vegetable ornament, from the giant
arms of the oak to the clustering tendrils of the honeysuckle. '
To screen him from the unwholesome airs of his own
residence, it had been proposed to Pleyel to spend the
months of spring with us. He had apparently acquiesced
in this proposal; but the late event induced him to change
his purpose. He was only to be seen by visiting him in
his retirements. His gaiety had flown, and every passion
was absorbed in eagerness to procure tidings from Saxony.
1 This region was Brown's own favorite resort during the period
of his solitary walks. In his journal of a trip through eastern Pennsylvania in 1801, he recorded his impressions of the region as follows:
"The banks of the Wissihicken are steep and rugged. They
are covered with a rich foliage of native trees, interspersed with
the wild grape, the woodbine, and other flowering plants, which
perfume the air with their odour, and add greatly to the beauty of
the scenery.... The wanderer may here immerse himself in the
deepest solitude, and contemplate nature in her most hidden recesses: or, if other views be more agreeable to his fancy, he may
direct his steps towards the habitations of the millers, and feast his
eyes on luxuriant and well cultivated fields, verdant meadows, and
variegated gardens. To those who have not lost their relish for
the sportive charms of native scenery, contrasted and blended
with the useful works of man, Wissihicken will ever be a delightful
retreat. In my juvenile days, I have often visited these hills to
gaze on the limpid stream, and breathe the delicious fragrance of
the wild flowers. The remembrance is now dear to me,"




THE TRANSFORMATION


55


I have mentioned the arrival of another vessel from the
Elbe. He descried her early one morning as he was passing along the skirt of the river. She was easily recognized, being the ship in which he had performed his
first voyage to Germany. He immediately went on board,
but found no letters directed to him. This omission was,
in some degree, compensated by meeting an old acquaintance among the passengers, who had till lately been a
resident in Leipsig. This person put an end to all suspense respecting the fate of Theresa, by relating the
particulars of her death and funeral.
Thus was the truth of the former intimation attested.
No longer devoured by suspense, the grief of Pleyel was
not long in yielding to the influence of society. He 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
intermixed with other topics. My 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 relate to that mysterious personage, the
Daemon 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 honor were doomed to sudden blast and hopeless extermination.




56


WIELAND, OR


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. Now it is that I begin to perceive the difficulty of the task which I have undertaken;
but it would be weakness to shrink from it. My blood
is congealed: and my fingers are palsied when I call up
this image. Shame upon my cowardly and infirm heart!
Hitherto I have proceeded with some degree of composure,
but now I must pause. I mean not that dire remembrance shall subdue my courage or baffle my design,
but this weakness cannot be immediately conquered.
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 faulter and
I sink, how shall I support myself, when 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, O most fatal and potent of mankind, in what
terms shall I describe thee? What words are adequate
to the just delineation of thy character? How shall
I detail the means which rendered the secrecy of thy
purposes 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




TrHE TRANSFORMATION


57


or powerless. Let me stifle the agonies that are awakened
by thy name. Let me, for a time, regard thee as a being
of no -terrible attributes. Let me tear myself from contemplation of the evils of which it is but too certain that
thou wast the author, and limit my view to those harmless appearances which attended thy entrance on the stage.
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 was
rustic and aukward. 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 disturbed, 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 were seldom seen by me except
on the road or field. This lawn was only traversed by
men whose views were directed to the pleasures of the
walk, or the grandeur of the scenery.
He passed slowly along, frequently pausing, as if to
examine the prospect more deliberately, but never turning
his eye toward the house, so as to allow me a view of his
countenance. Presently he entered a copse at a small




WIELAND, OR


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, contemplating the image of this wanderer,
and drawing, from outward appearances, those inferences
with respect to the intellectual history of this person,
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, consistent
with acquisition of wisdom and eloquence.
Weary 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 was employed near the door of
the apartment, when some one knocked. The door was
opened by her, and she was immediately addressed with,
" Pry'thee, good girl, canst thou supply a thirsty man with
a glass of buttermilk? " She answered that there was none
in the house. "Aye, 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 replied 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.




THE TRANSFORMATION


59


Neither manacled nor lame, I should merit burial in the
maw of carrion crows if I laid this task upon thee." She
gave him the cup, and he turned to go to the spring.
I listened to this dialogue in silence. The words uttered
by the person without, affected me as somewhat singular,
but what chiefly rendered them remarkable, was the tone
that accompanied them. It was wholly new. My
brother's voice and Pleyel's were musical and energetic.
I had fondly imagined, that, in this respect, they were
surpassed by none. Now my mistake was detected. I
cannot pretend to communicate the impression that was
made upon me by these accents, or to depict the degree
in which force and sweetness were blended in them. They
were articulated with a distinctness that was unexampled
in my experience. But this was not all. The voice was
not only mellifluent and clear, but the emphasis was so
just, and the modulation so impassioned, that it seemed
as if an heart of stone could not fail of being moved by it.
It imparted to me an emotion altogether involuntary and
incontroulable. When he uttered the words, "for charity's
sweet sake," I dropped the cloth that I held in my hand,
my heart overflowed with sympathy and my eyes with
unbidden tears.
This description will appear to you trifling or incredible. The importance of these circumstances will be
manifested in the sequel. The manner in which 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 if 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 inquisitive as to the person and demeanour of our visitant.




60


WIELAND, OR


After a moment's pause, I stepped to the door, and
looked after him. Judge my surprize, when I beheld
the self-same figure that had appeared an half hour
before upon the bank. My fancy had conjured up a
very different image. A form, and attitude, and garb,
were 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 returning to my employment, I threw myself 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 certainly have chosen a different seat. He no sooner shewed
himself, than a confused sense of impropriety, added
to the suddenness of the interview, for which, not having foreseen it, I had made no preparation, threw me
into a state of the most painful embarrassment. He brought
with him a placid brow; but no sooner had he cast his
eyes upon me, than his face was as glowingly suffused
as my own. He placed the cup upon the bench, stammered out thanks, and retired.
It was some time before I could recover my wonted composure. I had snatched a view of the stranger's countenance. The impression that it made was vivid and indelible. His cheeks were pallid and lank, his eyes sunken,
his forehead overshadowed by coarse straggling hairs, his
teeth large and irregular, though sound and brilliantly
white, and his chin discoloured by a tetter. His skin was
of coarse grain, and sallow hue. Every feature was wide
of beauty, and the outline of his face reminded you of an
inverted cone.




THE TRANSFORMATION


6r


And yet his forehead, so far as shaggy locks would
allow it to be seen, his eyes lustrously black, and possessing, in the midst of haggardness, a radiance inexpressibly 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 immediately 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
purposed 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
deceived 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 rivetted 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 vet so unalterably observant of the direction which
is given to it! How little did I then foresee the termination 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 with incessant
thunder, which reverberated in stunning echoes from
the opposite declivity. The inclemency of the air would
not allow me to walk out. I had, indeed, no inclination
to leave my apartment. I betook myself to the contemplation of this portrait, whose attractions time had




62


WIELAND, OR


rather enhanced than diminished. I laid aside my usual
occupations, and seating myself 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, deem 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 devotion to this image no otherwise, than by
supposing that its properties were rare and prodigious.
Perhaps you will suspect that such were the first inroads
of a passion incident 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 conclusions
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 overflow with tears? Was the tempest
that had just past a signal of the ruin which impended
over me? My 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 subverted by it to-morrow, or




THE TRANSFORMATION


63


whether it was ordained that we should lay down our
heads full of years and of honor, was a question that
no human being could solve. At other times, these
ideas seldom intruded. I either forbore to 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 accompaniments. I
said to myself, we must die. Sooner or later, we must
disappear for ever 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,
and those, the tide of whose fortune 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
grand-father'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 pourtrayed, only suggested
to my thoughts a new topic in the horrors of war.
I sought refuge, but ineffectually, in sleep. My mind
was thronged by vivid, but confused images, and no
effort that I made was sufficient to drive them away.
In this situation I heard the clock, which hung in the
room, give the signal for twelve. It was the same instrument which formerly hung in my father's chamber,
and which, on account of its being his workmanship,




64


WIELAND, OR


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, respecting 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 me. In
the first impulse of my terror, I uttered a slight scream, and
shrunk to the opposite side of the bed. In a moment, however, I recovered from my trepidation. I was habitually
indifferent to all the causes of fear, by which the 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 prevent 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 want? 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. Meanwhile, I ran over in my thoughts,
every circumstance that could assist my conjectures.
My habitation was a wooden edifice, consisting of two




THE TRANSFORMATION


65


stories. In each story were two rooms, 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 stair-case. 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 communicated, on both stories, with the parlour adjoining
it below, and the chamber adjoining it above. The opposite wing is of smaller dimensions, the rooms not being
above eight feet square. The lower of these was used as a
depository 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 was no window in the lower one, and in the upper,
a small aperture, which communicated light and air, but
would scarcely admit the body. The door which led into
this, was close to my bed-head, and was always locked,
but when I myself was within. The avenues below were
accustomed to be closed and bolted at nights.
The maid was my only companion, and she could not
reach my chamber without previously passing through
the opposite chamber, and the middle passage, of which,
however, the doors were usually unfastened. If she had
occasioned 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 transformed some casual noise into the voice
of a human creature. Satisfied with this solution, I was
preparing to relinquish my listening attitude, when my
ear was again saluted with 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




66


WIELAND, OR


shewed me, that the sounds issued from within the closet,
the door of which was not more than eight inches from my
pillow.
This second interruption occasioned a shock less vehement 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 shew 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 construction could I put upon them? My heart began to
palpitate with dread of some unknown danger. Presently,
another voice, but equally near me, was heard whispering
in answer, "Why not? I will draw a trigger in this business, but perdition be my lot if I do more." To this, the
first voice returned, in a tone which rage had heightened
in a small degree above a whisper, "Coward! stand aside,
and see me do it. I will grasp her throat; I will do her
business in an instant; she shall not have time so much as
to groan." What wonder that I was petrified by sounds
so dreadful! Murderers lurked in my closet. They were
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 wings to my speed, I leaped out of bed and scantily
I robed as I was, rushed out of the chamber, down stairs,




THE TRANSFORMATION


67


and into the open air. I can hardly recollect the process
of turning 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 emotions, 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 female servants. I was
astonished at the scene before me, but gradually recovered
the recollection of what had happened. I answered 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 weapons to my deserted habitation. They entered my chamber and my closet, and
found everything 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 alarming 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.
My 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 apparently 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
furniture of the house and the closet remained.
I revolved every incident and expression that had




68


WIELAND, OR


occurred. My senses assured me of the truth of them,
and yet their abruptness and improbability made me, in
my turn, somewhat incredulous. The adventure had
made a deep impression 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 dwelling.
There was another circumstance that enhanced the
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 transacting in my chamber, he himself was awake, in consequence of some slight indisposition, and lay, according to
his custom, musing on some favorite topic. Suddenly the
silence, which 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 summons 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. What was the general astonishment
when your friend was 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. When
I ruminated upon these events, my soul was suspended
in wonder and awe. Was I really deceived in imagining that I heard the closet conversation? I was no longer
at liberty to question the reality of those accents which




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69


had formerly recalled my brother from 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!
How had my ancient security vanished! That dwelling
which had 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
consented to reside with us during the months of spring,
lodged in the vacant chamber, in order to quiet my
alarms. He treated my fears with 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 of at my brother's, this arrangement gave general satisfaction.
CHAPTER VII
I WILL not enumerate the various inquiries and conjectures 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 shewed 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




70


WIELAND, OR


prepossessions, and to amuse us with a thousand ludicrous anecdotes which he had collected in his travels.
He made no scruple to charge me with 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 this impetuosity was sometimes inconvenient, there was nothing to dread from his malice. I had no fear that my
character or dignity would suffer in his hands, and was
not heartily displeased when he declared his intention of
profiting by his first meeting with the stranger to introduce 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 walk. 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, near the southern verge of my little demesne, 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, which, 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 favorite 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 waterfall, the fragrance and the dusk combined to




THE TRANSFORMATION


7I


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 gulph. 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 wakefulness, and withheld from me the knowledge of my actual condition. My first panics were
succeeded by the perturbations of surprize, 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. My faculties were still too confused, and
the darkness too intense, to allow me immediately to
find my way up the steep. I sat down, therefore, 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. Between
the rock and the lattice was a chasm not wide enough




72


WIELAND, OR


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? Who are you?"
"A friend; one come, not to injure, but to save you;
fear nothing."
This voice was immediately recognized to be the same
with one of those which I had heard in the closet; it was
the voice of him who had proposed to shoot, rather
than to strangle, his victim. My terror made me at
once, mute and motionless. 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. Mark me further; profit
by this warning, 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 remained 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 star-light was excluded by the umbrage,
and not the faintest gleam was afforded to guide my
steps. What should I do? To 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 were scattered at the
entrance, and gleam continued to succeed gleam for a




THE TRANSFORMATION


73


few seconds, till they, finally, gave place to unintermitted darkness.
The first visitings of this light called up a train of horrors
in my mind; destruction impended over this spot; the
voice which I had lately heard had warned me to retire,
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 exterminating 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 recognize his accents; but such was the
tumult 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 lanthorn
which he bore, ascended the hill.
Pale and breathless, it was with difficulty I could support
myself. He anxiously inquired into the cause of my affright, and the motive of my unusual absence. He had
returned from my brother's at a late hour, and was informed by Judith, that I had walked out before sun-set,
and had not yet returned. This intelligence was somewhat alarming. He waited some time; but my absence
continuing, he had set out in search of me. He had
explored the neighbourhood with the utmost care, but,
receiving 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 him that I had strolled hither in the afternoon,




74


WIELAND, OR


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
brother had endeavoured to entice me, and the voice that
talked through the lattice, were not parts of the same
dream. I remembered, 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 that
subject, and shutting myself in my chamber, delivered
myself up to contemplation.
What 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 surprized or offended, if these be your suspicions. I know not, indeed, how 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.
Meanwhile what was I to think? I had been assured
that a design had been formed against my life. The
ruffians had leagued to murder me. Whom had I offended?
Who was there with whom I had ever maintained intercourse, who was capable of harbouring such atrocious
purposes?
My temper was the reverse of cruel and imperious. My
heart was touched with sympathy for the children of misfortune. But this sympathy was not a barren sentiment.
My purse, scanty as it was, was ever open and my hands
ever active to relieve distress. Many were the wretches




THE TRANSFORMATION


75


whom my personal exertions had extricated from want
and disease, and who rewarded me with their gratitude.
There was no face which lowered at my approach, 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 dismiss 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 shewn myself
deliberative and calm in the midst of peril. I have hazarded my own life, for the preservation of another, but
now was 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, was a
thought at which I shuddered. What had I done to
deserve to be made 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 was every where equally defenceless.
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, was
powerless in all places but one!
Here 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 from relating this incident to others, and what species
of death will be awarded if I disobey?
He talked of my father. He intimated, that disclosure
would pull upon my head, the same destruction. Was




76


WIELAND, OR


then the death of my father, portentous and inexplicable
as it was, the consequence of human machinations? It
should seem, that this being is apprised of the true nature
of this event, and is conscious of the means that led to it.
Whether it shall likewise fall upon me, depends upon the
observance of silence. Was 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 which my
disappearance had hindered him from mentioning the
night before. Early the preceding morning, his occasions
called him to the city; he had stepped into a coffee-house
to while away an hour; here he met a person whose appearance instantly bespoke him to be the same whose hasty
visit I have mentioned, and whose extraordinary visage
and tones had so powerfully affected me. On an attentive
survey, however, he proved, likewise, to be one with whom
my friend had had some intercourse in Europe. This
authorized the liberty of accosting him, and after some
conversation, mindful, as Pleyel said, of the footing which
this stranger had gained in my heart, he had ventured
to invite him to Mettingen. The invitation 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 was, of course, eager to be informed as to the circumstances of their ancient intercourse. When, and where
had they met? What knew he of the life and character of
this man?
In answer to my inquiries, he informed me that, three
years before, he was a traveller in Spain. He had made
an excursion from Valencia to Murviedro, with a view




THE TRANSFORMATION


77


to inspect the remains of Roman magnificence, scattered
in the environs of that town. While traversing the scite
of the theatre of old Saguntum, he lighted upon this man,
seated on a stone, and deeply engaged in perusing the work
of the deacon Marti. A short conversation ensued, which
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 indistinguishable
from a native, when he chose to assume that character.
Pleyel found him to be connected, on the footing of friendship and respect, with many eminent merchants in that
city. He had embraced the catholic religion, and adopted.'
a Spanish name instead of his own, which was CARWIN, <-\
and devoted himself to the literature and religion of his
new country. He pursued no profession, but subsisted
on remittances from England.
While 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 was highly intelligent and communicative. He had visited every corner of Spain, and could
furnish the most accurate details respecting 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 his
discourse that he was English, and that he was well
acquainted with the neighbouring countries.
His character excited considerable curiosity in this
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




78


WIELAND, OR


occasions. A suspicion was, sometimes, admitted, that
his belief was 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.
My 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 Mettingen.
On this occasion Carwin had received Pleyel's greeting with a certain distance and solemnity to which the
latter had not been accustomed. He had waved noticing the inquiries of Pleyel respecting his desertion of
Spain, in which he had formerly declared that it was
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. Perhaps it might be poverty,
perhaps he was swayed by motives which it was his
interest to conceal, but which were connected 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 subject on which to exercise my thoughts. Before evening
I should be ushered into his presence, and listen to those
tones whose magical and thrilling power I had already
experienced. But with what new images would he
then be accompanied?




THE TRANSFORMATION


79


Carwin was an adherent to the Romish faith, yet
was an Englishman by birth, and, perhaps, a protestant
by educationi7?He had adopted Spain for his country,
and had intimated a design to spend his days there,
yet now was an inhabitant of this district, and disguised
by the habiliments of a clown! What could have obliterated the impressions of his youth, and made him
abjure his religion and his country? What subsequent
events had introduced so total a change in his plans?
In withdrawing from Spain, had he reverted to the
religion of his ancestors; or was it true, that his former
conversion was deceitful, and that his conduct had
been swayed by motives which 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 commencement of this year, my life had been serene and
blissful, beyond the ordinary portion of humanity; but,
now, my bosom was corroded with anxiety. I was visited
by dread of unknown dangers, and the future was a
scene over which clouds rolled, and thunders muttered.
I compared the cause with the effect, and they seemed
disproportioned to each other. All unaware, and in a
manner which I had no power to explain, I was pushed
from my '_immoveable and lofty station, and cast upon a
sea of troubles.
I determined to be my brother's visitant on this evening, yet my resolves were not unattended with 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 who would, probably, be present at our introduction to each other, would




80


WIELAND, OR


excite all that confusion which the passion itself is apt
to produce. This would confirm him in his error, and
call forth new railleries. His mirth, when excited 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 this
had been discovered by him, 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 which I was
ushered. Appearances were the same 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 me 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
entertained no conception previously to my knowledge
of him. Notwithstanding the uncouthness of his garb,
his manners were not unpolished. All topics were han



THE TRANSFORMATION


died by him with skill, and without pedantry or affectation. He uttered no sentiment calculated to produce
a disadvantageous impression: on the contrary, his observations denoted a mind alive to every generous and
heroic feeling. They were introduced without parade,
and accompanied with that degree of earnestness which
indicates sincerity.
He parted from us not till late, refusing an invitation to spend the night here, but readily consented to
repeat his visit. His visits were frequently repeated.
Each day introduced us to a more intimate acquaintance with his sentiments, but left us wholly in the dark,
concerning that about which we were most inquisitive.
He studiously avoided all mention of his past or present
situation. Even the place of his abode in the city he
concealed from us.
Our sphere, in this respect, being somewhat limited,
and the intellectual endowments of this man being indisputably great, his deportment was more diligently marked,
and copiously 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 assemblies, discussed, and inferences deduced from  it.  It
may well be thought that he modelled his behaviour
by an uncommon standard, 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 familiarity which takes place
between constant associates, that justifies the negligence of many rules of which, in an earlier period of
their intercourse, politeness requires the exact observance. Inquiries into our condition are allowable when




82


WIELAND, OR


they are prompted by a disinterested concern for our
welfare; and this solicitude is not only pardonable,
but may justly be demanded from those who chuse us
for their companions. 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, however, began, at length, to employ regular
means for this end. He occasionally alluded to the
circumstances in which they had formerly met, and
remarked the inconguousness between the religion and
habits of a Spaniard, with those of a native of Britain.
He 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. He insinuated, that a change
so great must have been prompted by motives of a
singular 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
square their faith by the same precepts; their ideas are
drawn from the same fountains of literature, and they
"'speak dialects 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 of that employment
to which we are indebted for subsistence, the inducements to change are far more numerous and powerful, than opposite inducements.




THE TRANSFORMATION


83


He spoke as if desirous of shewing that he was not
aware of the tendency of Pleyel's remarks; yet, certain
tokens were apparent, that proved him by no means
wanting in penetration. These tokens were to be read
in his countenance, and not in his words. When anything was said, indicating curiosity in us, the gloom of
his countenance 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 him with
regret; and that, since these incidents were 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. Questions 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, allusions were, of course, made to the inexplicable
events that had lately happened. At those times, the
words and looks of this man were objects of my particular
attention. The subject was extraordinary; and any one
whose experience or reflections could throw any light upon
it, was entitled to my gratitude. As this man was enlightened by reading and travel, I listened with eagerness
to the remarks which he should make.




84


WIELAND, OR


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 with seriousness, and without any
marks either of surprize or incredulity. He pursued, with
visible pleasure, that kind of disquisition which was
naturally suggested by them. His fancy was 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 inclinations to the cause. He merely deduced, from
his own reasonings, that such intercourse was probable;
but confessed that, though he was acquainted with 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. His narratives were constructed 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 coherent 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 suggested, a ready and plausible solution was furnished.
Mysterious voices had always a share in producing the
catastrophe, 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, however complex or marvellous, con



THE TRANSFORMATION


85


tained no instance sufficiently parallel to those that had
befallen ourselves, and in which the solution was applicable to our own case.
My brother was a much more sanguine reasoner than
our guest. Eveni in some of the facts which were related
by Carwin, he maintained the probability of celestial
interference, when the latter was disposed to deny it,
and had found, as he imagined, footsteps of an 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 Carwin adopted, in some
degree, 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 an higher order, he would
believe only when his own ears were assailed in a manner
which could not be otherwise accounted for. Civility
forbad him to contradict my brother or myself, but his
understanding refused to acquiesce in our testimony.
Besides, he was disposed to question whether the voices
heard in the temple, at the foot of the hill, and in my closet,
were not really uttered by human organs. On this supposition he was desired to explain how the effect was produced.
He answered, that the power of mimickry was very
common. Catharine's voice might easily be imitated by
by one'at the foot of the hill, who would find no difficulty in eluding, by flight, the search of Wieland. 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




86


WIELAND, OR


accord with the truth. That the voice appeared to come
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 an 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 was led hither. How
imperfectly acquainted were we with the condition and designs of the beings that surround us? The city was near
at hand, and thousands might there exist whose powers
and purposes might easily explain whatever was mysterious in this transaction. As to the closet dialogue, he
was obliged to adopt one of two suppositions, and affirm
either that it was fashioned in my own fancy, or that it
actually took place between two persons in the closet.
Such was Carwin's mode of explaining these appearances. It is such, perhaps, as would commend itself as
most plausible to the most sagacious minds, but it was
insufficient to impart conviction to us. As to the treason
that was meditated against me, it was doubtless just to
conclude that it was either real or imaginary; but that
it was real was attested by the mysterious warning in
the summer-house, the secret of which I had hitherto
locked up in my own breast.
A month passed away in this kind of intercourse. As
to Carwin, our ignorance was in no degree enlightened
respecting his genuine character and views. Appearances
were uniform. No man possessed a larger store of knowledge, or a greater degree of skill in the communication of
it to others; hence he was regarded as an inestimable.
addition 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 from him; hence he




THE TRANSFORMATION


87


was regarded as a kind of inmate of the house. He entered
and departed without ceremony. When he arrived he
received an unaffected welcome, and when he chose to
retire, no importunities were used to induce him to remain.
The temple was the principal scene of our social enjoyments; yet the felicity that we tasted when assembled
in this asylum was but the gleam of a former sun-shine.
Carwin never parted with his gravity. The inscrutableness
of his character, and the uncertainty whether his fellowship tended to good or evil, were seldom absent from our
minds. This circumstance powerfully contributed to
sadden us.
My heart was the seat of growing disquietudes. This
change in one who had formerly been characterized by all
the exuberances of soul, could not fail to be remarked by
my friends. My brother was always a pattern of solemnity. My sister was clay, moulded by the circumstances
in which she happened to be placed. There was but one
whose deportment remains to be described as being of
importance to our happiness. Had Pleyel likewise 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 importance 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 impatience stole across his features.
Even the punctuality and frequency of his visits were somewhat lessened. It may be supposed that my own uneasiness 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




88


WIELAND, OR


my eyes, on the cause that produced it. It did not arise
from the death of the Saxon lady: it was not a contagious
emanation from the countenances of Wieland or Carwin.
There was but one other source whence it could flow. A
nameless ecstacy thrilled through my frame when any
new proof occurred that the ambiguousness of my behaviour 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
highest expectations. The exploits of Zisca, the Bohemian hero, were woven into a dramatic series and connection. According to German custom, it was 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, were pourtrayed in wild numbers, and with
terrific energy. An afternoon was set apart to rehearse
this performance. The language was familiar to all of
us but Carwin, whose company, therefore, was tacitly
dispensed with.
The morning previous to this intended rehearsal, I
spent at home. My mind was occupied with reflections
relative to my own situation. The sentiment which lived
with chief energy in my heart, was connected with 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 hand, which
should render me the happiest of human creatures?




THE TRANSFORMATION


89


He suspected that I looked with favorable eyes upon
Carwin. Hence arose disquietudes, which he struggled
in vain to conceal. He 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
effected? It can only be done by a change of deportment
in me; but how must I bemean myself for this purpose?
I must not speak. Neither eyes, nor lips, must impart the information. He must not be assured that my
heart is his, previous to the tender of his own; but he
must be convinced that it has not been given to another;
he must be supplied with space whereon to build a doubt
as to the true state of my affections; he must be prompted
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 until late. It will be his province to accompany me home. The airy expanse is without a speck.
This breeze is usually stedfast, 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
wings to thy speed, sweet evening; and thou, moon,
I kharge thee, shroud thy beams at the moment when
my Pleyel whispers 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 regardful of insurmountable limits. Yet when minds are
imbued with a genuine sympathy, are not words and
looks superfluous? Are not motion and touch sufficient




go


WIELAND, OR


to impart feelings such as mine? Has he not eyed me at
moments, when the pressure of his hand had thrown
me into tumults, 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 I 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, when 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 their place in my heart,
had not my portion been set in misery. My errors have
taught me thus much wisdom; that those sentiments
which we ought not to disclose, it is criminal to harbour.
It was proposed to begin the rehearsal at four o'clock; I
counted the minutes as they passed; their flight was at once
too rapid and too slow; my sensations were 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 reheasal. He was to divide the task with my brother,
and, in tasks like these, he always engaged with peculiar zeal. His elocution was less sweet than sonorous;
and, therefore, better adapted than the mellifluences of
his friend to the outrageous vehemence of this drama.
What could detain him? Perhaps he lingered through




THE TRANSFORMATION


9I


forgetfulness. Yet this was incredible. Never had his
memory been known to fail upon even more trivial occasions. Not less impossible was it, that the scheme had
lost its attractions, and that he stayed, because his coming would afford him no gratification. But why should
we expect him to adhere to the minute?
An 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 tomorrow, and not to-day, had been selected for this purpose: but no. A review of preceding circumstances demonstrated that such misapprehension was impossible;
for he had himself proposed this day, and this hour. This
day, his attention would not otherwise be occupied;
but to-morrow, an indispensible engagement was 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,
tumultuous, and sometimes fearful. His sickness and
his death might possibly have detained him.
Tortured with suspense, we sat gazing at each other,
and at the path which led from the road. Every horseman that passed was, for a moment, imagined to be him.
Hour succeeded hour, and the sun, gradually declining, at length disappeared. Every signal of his coming
proved fallacious, and our hopes were at length dismissed.
His absence affected my friends in no insupportable 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.




92


WIELAND, OR


It may be supposed that this disappointment affected
me in a very different manner. 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 which 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 favor, 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
myself at a window, and gave the reins to reflection.
The hateful and degrading impulses which had lately
controuled me were, in some degree, removed. New dejection succeeded, but was now produced by contemplating my late behaviour. Surely that passion is worthy
to be abhorred which obscures our understanding, and
urges us to the commission of injustice. What right had
I to expect his attendance? Had I not demeaned my



THE TRANSFORMATION


93


self like one indifferent to his happiness, and as having
bestowed my regards upon another? - His absence might
be prompted by the love which I considered his absence
as a proof that he wanted. He came not because the
sight of me, the spectacle of my coldness or aversion,
contributed to his despair. Why should I prolong, by
hypocrisy or silence, his misery as well as my own? Why
not deal with him explicitly, and assure him of the truth?
You will hardly believe that, in obedience to this suggestion, I rose for the purpose of ordering a light, that
I might instantly make this confession in a letter. A second
thought shewed me the rashness of this scheme, and I
wondered by what infirmity of mind I could be betrayed
into a momentary approbation of it. I saw with the utmost clearness that a confession like that would be the
most remediless and unpardonable outrage upon the dignity of my sex, and utterly unworthy of that passion
which controuled me.
I resumed my seat and my musing. To account for
the absence of Pleyel became once more the scope of my
conjectures. How many incidents might occur to raise
an insuperable impediment in his way? When I was a
child, a scheme of pleasure, in which he and his sister
were parties, had been, in like manner, frustrated by his
absence; but his absence, in that instance, had been occasioned by his falling from a boat into the river, in consequence of which he had run the most imminent hazard
of being drowned. Here was a second disappointment
endured by the same persons, and produced by his failure.
Might it not originate in the same cause? Had he not
designed to cross the river that morning to make some
necessary purchases in Jersey? He had preconcerted to
return to his own house to dinner; but, perhaps, some disaster had befallen him. Experience had taught me the




94


WIELAND, OR


insecurity of a canoe, and that was the only kind of boat
which Pleyel used: I was, likewise, actuated by an hereditary dread of water. These circumstances combined
to bestow considerable plausibility on this conjecture;
but the consternation 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 tormente d by phantoms of my own creation. It
was not always 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 will never rank me in the number of its eulogists;
it was alone sufficient to the extermination of my peace;
it was itself a plenteous source of calamity, and needed
not the concurrence of other evils to take away the attractions 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 relique connected with his
fate was preserved with the most scrupulous care. Among
these was to be numbered a manuscript, containing memoirs of his own life. The narrative was by no means recommended by its eloquence; but neither did all its value
flow from my relationship to the author. Its stile had an




THE TRANSFORMATION


95


unaffected and picturesque simplicity. The great variety
and circumstantial display of the incidents, together
with 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 was requisite to procure a light. The
girl had long since retired to her chamber: it was therefore proper to wait upon myself. A lamp, and the means
of lighting it, were 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, appeared 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 what had lately passed
in this closet occurred. Whether midnight was approaching, or had passed, I knew not. I was, as then, alone,
and defenceless. The wind was in that direction in
which, unaided by the deathlike repose of nature, it
brought to me the murmur of the water-fall. This was
mingled with that solemn and enchanting sound, which
a breeze 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 faultered, 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 powerless; I was visited afresh by unconquerable apprehen



96


WIELAND, OR


sions. A sort of belief darted into my mind, that some
being was concealed within, whose purposes were evil.
I began to contend with those fears, when it occurred to
me that I might, without impropriety, go for a lamp
previously to opening the closet. I receded a few steps;
but before I reached my chamber door my thoughts took
a new direction. Motion seemed to produce a mechanical influence upon me. I was ashamed of my weakness.
Besides, what aid could be afforded me by a lamp?
My fears had pictured to themselves no precise object.
It would be difficult to depict, in words, the ingredients
and hues of that phantom which haunted me. An hand
invisible and of preternatural strength, lifted by human
passions, and selecting my life for its aim, were parts
of this terrific image. All places were alike accessible
to this foe, or if his empire were restricted by local bounds,
those bounds were utterly inscrutable by me. But had I
not been told by some one in league with this enemy, that
every place but the recess in the bank was exempt from
danger?
I returned to the closet, and once more put my hand
upon the lock. O! may my ears 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 my nerves like an edge of steel. It appeared
to cut asunder the fibres of my brain, and rack every
joint with agony.
The cry, loud and piercing as it was, was nevertheless human. No articulation was 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




THE TRANSFORMATION


97


be wrapped up, and every energy converted into eagerness and terror.
Shuddering, I dashed myself against the wall, and
by the same involuntary impulse, turned my face backward to examine the mysterious monitor. The moonlight streamed into each window, and every corner of
the room was conspicuous, and yet I beheld nothing!
The interval was too brief to be artificially measured,
between the utterance of these words, 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? Which 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 was stationed at my right ear; yet my
attendant was invisible.
I cannot describe the state of my thoughts at that
moment. Surprize had mastered my faculties. My
frame shook, and the vital current was congealed. I
was conscious only to the vehemence of my sensations.
This condition could not be lasting. Like a tide, which
suddenly mounts to an overwhelming height, and then
gradually subsides, my confusion slowly gave place to
order, and my tumults to a calm. I was able to deliberate and move. I resumed my feet, and advanced into
the midst of the room. Upward, and behind, and on
each side, I threw penetrating glances. I was not satisfied with one examination. 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 images than the feeble lustre of the moon.




98


WIELAND, OR


I was alone, and the walls were chequered by shadowy
forms. As the moon passed behind a cloud and emerged,
these shadows seemed to be endowed with life, and to
move. The apartment was open to the breeze, and the
curtain was occasionally blown from its ordinary position. This motion was not unaccompanied with sound.
I failed not to snatch a look, and to listen when this
motion and this sound occurred. My belief that my
monitor was posted near, was strong, and instantly
converted these appearances to tokens of his presence,
and yet I could discern nothing.
When my thoughts were at length permitted to revert
to the past, the first idea that occurred was the resemblance between the words of the voice which I had just
heard, and those which had terminated my dream in
the summer-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
beckoning me forward, the seizure of my arm, and the
voice behind, were surely imaginary. That these incidents were fashioned in my sleep, is supported by
the same indubitable evidence that compels me to believe myself awake at present; yet the words and the
voice were the same. Then, by some inexplicable contrivance, I was aware of the danger, while my actions
and sensations were those of one wholly unacquainted
with it. Now, was it not equally true that my actions
and persuasions were at war? Had not the belief, that
evil lurked in the closet, gained admittance, and had
not my actions betokened an unwarrantable security?
To obviate the effects of my infatuation, the same means
had been used.
In my dream, he that tempted me to my destruction,
was my brother. Death was ambushed in my path.




THE TRANSFORMATION


99


From what evil was 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?
My brother!
No; protection, and not injury is his province. Strange
and terrible chimera! Yet it would not be suddenly
dismissed. It was surely no vulgar agency that gave
this form to my fears. He to whom all parts of time
are equally present, whom no contingency approaches,
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 spontaneaous 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 aginst me was Wieland's?
Ideas exist in our minds that can be accounted for
by no established laws. Why did I dream that my
brother was my foe? Why but because an omen of
my fate was ordained to be communicated? Yet what
salutary end did it serve? Did it arm me with caution
to elude, or fortitude to bear the evils to which I was
reserved?  My present thoughts were, no doubt, indebted for their hue to the similitude existing between
these incidents and those of my dream. Surely it was
phrenzy that dictated my deed. That a ruffian was
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 experienced; but now it was
my brother whom I was irresistibly persuaded to regard
as the contriver of that ill of which I had been fore



100


WIELAND, OR


warned. This persuasion did not extenuate my fears
or my danger. Why then did I again approach the
closet and withdraw the bolt? My resolution was instantly conceived, and executed without faultering.
The door was formed of light materials. The lock, of
j simple structure, easily forewent its hold. It opened into
the room, and commonly moved upon its hinges, after
being unfastened, without any effort of mine. This effort,
however, was bestowed on the present occasion. It was
my purpose to open it with quickness, but the exertion
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 surmount it. But now my mind was accessible to no conjecture but one. The door was hindered from opening
by human force. Surely, here was a new cause for affright.
This was confirmation proper to decide my conduct. Now
was all ground of hesitation taken away. What could
be supposed but that I deserted the chamber and the
house? that I at least endeavoured no longer to withdraw the door?
Have I not said that my actions were dictated by
phrenzy? My reason had forborne, for a time, to suggest
or to sway 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, was
superior to mine.
A casual observer might, perhaps, applaud the audaciousness of this conduct. Whence, but from an 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,




THE TRANSFORMATION


10I


had rooted itself in my mind. You will comprehend the
height of this infatuation, when I tell you that, finding all
my exertions vain, I betook myself to exclamations.
Surely I was utterly bereft of understanding.
Now had I arrived at the crisis of my fate. "I0! 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 the lock and removed to a
small distance from the door. I had scarcely uttered these
words when the door swung upon its hinges and displayed
to my view the interior of the closet. Whoever was within,
was shrouded in darkness. A few seconds passed without
interruption of the silence. I knew not what to expect or
to fear. My eyes would not stray from the recess. Presently, a deep sigh was heard. The quarter from which
it came heightened the eagerness of my gaze. Some 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 coming at length within the verge of the room, his
form was clearly distinguishable. I had prefigured to myself a very different personage. The face that presented
itself was the last that I should desire to meet at an hour,
and in a place like this. My wonder was stifled by my
fears. Assassins had lurked in this recess. Some divine
voice warned me of danger that at this moment awaited
me. I had spurned the intimation, and challenged my
adversary.
I recalled the mysterious countenance and dubious
character of Carwin. What motive but atrocious ones
could guide his steps hither? I was alone. My habit
suited the hour, and the place, and the warmth of the
season. All succour was remote. He had placed himself




102


WIELAND, OR


between me and the door. My frame shook with the
vehemence of my apprehensions.
Yet I was not wholly lost to myself: I vigilantly marked
his demeanour. His looks were grave, but not without perturbation. What species of inquietude it betrayed, the
light was not strong enough to enable me to discover. He
stood still; but his eyes wandered from one object to another. When these powerful organs were fixed upon me, I
shrunk into myself. At length, he broke silence. Earnestness, and not embarrassment, was in his tone. He advanced close to me while he spoke:
"What voice was that which lately addressed you?"
He paused for an answer; but observing my trepidation,
he resumed, with undiminished solemnity: "Be not
terrified. Whoever he was, he hast done you an important
service. I need not ask you if it were the voice of a
companion. That sound was beyond the compass of
human organs. The knowledge that enabled him to tell
you who was in the closet, was obtained by incomprehensible means.
" Lou 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
succour like this at hand you may safely defy me.
"He is my eternal foe; the baffler of my best concerted
schemes. Twice have you been saved by his accursed
interposition. But for him I should long ere now have
borne- away the spoils of your honor."
He looked at me with greater stedfastness than before.
I became every moment more anxious for my safety. It
was with difficulty I stammered out an entreaty that he
would instantly depart, or suffer me to do so. He paid no




THE TRANSFORMATION


103


regard to my request, but proceeded in a more impassioned manner.
"What is it you fear? Have I not told you, you are
safe? Has not one in whom you more reasonably place
trust assured you of it? Even if I execute my purpose,
what injury is done? Your prejudices will call it by that
name, but it merits it not.
"I was impelled by a sentiment that does you honor; a
sentiment, that would sanctify my deed; but, whatever
it be, you are safe. Be this chimera still worshipped; I
will do nothing to pollute it." There he stopped.
The accents and gestures of this man left me drained of.
all courage. Surely, on no other occasion should I have
been thus pusillanimous. My state I regarded as a hopeless one. I was wholly at the mercy of this being. Whichever way I turned my eyes, I saw no avenue by which I
might escape. The resources of my personal strength, my
ingenuity, and my eloquence, I estimated at nothing. The
dignity of virtue, and the force of truth, I had been accustomed to celebrate; and had frequently vaunted of the
conquests which I should make with their assistance.
I used to suppose that certain evils could never befall a
being in possession of a sound mind; that true virtue
supplies us with energy which vice can never resist; that
it was always in our power to obstruct, by his own death,
the designs of an enemy who aimed at less than our life.
How was it that a sentiment like despair had now invaded
me, and that I trusted to the protection of chance, or
to the pity of my persecutor?
His 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,




Io4


WIELAND, OR


when I reflected on the hour and the place, I was overpowered by horror and dejection.
He was silent, museful, and inattentive to my situation,
yet made no motion to depart. I was silent in my turn.
What could I say? I was confident that reason in this
contest would be impotent. I must owe my safety to his
own suggestions. Whatever purpose brought him hither,,
he had changed it. Why then did he remain? His 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 was 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 completely
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 it would be to stop the moon in her course than to
injure you. The power that protects 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 intelligence,
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 was still observant of
every gesture and look. The tranquil solemnity that had




THE TRANSFORMATION


IOS


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. "Why
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 from you forever. He that could plot against your
honor must expect from you and your friends persecution
and death. I must doom myself to endless 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
moon-light would 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 which 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 accent that was
uttered by Carwin was fresh in my remembrance. His
unwelcome approach, the recognition of his person, his
hasty departure, produced a complex impression on my
mind which no words can delineate. I strove to give a
slower motion to my thoughts, and to regulate a confusion which became painful; but my efforts were nugatory. I covered my eyes with my hand, and sat, I
know not how 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.




io6


WIELAND, OR


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 almost have suppressed
his breathing to screen himself from discovery, would
have noticed this signal, and I should have awakened only
to perish with affright, and to abhor myself. Could I
have remained unconscious of my danger? Could I have
tranquilly slept in the midst of so deadly a snare?
And who was he that threatened to destroy me? By
what 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 with him. Nothing could be discerned
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 moment,
upon his image. Yet has he not avowed himself my
enemy? Why should he be here if he had not meditated evil?
He confesses that this has been his second attempt.
What was the scene of his former conspiracy? Was it
not he whose whispers betrayed him? Am I deceived;
or was there not a faint resemblance between the voice
of this man and that which talked of grasping my throat,
and extinguishing my life in a moment? Then he had a
colleague in his crime; now he is alone. Then death was
the scope of his thoughts; now an injury unspeakably
more dreadful. How thankful should I be to the power
that has interposed to save me!
That power is invisible. It is subject to the cognizance of one of my senses. What are the means that
will inform me of what nature it is? He has set himself to counterwork the machinations of this man, who




THE TRANSFORMATION


I07


had menaced destruction to all that is dear to me, and
whose cunning had surmounted every human impediment.
There was none to rescue me from his grasp. My rashness even hastened the completion of his scheme, and precluded him from the benefits of deliberation. I had
robbed him of the power 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 my invisible protector. Else why that startling entreaty to refrain from opening the closet? By what
inexplicable infatuation was I compelled to proceed?
Yet my conduct was wise. Carwin, unable to comprehend my folly, ascribed my behaviour to my knowledge.
He conceived himself previously detected, and such detection being possible to flow only from my heavenly
friend, and his enemy, his fears acquired additional
strength.
He is apprized of the nature and intentions of this
being. Perhaps he is a human agent. Yet, on that supposition his achievements are incredible. Why should
I be selected as the object of his care; or, if a mere mortal,
should I not recognize someone, whom, benefits imparted
and received had prompted to love me? What were the
limits and duration of his guardianship? Was the genius
of my birth entrusted by divine benignity with this province? Are human faculties adequate to receive stronger
proofs of the existence of unfettered and beneficent 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. He assured me
that there only my safety was endangered. His assurance, as it now appears, was fallacious. Was there not




io8


WIELAND, OR


deceit in his admonition?  Was his compact really annulled? Some purpose was, perhaps, to be accomplished
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?
No one but myself was accustomed to visit it. Backward, it was hidden from distant view by the rock, and
in front, it was screened from all examination, 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 imaginations of the future! What a. gloomy reverse
had succeeded 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 tumultuously 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 disappointed on the small degree of surprize
which this narrative excited in him. He never explicitly declared his opinion as to the nature of those voices,
or decided whether they were real or visionary. He recommended no measures of caution or prevention.
But what measures were now to be taken? Was the




THE TRANSFORMATION


log


danger which threatened me at an end? Had I nothing
more to fear? I was lonely, and without means of defence.
I could not calculate the motives and regulate the footsteps of this person. What certainty was there that he
would not re-assume 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 servant, 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 retire to
my brother's, but was deterred by reflecting on the unseasonableness of the hour, on the alarm which my arrival,
and the account which I should be obliged to give, might
occasion, and on the danger to which I might expose myself in the way thither. I began, likewise, 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 views of a man like Carwin. 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 that they should be real."
Scarcely had I uttered these words, when my attention
was startled by the sound of footsteps. They denoted
someone stepping into the piazza in front of my house.
My new-born confidence was extinguished in a moment.
Carwin, I thought, had repented his departure, and was
hastily returning. The possibility that his return was
prompted by intentions consistent with my safety,




I IO


WIELAND, OR


found no place in my mind. Images of violation and murder assailed me anew, and the terrors which succeeded
almost incapacitated me from taking any measures for
my defence. It was an impulse of which I was scarcely
conscious, that made me fasten the lock and draw the
bolts of my chamber door. Having done this, I threw
myself on a seat; for I trembled to a degree which disabled me from standing, and my soul was so perfectly
absorbed in the act of listening, that almost the vital
motions were stopped.
The door below creaked on its hinges. It was not
again thrust to, but appeared to remain open. Footsteps entered, traversed the entry, and began to mount
the stairs. How I detested the folly of not pursuing
the man when he withdrew, and bolting after him the
outer door! Might he not conceive this omission to be
a proof that my angel had deserted me, and be thereby
fortified in guilt?
Every step on the stairs, which brought him nearer
to my chamber, added vigor to my desperation. The
evil with which I was menaced was to be at any rate
eluded. How little did I preconceive the conduct which,
in an exigence like this, I should be prone to adopt.
You will suppose that deliberation and despair would
have suggested the same course of action, and that I
should have, unhesitatingly, resorted to the best means
of personal defence within my power. A penknife lay
open upon my table. I remembered that it was there,
and seized it. For what purpose you will scarcely inquire. It will be immediately supposed that I meant
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
resolves. It was thus that in periods of calm I had




THE TRANSFORMATION


III


determined to act. No cowardice had been held by
me in greater abhorrence than that which prompted
an injured female to destroy, not her injurer ere the
injury was perpetrated, but herself when it was without remedy. Yet now this penknife appeared to me
of no other use than to baffle my assailant, and prevent
the crime by destroying myself. To deliberate at such
a time was impossible; 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, without augmenting, the certainty of evil. The consciousness that the
door was fast, now that nothing but that was interposed
between me and danger, was a source of some consolation. I cast my eye towards the window. This, likewise, was a new suggestion. If the door should give
way, it was my sudden resolution to throw myself from
the window. Its height from the ground, which was
covered beneath by a brick pavement, would insure
my destruction; but I thought not of that.
When opposite 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 surprize? 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. An hand was placed
upon the lock, and the latch pulled back. Did he imagine it possible that I should fail to secure the door?
A slight effort was made to push it open, as if all bolts
being withdrawn, a slight effort only was required.
I no sooner perceived this, than I moved swiftly towards the window. Carwin's frame might be said to
be all muscle. His strength and activity had appeared,




112


WIELAND, OR


in various instances, to be prodigious. A slight exertion of his force would demolish the door. Would 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. My senses were still
bound to this object. I gazed at the door in momentary 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 locked. Was it not wise 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 was presently more
strongly enforced, when I noticed footsteps withdrawing from the door. The blood once more flowed back
to my heart, and a dawn of exultation began to rise:
but my joy was short lived. Instead of descending the
stairs, he pasfed to the door of the opposite chamber,
opened it, and having entered, shut it after him with
a violence that shook the house.
How was I to interpret this circumstance? For what
end could he have entered this chamber? Did the
violence with which he closed the door testify the
depth of his vexation? This room was usually occupied
by Pleyel. Was Carwin aware 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




THE TRANSFORMATION


I13


my power to frustrate 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. How could my passage from
the house be accomplished without noises that might
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 listened 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?
Hence arose a new train of apprehensions. They merely
added to the turbulence and agony of my reflections.
Whatever evil impended over her, I had no power to
avert it. Seclusion and silence were the only means of
saving myself from the perils of this fatal night. What
solemn vows did I put up, that if I should once more
behold the light of day, I would never trust myself again
within the threshold of this dwelling!
Minute lingered after minute, but no token was given
that Carwin had returned to the passage. What, I
again asked, could detain him in this room? Was it
possible that he had returned, and glided, unperceived,
away? I was speedily aware of the difficulty that attended an enterprize like this; and yet, as if by that
means I were capable of gaining any information on
that head, I cast anxious looks from the window.
The object that first attracted my attention was an
human figure standing on the edge of the bank. Perhaps my penetration was assisted by my hopes. Be
that as it will, the figure of Carwin was clearly distin



I I4


WIELAND, OR


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 compatible
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 descended as if I were afraid that Carwin had been
still immured in Pleyel's chamber. The outer door
was a-jar. I shut it, with trembling eagerness, and drew
every bolt that appended to it. I then passed with
light and less cautious steps through the parlour, but was
surprized to discover that the kitchen door was secure.
I was compelled to acquiesce in the first conjecture
that Carwin had escaped through the entry.
My heart was now somewhat eased of the load of apprehension. 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 moon-light began already to fade before the
light of the day. The approach of morning was betokened
by the usual signals. I mused upon the events of this




THE TRANSFORMATION


1I5


night, and determined to take up my abode henceforth at
my brother's. Whether I should inform him of what had
happened was a question which seemed to demand some
consideration. My safety unquestionably 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 condition,
again recurred to me. I again ran over the possible causes
of his absence on the preceding day. My mind was attuned
to melancholy. I dwelt, with an obstinacy for which I
could not account, on the idea of his death. I painted to
myself his struggles with the billows, 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. These dreary images 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, relieved by this effusion, the slumber so much
wanted might have stolen on my senses, had there been no
new cause of alarm.
CHAPTER XI
I WAS aroused from this stupor by sounds that evidently
arose in the next chamber. Was it possible that I had
been mistaken in the figure which I had seen on the bank?
or had Carwin, by some inscrutable means, penetrated
once more into this chamber? The opposite door opened;
footsteps came forth, and the person, advancing to mine,
knocked.




ii6


WIELAND, OR


So unexpected an incident robbed me of all presence of
mind, and, starting up, I involuntarily exclaimed, "Who is
there?" An answer was immediately given. The voice,
to my inexpressible astonishment, was Pleyel's.
"It is I. Have you risen? If you have not, make haste;
I want three minutes conversation with you in the parlour-I will 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 was 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 so sparingly conferred upon
him! that his heart should be wrung with distress, and
his frame be exanimated with fear, though his safety be
encompassed with impregnable walls! What are the
bounds of human imbecility! He that warned me of the
presence of my foe refused the 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.
Why this unseasonable summons? and why this hasty
departure? Some tidings he, perhaps, bears of mysterious
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 meditation, 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 impulse was to
question him as to the cause. This impulse was supplanted




THE TRANSFORMATION


11I7


by some degree of confusion, flowing from a consciousness
that love had too large, and, as it might prove, a perceptible
share in creating this impulse. 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 an human countenance in which grief
was more legibly inscribed. He seemed struggling for
utterance; but his struggles being fruitless, he shook his
head and turned away from me.
My impatience would not allow me to be longer silent:
"What," said I, "for heaven's sake, my friend, what is the
matter?"
He started at the sound of my voice. His looks, for a
moment, became convulsed with an emotion very different
from grief. His accents were broken with rage.
"The matter-O wretch!-thus exquisitely fashionedon whom nature seemed to have exhausted all her graces;
with charms so awful and so pure! how art thou fallen!
From what height fallen! A ruin so complete-so unheard of! "
His words were again choked by emotion. Grief and
pity were again mingled in his features. He 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 cursed stain; snatch
thee from the jaws of this fiend; I would do it. Yet what
will avail my efforts? I have not arms with which to
contend with so consummate, so frightful a depravity.
" Evidence less than this would only have excited resentment and scorn. The wretch who should have breathed
a suspicion injurious to thy honor, would have been regarded without anger; not hatred or envy could have
prompted him; it would merely be an argument of madness.




ii8


WIELAND, OR


That my eyes, that my ears, should bear witness to thy
fall! By no other way could detestible conviction be
imparted.
"Why do I summon thee to this conference? Why expose myself to thy derision? Here admonition and entreaty are vain. Thou knowest him already, for a murderer
and thief. I had thought to have been the first to disclose to thee his infamy; to have warned thee of the pit
to which thou art hastening; but thy eyes are open in
vain. 0 foul and insupportable disgrace! ->
"There is but one path. I know you will disappear together. In thy ruin, how will the felicity and honor 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 paramour. This scene will be
again polluted by a midnight assignation. Inform him
of his danger; 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 wilt thou not stay behind?-But shame upon my
weakness. I know not what I would 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 embitter
our woes? And yet, 0 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 wretch to
whom thou hast sold thy honor. But what is this? Is
not thy effrontery impenetrable, and thy heart thoroughly
cankered?  0 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 which led to my
brother's. I had no power to prevent his going? or tQ




THE TRANSFORMATION                119
recall, or to follow him. The accents I had heard were
calculated to confound and bewilder. I looked around
me to assure myself that the scene was real. I moved
that I might banish the doubt that I was awake. Such enormous imputations from the mouth of Pleyel! To be
stigmatized with the names of wanton and profligate!
To be charged with the sacrifice of honor! with midnight
meetings with a wretch known to be a murderer and thief!
with an intention to fly in his company!
What I had heard was surely the dictate of phrenzy,
or it was built upon some fatal, some incomprehensible
mistake. After the horrors of the night; after undergoing perils so imminent from this man, to be summoned
to an interview like this; 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 baseness 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
conclusions? Could the long series of my actions and
sentiments 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 whom, by some means, he had discovered to be an assassin and robber; that my honor
had been assailed, not by blandishments, but by violence?
He has judged me without hearing. He has drawn from




I20


WIELAND, OR


dubious appearances, conclusions the most improbable
and unjust. He has loaded me with all outrageous epithets. He 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 conduct
was sober and deliberate, I can never forgive an outrage so unmanly, and so gross.
These thoughts gradually gave place to others. Pleyel
was possessed by some momentary phrenzy: appearances had led him into palpable errors. Whence could
his sagacity have contracted this blindness? Was it not
love? Previously assured of my affection for Carwin,
distracted with grief and jealousy and impelled hither
at that late hour by some unknown instigation, his
imagination transformed shadows into monsters, and
plunged him into these deplorable errors.
This idea was not unattended with consolation. My
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 would allow admission to no other thoughts. Surprize is an emotion
that enfeebles, not invigorates. All my meditations were
accompanied with wonder. I rambled with vagueness,
or clung to one image with an obstinacy which 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 myself 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 injustice, and hasten to atone for it?
Did it not become my character to testify resentment for
language and treatment so opprobrious? Wrapt up in the




THE TRANSFORMATION


112I


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, when the
morning was somewhat advanced, I took the way to his
house. My sister was engaged in her customary occupations. As soon as I appeared, she remarked a change
in my looks. I was not willing to alarm her by the information which I had to communicate. Her health was
in that condition which rendered a disastrous tale particularly unsuitable. I forbore a direct answer to her
inquiries, and inquired, in my turn, for Wieland.
"Why," said she, "I suspect something mysterious and
unpleasant has happened this morning. Scarcely had
we risen when Pleyel dropped among us. What could
have prompted him to make us so early and so unsea,
sonable a visit I cannot tell. To judge from the disorder
of his dress, and his countenance, something of an
extraordinary nature has occurred. He permitted me
merely to know that he had slept none, nor even undressed,
during the past night. He took your brother to walk
with him. Some topic must have deeply engaged them,
for Wieland did not return till the breakfast hour was
passed, and returned alone. His 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 immediately after breakfast
went out again. He would not inform me whither he




I22


WIELAND, OR


was going, but mentioned that he probably might not
return before night."
I was equally astonished and alarmed by this information. Pleyel had told his tale to my brother, and had,
by a plausible and exaggerated picture, instilled into
him unfavorable 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 likewise to believe that I entertained an indiscreet,
though not dishonorable, affection for Carwin. Such were
the conjectures rapidly formed. I was inexpressibly
anxious to change them into certainty. For this end an
interview with my brother was desirable. He 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 with
the cause. There were many reasons persuading me to
silence: at least, till I had seen my brother, it would be
an act of inexcusable temerity to unfold what had lately
passed. No other expedient for eluding her importunities
occurred to me, but that of returning to my own house.
I recollected my determination to become a tenant of
this roof. I mentioned it to her. She joyfully acceded
to this proposal, and suffered me, with less reluctance,
to depart, when I told her that it was with a view to collect and send to my new dwelling what articles would
be immediately useful to me.
Once more I returned to the house which had been
the scene of so much turbulence and danger. I was at
no great distance from it when I observed my brother




THE TRANSFORMATION


123


coming out. On seeing me he stopped, and after ascertaining, as it seemed, which way I was 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.
His brow was by no means expressive of those vehement emotions with which Pleyel had been agitated.
I drew a favorable omen from this circumstance. Without 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 important and disagreeable affair. Before his interview with
you he spent a few minutes with me. These minutes
he employed in upbraiding me for crimes and intentions
with which I am by no means chargeable. I believe him
to have taken up his opinions on very insufficient grounds.
His behaviour was in the highest degree precipitate and
unjust, and, until I receive some atonement, I shall
treat him, in my turn, with that contempt which he
justly merits: meanwhile 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
myself to remove. Has he made me the subject of this
morning's conversation?"
My brother's countenance testified no surprize at
my address. The benignity of his looks were no wise
diminished.
"It is true," said he, "your conduct was the subject
of our discourse. I am your friend, as well as your
brother. There is no human being whom I love with more
tenderness, and whose welfare is nearer my heart. Judge
then with what emotions I listened to Pleyel's story.
I expect and desire you to vindicate yourself from aspersions so foul, if vindication be possible."




124


WIELAND, OR


The tone with which he uttered the last words affected
me deeply. "If vindication be possible!" repeated I.
"From what you know, do you deem a formal vindication necessary? Can you harbour for a moment the
belief of my guilt?"
He shook his head with an air of acute anguish. "I
have struggled," said he, "to dismiss that belief. You
speak 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 withheld
from me the facts that generated his suspicions. Events
took place last night of which some of the circumstances
were 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 anything in his story inconsistent with mine, his story is false."
I then proceeded to a circumstantial relation of the
incidents of the last night. Wieland listened with deep
attention. Having finished, "This," continued I, "is
the truth; you see in what circumstances an interview took place between Carwin and me. He remained
for hours in my closet, and for some minutes in my
chamber. He departed without haste or interruption.
If Pleyel marked him as he left the house, and it is not




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125


impossible that he did, inferences injurious to my character might suggest themselves to him. In admitting
them, he gave proofs of less discernment and less candor than I once ascribed to him."
"His proofs," said Wieland, after a considerable
pause, "are different. That he should be deceived, is
not possible. That he himself is not the deceiver, could
not be believed, if his testimony were not inconsistent
with yours; but the doubts which I entertained are
now removed. Your tale, some 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 known you from childhood, because a thousand
instances have attested your veracity, and because
nothing less than my own hearing and vision would
convince me, in opposition to her own assertions, 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 what are the proofs?"
He replied-" Pleyel informed me that, in going to
your house, his attention was 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 was justified in concluding you
to be, indeed, one of the most profligate of women.
Hence, his accusations of you, and his efforts to obtain
my concurrence to a plan by which an eternal separation should be brought about between my sister and
this man."
I made Wieland repeat this recital. Here, indeed,




I26


WIELAND, OR


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 counterwork 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 dishonor. This is the midnight assignation to which he
alluded. Thus is the silence he maintained when attempting to open the door of my chamber, accounted
for. He supposed me absent, and meant, perhaps, had
my apartment been accessible, to leave in it some accusing memorial.
Pleyel was no longer equally culpable. The sincerity
of his anquish, the depth of his despair, I remembered
with some tendencies to gratitude. Yet was he not
precipitate? Was 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 was adopted
in preference 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 outweight the testimony of his senses? I had no witnesses to prove my
existence in another place. The real events of that
night are marvellous. Few, to whom they should be
related, would scruple to discredit them.  Pleyel is
skeptical in a transcendent degree. I cannot summon
Carwin to my bar, and make him the attestor of my
innocence, and the accuser of himself.
My brother saw and comprehended my distress.




THE TRANSFORMATION


I27


He was unacquainted, however, with the full extent
of it. He 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 disentagle the maze. He did not question the influence
of my eloquence, if I thought proper to exert it. Why
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 chuse to seek an interview," continued Wieland, "you must make haste, for Pleyel informed me of
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 seat;
but now, starting on my feet, I exclaimed, "Good
heavens! what is it you say? a journey? whither?
when?"
"I cannot say whither. It is a sudden resolution I
believe. I did not hear of it till this morning. He promises 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 was blasted by the discovery of last night. My preference of another, and
my unworthiness 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




i28


WIELAND, OR


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 own hands, I would by no means consent
to endure.
I remembered that this evil was still preventable;
that this fatal journey it was still in my power to procrastinate, 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. My
brother befriended my impatience, and readily consented to furnish me with a chaise and servant to attend
me. My purpose was to go immediately to Pleyel's
farm, where his engagements 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 carried 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 moment, and on the materials which
Pleyel himself should furnish me. When I reflected on the




THE TRANSFORMATION


I129


nature of the accusation, I burned with disdain. Would
not truth, and the consciousness of innocence, render me
triumphant? 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 insects
is not wider than that which severs the polluted from the
chaste among women. 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 perpetual
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 murderer,
and the paramour of a thief!
His opinion was not destitute of evidence: yet what
proofs could reasonably avail to establish an opinion like
this? If the sentiments corresponded not with 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 mimicry might still more plausibly have been employed to
explain the scene. Alas! it is the fate of Clara Wieland to
fall into the hands of a precipitate and inexorable 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 was 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 wiles are exhausted; thy
cunning will discover innumerable avenues to the accomplishment of thy malignant purpose.
Why should I enter the lists against thee? Would to




130


WIELAND, OR


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 ductility and
boundless compass, actuated by an intelligence gifted M ith
infinite endowments, and comprehending all knowledge,
I perceive that my doom is fixed. What obstacle will be
able to divert thy zeal or repel thy efforts? That being
who has hitherto protected me has borne testimony to the
formidableness of thy attempts, since nothing less than
supernatural interference could check thy career.
Musing on these thoughts, I arrived, toward the close of
the day, at Pleyel's house. A month before, I had traversed the same path; but how different were my sensations!
Now I was seeking the presence of one who regarded me as
the most degenerate of human kind. I was to plead the
cause of my innocence, against witnesses the most explicit
and unerring, of those which support the fabric of human
knowledge. The nearer I approached the crisis, the more
did my confidence decay. When the chaise stopped at the
door, my strength refused to support me, and I threw
myself into the arms of an ancient female domestic. I
had not courage to inquire whether her master was at
home. I was tormented with fears that the projected
journey was already undertaken. These fears were 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




THE TRANSFORMATION


I3 l


standing with his back toward 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 comprehended the scene. The
image which he held before him, and by which his attention 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
undertaking 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 overspread his countenance, gave sudden way to an attitude
and look of the most vehement astonishment. Perceiving
me unable to uphold myself, he stepped toward 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, was 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 interpeted. This visit, and these tears, were tokens of my
penitence. The wretch whom he had stigmatized as
incurably and obdurately wicked, now shewed herself
susceptible of remorse, and had come to confess her guilt.
This persuasion had no tendency to comfort me. It
only shewed me, with new evidence, the difficulty of the
task which I had assigned myself. We were 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. He placed himself by my side, and appeared




132


WIELAND, OR


to wait with impatience and anxiety for some beginning
of the conversation. What could I.say? If my mind had
suggested any thing suitable to the occasion, my utterance
was suffocated by tears.
Frequently he attempted to speak, but seemed deterred
by some degree of uncertainty as to the true nature of the
scene. At length, in faultering accents, he spoke:
"My 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. What
heart is forever exempt from the goadings of compunction
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 were not, in my apprehension, fraught with
the sublimities 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
powers of invention and reasoning. I was rash in my
invectives. I will not, but with life, relinquish all hopes of
you. I will shut out every proof that would tell me that
your heart is incurably diseased.
"You come to restore me once more to happiness; to
convince me that you have torn her mask from vice, and
feel nothing but abhorrence for the part you have hitherto
acted."
At these words my equanimity forsook me. For a
moment I forgot the evidence from which Pleyel's opinions
were derived, the benevolence of his remonstrances, and
the grief which his accents bespoke; I was filled with
indignation and horror at charges so black; I shrunk back




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133


and darted at him a look of disdain and anger. My passion
supplied me with words.
"What detestable infatuation was it that led me hither!
Why do I patiently endure these horrible insults! My offences exist only in your own distempered imagination:
you are leagued with the traitor who assailed my life: you
have vowed the destruction of my peace and honor. I
deserve infamy for listening to calumnies so base! "
These words were heard by Pleyel without visible resentment. His 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. "0!" I exclaimed, 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 without evidence, 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 me no security;
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 recognized 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 my former life had attested, denoting a




134


WIELAND, OR


mind polluted by grovelling vices, and entering into compact with that of a thief and a murderer. The nature of
these sentiments did not enable you to detect the cheat,
did not suggest to you the possibility that my voice had
been counterfeited by another.
"You were 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. My innocence would not now have stood
in need of vindication, if this conduct had been pursued.
That you did not pursue it, your present thoughts incontestibly prove. Yet this conduct might surely have
been expected 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 which convulsed my bosom would
not suffer me to proceed.
Pleyel was for a moment affected. He looked at me
with some expression of doubt; but this quickly gave
place to a mournful solemnity. He fixed his eyes on the
floor as in reverie, and spoke:
"Two 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? What is she that is
now before me? Shall every hour supply me with new
proofs of a wickedness beyond example? Already I
deem her the most abandoned and detestable of human
creatures. Her coming and her tears imparted a gleam
of hope, but that gleam has vanished."
He now fixed his eyes upon me, and every muscle in
his face trembled. His tone was hollow and terrible"Thou knowest that I was a witness of your interview,
yet thou comest hither to upbraid me for injustice!




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135


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 maker, if he repent not of his workmanship,
and send not his vengeance to exterminate thee, ere the
measure of thy days be full. Surely nothing in the shape
of man can vie with thee!
"But I thought I had stifled this fury. I am not constituted thy judge. My office is to pity and amend, and
not to punish and revile. I deemed myself exempt from
all tempestuous passions. I had almost persuaded myself 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 sympathy. I ceased to weep. I was motionless and speechless 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 summons he hastily returned. He beheld me
wild, pale, gasping for breath, and my head already sinking 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, with two female
servants 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




I36


WIELAND, OR


anxiety. As soon as he perceived that my senses were
returned to me, he clasped his hands, and exclaimed,
"God be thanked! you are once more alive. I had almost despaired of your recovery. I fear I have been
precipitate and unjust. My senses must have been the
victims of some inexplicable and momentary phrenzy.
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 tenderness, besought me to be composed, and then left me to
the care of the women.
CHAPTER XIII
HERE was wrought a surprising change in my friend.
What was it that had shaken conviction so firm? Had
anything 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 dismay.
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 solemnity.
I told him that I was preparing to return to my brother's;
that I had come hither to vindicate my innocence from the




THE TRANSFORMATION


137


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 suggestions 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 myself 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 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 consumed.
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



138


3WIELAND, OR


versation and deportment originally made upon me?
We parted in childhood; but our intercourse, by letter,
was copious and uninterrupted. How fondly did I anticipate 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!
"Here, said I, is a being, after whom sages may model
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 questioned 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 argumentation and glowing imagery; and been
forced to acknowledge, that all delights were meagre
and contemptible, compared with those connected with
the 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
arrangements you facilitate the performance of the
most arduous and complicated duties; what daily accessions of strength your judicious discipline bestowed
upon your memory; what correctness and abundance
of knowledge was daily experienced by your unwearied
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 will
display at a mature age?




THE TRANSFORMATION


139


"You know not the accuracy of my observation. I
was desirous that others should profit by an example
so rare. I therefore noted down, in writing, every particular of your conduct. I was anxious to benefit by an
opportunity so seldom afforded us. I laboured not to
omit the slightest shade, or the most petty line in your
portrait. Here there was 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
display of a scene like this could be chargeable with
redundancy or superfluity. Even the colour of a shoe,
the knot of a ribband, 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 know that the
absoluteness of a model, when supplied by invention,
diminishes its salutary influence, since it is useless, we
think, to strive after that which we 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,
was by no means unreasonable. I had another and more
interesting object in view. One existed who claimed
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 countenance, her actions, by this pattern.




140


WIELAND, OR


" 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
knowledge of your character informed me that this was
least likely to befall you.
"You were powerfully affected by his first appearance; you were bewitched by his countenance and his
tones; your description was ardent and pathetic: I
listened to you with some emotions of surprize. The
portrait you drew in his absence, and the intensity with
which you mused upon it, were new and unexpected
incidents. 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 entertained for your safety. He that gifted me with perception 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 deportment of this man with ceaseless vigilance; that I watched your words and your looks when




4


THE TRANSFORMATION                141
he was present; and that I extracted cause for the deepest inquietudes, from every token which you gave of
having put your happiness into this man's keeping?
"I was cautious 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 were eminently just. Had not their rectitude and their firmness been attested by your treatment 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 unrivalled capacity, insinuation,
and eloquence of this man. I have disguised, but could
never stifle, the conviction 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 ambiguity which you were the first
to remark; and the cloud which obscured his character;
and on the suspicious nature of that concealment which
he studied; and concluded you to be safe. I denied the
obvious construction to appearances. I referred your
conduct to some principle which had not been hitherto
disclosed, but which was reconcileable with those already
known.
"I was not suffered to remain long in this suspence.
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 from the outside, and on inquiring of
Judith, was informed that you were writing. As your
kinsman and friend, and fellow-lodger, I thought I had
a right to be familiar. You were in your chamber, but




142


WIELAND, OR


your employment and the time were such as to make
it no infraction of decorum to follow you thither. The
spirit of mischievous gaiety 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
recede. How cautiously should we guard against the
first inroads of temptation! I knew that to pry into your
papers was criminal; but I reflected that no sentiment 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. My 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 slightest obstacle would have repelled 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 summer-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 themselves to my reflections anew.
"To what scene, or what interview, Ioasked, did you
allude? Your disappearance on a former evening, my




THE TRANSFORMATION


143


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 surprize. Could this be the summerhouse 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 countenance
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 this mysterious but formidable
character; a clandestine interview, and one which you
afterward endeavoured with so much solicitude to conceal! It was a fearful and portentous occurrence. I could
not measure his power, 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
man's character and views seemed to be, in the first place,
necessary. Had he openly preferred his suit to you, we
should have been impowered 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
reflect anew upon the insufficiency of those grounds on
which my suspicions had been built, and almost to condemn myself for harbouring them.
"Though it was mere conjecture that the interview




144


WIELAND, OR


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 situation
might be such as to justify the secrecy which you maintained. In neither case did my wildest reveries suggest
to me, that your honor had been forfeited.
"I could not talk with you on this subject. If the imputation was false, its atrociousness would have justly
drawn upon me your resentment, and I must have explained by what facts it had been suggested. If it were
true, no benefit would follow from the mention of it. You
had chosen to conceal it for some reasons, and whether
these reasons were true or false, it was proper to discover
and remove them in the first place. Finally, I acquiesced
in the least painful supposition, trammelled as it was with
perplexities, that Carwin was upright, and that, if the
reasons of your silence were known, they would be found
to be just.
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 doubt, 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 were,
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



THE TRANSFORMATION


145


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. Importunity might be appeased, or imposture effected by
fallacious representations. To the rest of the world he was
unknown. I had often made him the subject of discourse;
but a glimpse of his figure in the street was the sum of
their knowledge who knew most. None had ever seen him
before, and received as new, the information which my
intercourse with him in Valencia, and my present intercourse, enabled me to give.
"Wieland was your brother. If he had really made you
the object of his courtship, was not a brother authorized to
interfere and demand from him the confession of his views?
Yet what were the grounds on which I had reared this supposition? Would they justify a measure like this? Surely
not.
"In the course of my restless meditations, it occurred
to me, at length, that my duty required me 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? When acquainted with the motive which produced it, it would not only exempt me from censure, but
entitle me to gratitude.
"Yesterday had been selected for the rehearsal of the
newly-imported tragedy. I promised to be present. The




I46


WIELAND, OR


state of my thoughts but little qualified me for a performer
or auditor in such a scene; but I reflected that, after it was
finished, I should return home with you, and should then
enjoy an opportunity of discoursing with you fully on this
topic. My resolution was not formed without a remnant
of doubt, as to its propriety. When 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 was
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 Mrs. 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 vhich leads to her house, and dismounted
at her door. I entered the parlour and threw myself in a
chair. I saw and inquired for no one. My whole frame
was overpowered by dreary and comfortless sensations.
One idea possessed me wholly; the inexpressible importance
of unveiling the designs and character of Carwin, and the
utter improbability that this ever would be effected.
Some instinct induced me to lay my hand upon a newspaper. I had perused all the general intelligence it contained in the morning, and at the same spot. The act was
rather mechanical than voluntary.
"I threw a languid glance at the first column that presented 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




THE TRANSFORMATION


I47


heaven! how every fibre of my frame tingled when I proceeded to read that the name of the criminal was Francis
Carwin.
" The descriptions of his person and address were minute.
His stature, hair, complexion, the extraordinary position
and arrangement of his features, his aukward and disproportionate form, his gesture and gait, corresponded perfectly with those of our mysterious visitant. He had been
found guilty in two indictments. One for the murder of
the Lady Jane Conway, and the other for a robbery committed on the person of the honorable Mr. Ludloe.
"I repeatedly perused this passage. The ideas which
flowed in upon my mind, affected me like an instant transition from death to life. The purpose dearest to my heart
was thus effected, at a time and by means the least of all
others within 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 understanding the most
luminous certainty. The name, visage, and deportment,
were the same. Between the time of his escape, and his
appearance among 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, and 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 conference with you. For
a time, no other image made its way to my understanding.
At length, it occurred to me, that though the information
I possessed was, in one sense, sufficient, yet if more could
be obtained, more was desirable. This passage was
copied from a British paper; part of it only, perhaps,




148


WIELAND, OR


was transcribed. The printer was in possession of the
original.
"Toward his house I immediately turned my horse's
head. He produced the paper, but I found nothing more
than had already been seen. While busy in perusing it,
the printer stood by my side. He noticed the object of
which I was in search. "Aye," said he, "that is a strange
affair. I should never have met with it, had not Mr.
Hallet sent to me the paper, with a particular request to
republish that advertisement."
"Mr. Hallet! What reasons could he have for making
this request? Had the paper sent to him been accompanied
by any information respecting the convict? Had he
personal or extraordinary reasons for desiring its republication? This was 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. Hence a confidence arose,
which has since been kept alive by occasional letters. He
had lately received a letter from him, enclosing the newspaper from which this extract had been made. He put it
into my hands, and pointed out the passages which 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 general terms,
as the most incomprehensible and formidable among
men; as engaged in schemes, reasonably suspected 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 some unknown but




THE TRANSFORMATION


149


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. Hallet expressed
some surprize at the curiosity which was manifested by
me on this occasion. I was too much absorbed by the
ideas suggested by this letter, to pay attention to his
remarks. I shuddered with the apprehension of the evil
to which our indiscreet familiarity with this man had
probably exposed us. I burnt with impatience to see you,
and to do what in me lay to avert the calamity which
threatened us. It was already five o'clock. Night was
hastening, and there was no time to be lost. On leaving
Mr. Hallet's house, who should meet me in the street, but
Bertrand, the servant whom I left in Germany? His
appearance 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 what reasons I have for anxiety respecting scenes
with which this man was conversant. Carwin was for a
moment forgotten. In answer to my vehement inquiries,
Bertrand produced a copious packet. I shall not at
present mention its contents, nor the measures which they
obliged me to adopt. I bestowed a brief perusal on these
papers, and having given some directions to Bertrand,
resumed my purpose with regard to you. My horse I was
obliged to resign to my servant, he being charged with a
commission that required speed. The clock had struck
ten, and Mettingen was five miles distant. I was to
journey thither on foot. These circumstances only added
to my expedition.
"As I passed swiftly along, I reviewed all the incidents




ISO


WIELAND, OR


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 introduction. I am unable to explain their origin and mutual
dependence; but I do not, on that account, believe them
to have a supernatural origin. Is not this man the agent?
Some of them seem to be propitious; but what should I
think of those threats of assassination with which you were
lately alarmed? Bloodshed is the trade, and horror is the
element of this man. The process by which the sympathies
of nature are extinguished in our hearts, by which evil is
made our good, and by which we are made susceptible of
no activity but in the infliction, and no joy but in the
spectacle of woes, is an obvious process. As to an alliance
with evil geniuses, the power and the malice of daemons
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 success 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 honor.
"I took, as usual, the path through your brother's
ground. I ranged with celerity and silence along the bank.
I approached the fence, with divides Wieland'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 which 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




THE TRANSFORMATION


I S


opposite side, I paused to survey the scene. Leavres dropping with dew, 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
forward. You were probably at rest. How should I
communicate without alarming you, the intelligence of
my arrival? An immediate interview was to be procured.
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 chamber windows, 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 now it was somewhat in a louder key. It
was laughter; and unquestionably produced by a female
voice. That voice was familiar to my senses. It was
yours.
"Whence it came, I was at first at a loss to conjecture;
but this uncertainty vanished when it was heard the third
time. I threw back my eyes towards the recess. Every
other organ and limb was useless to me. I did not reason
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 an
instant, as it were, my heart was invaded with cold, and
the pulses of life at a stand.
"Why should I go further? 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?




152


WIELAND, OR


"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 an halfformed and tempestuous resolution to break in upon your
interview, and strike you dead with my upbraiding.
"I approached with the utmost caution. When 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 allowed me to descend into a
cavity beside the building without being detected. Thus
to lie in wait could only be justified by the momentousness
of the occasion."
Here Pleyel paused in his narrative, and fixed his eyes
upon me. Situated as I was, my horror and astonishment
at this tale gave way to compassion for the anguish which
the countenance of my friend betrayed. I reflected on his
force of understanding. I reflected on the powers of my
enemy. I could easily divine the substance of the conversation that was overheard. Carwin had constructed
his plot in a manner suited to the characters of those whom
he had selected for his victims. I saw that the convictions
of Pleyel were immutable. I forbore to struggle against
the storm, because I saw that all struggles would be
fruitless. I was calm; but my calmness was the torpor
of despair, and not the tranquillity of fortitude. It was
calmness invincible by any thing that his grief and his
fury could suggest to Pleyel. He resumed"Woman! 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 what
has been already said?"




THE TRANSFORMATION


153


I bowed my head. "Go on," said I. "I make not this
request in the hope of undeceiving you. I shall no longer
contend with my own 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 will not part without it."
Why, on hearing these words, did Pleyel hesitate? Did
some unlooked-for doubt insinuate itself into his mind?
Was his belief suddenly shaken by my looks, or my words,
or by some newly recollected circumstance? Whencesoever it arose, it could not endure the test of deliberation.
In a few minutes the flame of resentment was again
lighted up in his bosom. He proceeded with his accustomed vehemence"I hate myself for this folly. I can find no apology for
this tale. Yet I am irresistibly impelled 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 tranquil air, and the spectacle of her obduracy 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 dishonor, to
the circumstances of the first interview that took place
between 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 admitting him"Great God! Thou witnessedst the agonies that tore
my bosom at that moment! Thou witnessedst my efforts
to repel the testimony of my ears! It was in vain that you
dwelt upon the confusion which my unlooked-for summons
excited in you; the tardiness with which a suitable excuse




I54


WIELAND, OR


occurred to you; your resentment that my impertinent
intrusion had put an end to that charming interview: A
disappointment for which you endeavoured to compensate
yourself, by the frequency and duration of subsequent
meetings.
"In vain you dwelt upon incidents of which you only
could be conscious; incidents that occurred on occasions
on which none beside your own 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 away the power
to withhold my faith.
"My sight was of no use to me. Beneath so thick an
umbrage, the darkness was intense. Hearing was the only
avenue to information, which the circumstances allowed
to be open. I was couched within three feet of you. Why
should I approach nearer? I could not contend 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 endeavoured 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 confirmations 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 vows 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. What I think, and what I feel,
is of no importance in your eyes. May the duty which




THE TRANSFORMATION


I55


I owe myself enable me to forget your existence. In a
few minutes I go hence. Be the maker of your fortune,
and may adversity instruct you in that wisdom, which
education was unable to impart to you!"
Those were the last words which Pleyel uttered. He
left the room, and my new emotions enabled me to
witness his departure without any apparent loss of
composure. 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 was declining, and perceived the propriety of leaving this house.
I placed myself again in the chaise, and returned slowly
towards the city.
CHAPTER XV
BEFORE I reached the city it was dusk. It was my
purpose to spend the night at Mettingen. I was not
solicitous, as long as I was attended by a faithful servant,
to be there at an early hour. My exhausted strength
required me to take some refreshment. With this in
view, and in order to pay respect to one whose affection
for me was truly maternal, I stopped at Mrs. Baynton's. She was absent from 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,




WIELAND, OR


you will not, I fear, 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
confidence. I cannot help it. My folly and rashness
has left me no other resource. I will be at your door by
that hour. If you chuse 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
my fame; detected lurking in my chamber, and avowing
designs the most flagitious and dreadful, now solicits
me to grant him a midnight interview! To admit him
alone into my presence! Could he make this request
with 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 earnestness. Had the misconduct to which
he alludes been a slight incivility, and the interview
requested to take place in the midst of my friends, there
would have been no extravagance in the tenor of this
letter; but, as it was, the writer had surely been bereft
of -his reason.
I perused this epistle frequently. The request it contained might be called audacious or stupid, if it had been
made by a different person; but from Carwin, who could
not be unaware of the effect which it must naturally pro



THE TRANSFORMATION


157


duce, and of the manner in which it would unavoidably
be treated, it was perfectly inexplicable. He must have
counted on the success of some plot, in order to extort
my assent. None of those motives by which I am usually
governed would ever have persuaded me to meet any
one of his sex, at the time and place which he had prescribed. Much less would I consent to a meeting with a
man, tainted with the most detestable crimes, and by
whose arts my own safety had been so imminently endangered, and my happiness irretrievably destroyed. I
shuddered at the idea that such a meeting was possible.
I felt some reluctance to approach a spot which he still
visited and haunted.
Such were the ideas which first suggested themselves
on the perusal of the letter. Meanwhile, I resumed my
journey. My thoughts still dwelt upon the same topic.
Gradually from ruminating on this epistle, I reverted
to my interview with Pleyel. I recalled the particulars
of the dialogue to which he had been an' auditor. My
heart sunk anew on viewing the inextricable complexity
of this deception, and the inauspicious concurrence of
events, which tended to confirm him in his error. When
he approached my chamber door, my terror kept me
mute. He put his ear, perhaps, to the crevice, but it
caught the sound of nothing human. Had I called, or
made any token that denoted some one to be within,
words would have ensued; and as omnipresence was
impossible, this discovery, and the artless narrative of
what had just passed, would have saved me from his
murderous invectives. He 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




I58


WIELAND, OR


were easily distinguished. Now he thought was the
guilty interview at an end. In what other way was it
possible for him to construe these signals?
How fallacious and precipitate was my decision!
Carwin's plot owed its success to a coincidence of events
scarcely credible. The balance was swayed from its
equipoise by a hair. Had I even begun the conversation with an account of what befel 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
innocence would have thus been irresistibly demonstrated.
The first impulse which flowed from these ideas was
to return upon my steps, and demand once more an
interview; 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. He solicits
an interview which he promises shall end in the disclosure of something momentous to my happiness. What
can he say which 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 remorse will some time overbear him.
Why may not this event have already taken place?
Why should I refuse to see him?
This idea was present, as it were, for a moment. I




THE TRANSFORMATION


I59


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 predicted 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 determined me to seek his presence. My 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
evidence 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 was I not able to repel. On the former occasion
my courage, it is true, had failed at the imminent approach of danger; but then I had not enjoyed opportunities of deliberation; I had foreseen nothing; I was
sunk into imbecility by my previous thoughts; I had been
the victim of recent disappointments and anticipated ills:
Witness my infatuation in opening the closet in opposition to divine injunctions.




i6o


WIELAND, OR


Now, perhaps, my courage was the offspring of a no
less erring principle. Pleyel was for ever lost to me.
I strove in vain to assume his person, and suppress my
resentment; I strove in vain to believe in the assuaging
influence of time, to look forward to the birth-day of new
hopes, and the re-exaltation of that luminary, of whose
effulgencies I had so long and so liberally partaken.
What had I to suffer worse than was already inflicted?
Was not Carwin my foe? I owed my untimely 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? Why should I suppose him
impregnable to argument? Have I not reason on my
side, and the power of imparting conviction? Cannot
he be made to see the justice of unravelling the maze
in which Pleyel is bewildered?
He may, at least, be accessible to fear. Has he nothing to fear from the rage of an injured woman?  But
suppose him inaccessible to such inducements; suppose
him to persist in all his flagitious purposes; are not the
means of defence and resistance in my power?
In the progress of such thoughts, was the resolution
at last formed. I hoped that the interview was 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 emblem of the state of
my mind. A torment was awakened in my bosom,
which I foresaw would end only when this interview
was past, and its consequences fully experienced. Hence
my impatience for the arrival of the hour which had
been prescribed by Carwin.




THE TRANSFORMATION


I6I


Meanwhile, my meditations were tumultuously active.
New impediments to the execution of the scheme were
speedily suggested. I had apprized Catharine of my
intention to spend this and many future nights with
her. Her 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 shew this letter to Wieland, and submit myself to his direction? But I knew
in what way he would decide. He would fervently
dissuade me from going. Nay, would he not do more?
He was apprized of the offences of Carwin, and of the
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? Wieland 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 imputed to me. This scheme, therefore, I unhesitatingly
rejected. The views with which I should return to my own
house, it would therefore be necessary to conceal. Yet
some pretext must be invented. I had never been initiated into the trade of lying. Yet what but falsehood was
a deliberate suppression of the truth? To deceive by
silence or by words is the same.
Yet what would a lie avail me? What pretext would
justify this change in my plan? Would it not tend to confirm the imputations of Pleyel? That I should voluntarily




~i62,


iWIELAND, OR


return to an house in which honor and life had so lately
been endangered, could be explained in no way favorable
to my integrity.
These reflections, if they did not change, at least suspended my decision. In this state of uncertainty I alighted
at the hut. We 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 double row of walnuts. Along this
path I proceeded alone. I entered the parlour, in which
was a light just expiring in the socket. There was 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. What had become of the family? They
were usually retired an hour before this; but the unextinguished taper, and the unbarred door were indications that they had not retired. I again returned to the
hall, and passed from one room to another, but still encountered not a human being.
I imagined that, perhaps, the lapse of a few minutes
would explain these appearances. Meanwhile I reflected
that the preconcerted hour had arrived. Carwin was
perhaps waiting my approach. Should I immediately
retire to my own house, no one would be apprized 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




THE TRANSFORMATION


I63


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 surprized at my arrival, and told me with
how much impatience and anxiety my brother and his
wife had waited my coming. They were fearful that some
mishap had befallen me, and had remained up longer than
the usual period. Notwithstanding the lateness 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 their
personal safety. I was far from being perfectly at ease on
that head, but entertained no distinct conception of the
danger that impended over them. Perhaps to beguile the
moments of my long protracted stay, they had gone to
walk upon the bank. The atmosphere, though illuminated
only by the star-light, was remarkably serene. Meanwhile the desirableness of an interview with Carwin 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 consequence of
my new arrangement, had gone to Mettingen. The
temerity of this attempt began to shew itself in more
vivid colours to my understanding. Whoever has pointed
steel is not without arms; yet what must have been the
state of my mind when I could meditate, without shuddering, on the use of a murderous weapon, and believe myself
secure merely because I was capable of being made so by
the deathof another? Yet this was not my state. I felt
as if I was rushing into deadly toils, without the power of
pausing or receding.




I64


WIELAND, OR


CHAPTER XVI
As soon as I arrived in sight of the front of the house,
my attention was excited by a light from the window of
my own chamber. No appearance could be less 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 toward 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 entered?
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 was 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?




THE TRANSFORMATION


These were questions, the solution of which may be
readily supposed to be entangled with danger. Would
not this danger, when measured by a woman's fears,
expand into gigantic dimensions? Menaces of death;
the stunning exertions of a warning voice; the known 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. What was
to be done?
Courage is no definite or stedfast principle. Let that
man who shall purpose to assign motives to the actions of another, blush at his folly and forbear. Not
more presumptuous would it be to attempt the classification of all nature, and the scanning of supreme intelligence. 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 my safe-guard and avenger. The assailant
shall perish, or I myself shall fall."
I had locked up the house in the morning, but had
the key of the kitchen door in my pocket. I, therefore,
determined to gain access behind. Thither I hastened,
unlocked and entered. All was lonely, darksome, and
waste. Familiar as I was with every part of my dwelling, I easily found my way to a closet, drew 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 meditate? Should I explore my
way to my chamber, and confront the being who had
dared to intrude into this recess, and had laboured for
concealment? By putting out the light did he seek to
hide himself, or mean only to circumvent my incautious
steps? Yet was it not more probable that he desired my
absence by thus encouraging the supposition that thQ




i66


WIELAND, OR


house was unoccupied? I would see this man in spite
of all impediments; ere I died, I would see his face, and
summon him to penitence and retribution; no matter
at what cost an interview was purchased? Reputation
and life might be wrested from me by another, but my
rectitude and honor were in my own keeping, and were
safe.
I proceeded to the foot of the stairs. At such a
crisis my thoughts may be supposed at no liberty to
range; yet vague images rushed into my mind, of the
mysterious interposition which had been experienced
on the last night. My case, at present, was not dissimilar; and, if my angel were not weary of fruitless
exertions to save, might not a new warning be expected?
Who could say whether his silence were ascribable to
the absence of danger, 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 backward.
Alas! my heart droops, and my fingers are enervated;
my ideas are vivid, but my language is faint; now know
I what it is to entertain incommunicable sentiments.
The chain of subsequent incidents is drawn through
my mind, and being linked with those which 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




THE TRANSFORMATION


I67


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 which I
beheld existed in my fancy or without, might be doubted.
I had not closed the door of the apartment I had
just left. The stair-case, 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 an head thrust and drawn
back with so much swiftness, that the immediate conviction
was, that thus much of a form, ordinarily invisible, had
been unshrowded. The face was turned towards me.
Every muscle was tense; the forehead and brows were
drawn into vehement expression; the lips were stretched
as in the act of shrieking, and the eyes emitted sparks,
which, no doubt, if I had been unattended by a light,
would have illuminated like the coruscations of a meteor.
The sound and the vision were present, and departed
together at the same instant; but the cry was blown
into my ear, while the face was many paces distant.
This face was well suited to a being whose performances exceeded the standard of humanity, and yet
its features were akin to those I had before seen.
The image of Carwin was blended in a thousand ways
with the stream of my thoughts. This visage was, perhaps, pourtrayed by my fancy. If so, it will excite no
surprize that some of his lineaments were now discovered. Yet affinities were few and unconspicuous, and
were lost amidst the blaze of opposite qualities.
What conclusion could I form? Be the face human
or not, the intimation was imparted from above. Experience had evinced the benignity of that being who gave




I68


WIELAND, OR


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.
Was it possible for me not to obey? Was 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. Might 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 me on. I now speak as if no remnant of doubt existed in my mind as to the supernal
origin of these sounds; but this is owing to the imperfection of my language, for I only mean that the belief
was more permanent, and visited more frequently my
sober meditations than its opposite.  The immediate
effects served only to undermine the foundations of my
judgment and precipitate my resolutions.
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 was blind to this fate,
and advanced, though cautiously, into the room.
Still everything wore its accustomed aspect. Neither
lamp nor candle was to be found. Now, for the first




THE TRANSFORMATION


i6q


time, suspicions were suggested as to the nature of the
light which I had seen. XWas 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?
The closet was near, and I remembered the complicated horrors of which it had been productive. Here,
perhaps, was inclosed 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 recognized, 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 finding another in your place. I have waited, but to wait
any longer would be perilous. I shall still seek an interview, but it must be at a different time and place:
meanwhile, I will write this-How will you bear-How inexplicable will be this transaction! An event so unexpected-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 sudden expectation of seeing him behind me.
What other did he mean? What transaction had taken
place adverse to my expectations? What sight was about
to be exhibited? I looked around me once more, but saw
nothing which indicated strangeness. Again I remembered the closet, and was resolved to seek in that the solution of these mysteries. Here, perhaps, was inclosed




170


WIELAND, OR


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, which, on two sides, was closely shrowded
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 hopes that this more
stedfast scrutiny would annihilate the object which before
seemed to be there.
This then was the sight which Carwin had predicted!
This was the event which my understanding was to find
inexplicable! This was the fate which had been reserved
for me, but which, by some untoward chance, had befallen on another!
I had not been terrified by empty menaces. Violation
and death awaited my entrance into this chamber. Some
inscrutable chance had led her hither before me, and the
merciless fangs of which I was designed to be the prey,
had mistaken their victim, and had fixed themselves in
her heart. But where was my safety? Was 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!
My frame shook, and my knees were unable to support
me. I gazed alternately at the closet door and at the door
of my room. At one of these avenues would enter the
exterminator of my honor and my life. I was prepared for
defence; but now that danger was imminent, my means of
defence, and my power to use them were gone. I was not
qualified, by education and experience, to encounter




THE TRANSFORMATION


I7I


perils like these: or, perhaps, I was powerless because I
was again assaulted by surprize, 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 reflections on the scene before me. I fixed my eyes upon her
countenance. My sister's well-known and beloved features
could not be concealed by convulsion or lividness. What
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! How will a spectacle like this be
endured by Wieland? To die beneath 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 comest 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 which were breathless. Her flowing
drapery was discomposed. I restored it to order, and
seating myself on the bed, again fixed stedfast eyes upon
her countenance. I cannot distinctly recollect the ruminations of that moment. I saw confusedly, but forcibly, that
every hope was extinguished with the life of Catharine. All
happiness and dignity must henceforth be banished from
the -house an  name of Wieland: t a lt-at 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 detestable possession: but now, severed




172


7WIELAND, OR


from the companion of my infancy, the partaker of all my
thoughts, my cares, and my 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 from his hold and overwhelmed him
forever.
CHAPTER 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. My wandering
and confused thoughts were instantly recalled by these
sounds, and dropping the curtain of the bed, I moved to a
part of the room where any one who entered should be
visible; such are the vibrations of sentiment, that notwithstanding the seeming fulfilment of my fears, and increase of my danger, I was conscious, on this occasion,
to no turbulence but that of curiosity.
At length he entered the apartment, and I recognized
my brother. It was the same Wieland whom I had ever
seen. Yet his features were pervaded by a new expression.
I supposed him unacquainted with the fate of his wife,
and his appearance confirmed this persuasion. A brow
expanding into exultation I had hitherto never seen in
him, yet such a brow did he now wear. Not only was he
unapprized of the disaster that had happened, but some
joyous occurrence had betided. What a reverse was preparing to annihilate his transitory 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
flow from the discovery of her fate. I confided not at all
in the efforts of his reason or his piety. There were few




THE TRANSFORMATION


173


evils which his modes of thinking 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 what motive
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? Some time and speedily he would obtain
this knowledge. No stratagems could considerably or
usefully prolong his ignorance. All that could be sought
was 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 exertions to
console him would 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. My
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 interpret,
he lifted his eyes to heaven, and in broken accents exclaimed, "This is too much! Any victim but this, and thy




I74


WIELAND, OR


will be done. Have I not sufficiently attested my 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 workmanship is thine,
and it cannot by 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 Maker?
Deliverance from mortal fetters is awarded to this being,
and thou art the minister of this decree."
So saying, Wieland advanced toward me. His words and
his motions were without meaning, except on one supposition. The death of Catharine was already known to him,
and that knowledge, as might have been suspected, 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 advanced toward 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 multiplied and grew louder;
perceiving this, he turned from me, and hurried out of
my sight. All about me was pregnant with motives to
astonishment.  My sister's corpse, Wieland's frantic
demeanour, and, at length, this crowd of visitants, so
little accorded with my foresight, that my mental progress
was stopped. The impulse had ceased which was accustomed to give motion and order to my thoughts.




THE TRANSFORMATION


175


Footsteps thronged upon the stairs, and presently
many faces shewed themselves within the door of my
apartment. These looks were full of alarm and watchfulness. They pryed 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
my 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
Mr. Hallet. This man was a distant kinsman of my
mother, venerable for his age, his uprightness, and sagacity.
He had long discharged the functions of a magistrate and
good citizen. If any terrors remained, his presence was
sufficient to dispel them.
He approached, took my hand with a compassionate
air, and said in a low voice, "Where, my dear Clara,
are your brother and sister?" I made no answer, but
pointed to the bed. His attendants drew aside the
curtain, and while their eyes glared with horror at the
spectacle which they beheld, those of Mr. Hallet overflowed with tears.
After considerable pause, he once more turned to me.
"My dear girl, this sight is not for you. Can you confide in my care, and that of Mrs. Baynton's? We will
see performed all that circumstances require."
I made strenuous opposition to this request. I insisted on remaining near her till she were interred. His
remonstrances, however, and my own feelings, shewed
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 relin



176


WIELAND, OR


quish the corpse, and go to my brother's, whose house,
I said, would need 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. His countenance
betrayed irresolution and reluctance. I requested him
to state the reason of his opposition to this measure.
I entreated him to be explict. I told him that my brother
had just been there, and that I knew his condition.
This misfortune had driven him to madness, and his
offspring must not want a protector. If he chose, I
would resign Wieland to his care; but his innocent and
helpless babes stood in instant need of nurse and mother,
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
perplexity and distress. At last he said, "I think, Clara,
I have entitled myself to some 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 management of your brother's house for two or three days;
then it shall be yours to act in it as you please. No
matter 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 now rushed into my mind. I fixed my
eyes stedfastly on Mr. Hallet. "Are they well?" said
I. "Is Louisa well? Are Benjamin, and William, and




THE TRANSFORMATION


177


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.
"What, then," resumed I, "do you fear? Is it possible 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 them at an hour like this!"
I will cut short this distressful dialogue. I still persisted in my purpose, and he still persisted in his opposition. This excited my suspicions anew; but these were
removed by solemn 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? My 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. Mr. Hallet himself seemed
as if the conflict were too hard to be longer sustained.
Something whispered to my heart that havoc had been
wider than I now witnessed. I suspected this concealment to arise from 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.




I78


WIELAND, OR


To enforce my entreaties, I put on an air of insensibility. "I can guess," said I, "what has happenedThey are indeed beyond the reach of injury, for 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!"
Allow me, my friends, to close my eyes upon the afterscene. 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 my brain. I have no memory for ought
but unconscious 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. Each pale and mangled form I
crushed to my bosom. Louisa, whom I loved with so
ineffable a passion, was denied to me at first, but my
obstinacy conquered their reluctance.
They led the way into a darkened hall. A lamp pendant from the ceiling was uncovered, and they pointed
to a table. The assassin had defrauded me of my last
and miserable consolation. I sought not in her visage,
for the tinge of the morning, and the lustre of heaven.
These had vanished with life; but I hoped for liberty
to print a last kiss upon her lips. This was denied me;
for such had been the merciless blow that destroyed
her, that not a lineament remained!
I was carried hence to the city. Mrs. Hallet was my
companion and my nurse. Why should I dwell upon
the rage of fever, and the effusions of delirium? Carwin




THE TRANSFORMATION


I79


was the phantom that pursued my dreams, the giant
oppressor under whose arm I was for ever on the point
of being crushed. Strenuous muscles were required to
hinder my flight, and hearts of steel to withstand the
eloquence of my fears. In vain I called upon them to
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 haplessness of my condition.
This malady, at length, declined, and my weeping
friends began to look for my restoration. Slowly, 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.
CHAPTER XVIII
I HAD imperfectly recovered my strength, when I
was informed of the arrival of my mother'sbrothgr,
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
punctually maintained by letters with his sister's children, 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 understanding I had anxiously sought information of the




i8o


WIELAND, OR


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 mysteriously insinuated that his reason was still
unsettled, and that his circumstances rendered an interview impossible. Their reserve on the particulars of
this destruction, and the author of it, was equally invincible.
For some time, finding all my efforts fruitless, I had
desisted from direct inquiries and solicitations, determined, 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 dejection and grief which would be disclosed
in his countenance. But I believed that all transactions
had been thoroughly disclosed to him, and confided in my
importunity 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 was reasonable to expect some
information 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




THE TRANSFORMATION


i8i


and gloomy joy. He rather encouraged than restrained
the tears that I poured out in his arms, and took upon
himself the task of comforter. Allusions to recent disasters 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 respecting 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 would
be painful and too long. I am not apprized of the extent
of your present knowledge. There are none but Wieland,
Pleyel, and myself, who are able to relate certain facts."
"Spare yourself the pain," said he. "All that Wieland and Pleyel can communicate, I know already.
If anything of moment has fallen within your own exclusive knowledge, and the relation be not too arduous
for your present strength, I confess I am desirous of
hearing it. Perhaps you allude to one by the name of
Carwin. I will anticipate your curiosity by saying,
that since these disasters, no one has seen or heard of
him. His 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 surprize 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.




I82


WIELAND, OR


"You gather from this," said he, "that Carwin is
the author of all this misery?"
"Is it not," answered I, "an unavoidable 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. Hallet
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 ma    have plotted, but the
eecutiqn.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 performance was another's? Carwin, perhaps, or heaven, or
insanity, prompted the murderer; but Carwin is unknown.
The actual performer has, long since, been called to
judgment and convicted, and is, at this moment, at
the bottom of a dungeon loaded with chains."
I lifted my hands and eyes. "Who then is this assassin?
By what means, and whither was he traced? What is
the testimony of his guilt?"
"His own, corroborated with that of a servant-maid
who spied the murder of the children from a closet where
she was concealed. The magistrate returned from your
dwelling to your brother's. He was employed in hearing and recording the testimony of the only witness,
when the criminal himself, unexpected, unsolicited,




THE TRANSFORMATION


i83


unsought, 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 who this criminal was, and what
the instigations that compelled him. My uncle was silent.
I urged this inquiry with new force. I reverted 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 ever 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 degree
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 fearful glances, as if the murderer was close at hand. "What
do you mean?" said I; "put an end, I beseech you,
to this suspense."




184


WIELAND, OR


"Be not alarmed; you will never more behold the
face of this criminal, unless he be gifted with supernatural strength, and sever like threads 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 was immediately made with significance
of gesture, and a tranquil majesty, which denoted less
of humanity than godhead.   Judges, advocates and
auditors were panic-struck and breathless with attention. One of the hearers faithfully recorded the speech.
There it is)" continued he, putting a roll of papers in
my hand, "you may read it at your leisure."
With these words 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 countenance. At
length he spoke:
"It is strange; I am known to my judges and my
auditors. Who is there present a stranger to the character
of Wieland? who knows him not as a husband-as a
father-as a friend? vet here am I arraigned as a criminal.
I am 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?
"You know that they are dead, and that they were
killed by me. What more would you have? Would you




THE TRANSFORMATION                185
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 vou; the soundness of his integrity, 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 who, as she surpassed them in excellence, claimed
a larger affection than those whom natural affinities
bound to my heart. Think ye that malice could have
urged me to this deed? Hide your audacious fronts from
the scrutiny of heaven. Take refuge in some cavern unvisited by human eyes. Ye may deplore your wickedness
or folly, but ye cannot expiate it.
"Think not that I speak for your sakes. Hug to your
hearts this detestable infatuation.  Deem me still a
murderer, and drag me to untimely death. I make not an
effort to dispel your illusion: I utter not a word to cure
you of your sanguinary folly: but there are probably 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 knowledge of
his will. I have burnt with ardour to approve my faith
and my obedience.
"My days have been spent in searching for the revela



i86


WIELAND, OR


tion 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
were these purposes thoroughly accomplished, 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 to thy will!
What have I withheld which it was thy pleasure to exact?
Now may I, with dauntless and erect eye, claim my reward, since I have given thee the treasure of my soul.
"I was at my own house: it was late in the evening: my
sister had gone to the city, but proposed to return. It was
in expectation of her return that my wife and I delayed
going to bed beyond the usual hour; the rest of the family,
however, were retired.
"My mind was contemplative and calm; not wholly
devoid of apprehension on account of my sister's safety.
Recent events, not easily explained, had suggested the
existence of some danger; but this danger was without a
distinct form in our imagination, and scarcely ruffled our
tranquillity.
"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 view to residing with us, it
was possible that, through forgetfulness, or the occurrence
of unforeseen emergencies, she had returned to her own
dwelling.
"Hence it was conceived proper that I should ascertain
the truth by going thither. I went. On my way my mind




THE TRANSFORMATION


187


was full of these ideas which related to my intellectual condition. In the torrent of fervid conceptions, I lost sight of
my purpose. Some times I stood still; some times I
wandered front my path, and experienced 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 without limits, and the cup
of whose desires, immense as it is, overflows with gratification. I know not why emotions that were perpetual
visitants should now have recurred with unusual energy.
The transition was not new from sensations of joy to a
consciousness of graitude. —Th-iaitior of my being was
likewise the dispenser of every gift with which that being
was embellished. The service to which a benefactor like
this was entitled, could not be circumscribed. My social
sentiments were indebted to their alliance with 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 contemplations soared above earth and
its inhabitants. I stretched forth my hands; I lifted my
eyes, and exclaimed, O! that I might be admitted to thy
presence; that mine were the supreme delight of knowing
thy will, and of performing it! The blissful privilege of
direct communication with thee, and of listening to the
audible enunciation of thy pleasure!
"'What task would I not undertake, what privation
would I not cheerfully endure, to testify my love of thee?
Alas! thou hidest thyself from my view: glimpses 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!




i88


8WIELAND, OR


"In this mood, I entered the house of my sister. 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 ascended to her chamber.
"I had no light, and might have known by external
observation, that the house was without any inhabitant.
With this, however, 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. How shall I describe
theJust.    LhaLtmomnt, burst upon my vision!
"I was dazzled. My organs were bereaved of their
activity. My eye-lids 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 lineaments of that being, whose veil was now lifted, and whose
visage beamed upon my sight, no hues of pencil or of
language can pourtray.
"As it spoke, the accents thrilled to my heart. "Thy
prayers are heard. In proof of thy faith, render me thy




THE TRANSFORMATION


I89


wife. This is the victim I chuse. Call her hither, and
here let her fall."-The sound, and visage, and light vanished at once.
"What demand was this? The blood of Catharine was
to be shed! My 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 demanded.
"My wife! I exclaimed: 0 God! substitute some other
victim. Make me not the butcher of my wife. My own
blood is cheap. This will 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 were prescribed; the decree
had gone forth, and nothing remained but to execute it.
I rushed out of the house and across the intermediate
fields, and stopped not till I entered my own parlour.
"My wife had remained here during my absence, in
anxious expectation of my return with some tidings of
her sister. I had none to communicate. For a time, I was
breathless with 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 was silent, but her looks manifested her impatience
to hear what 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 with me: fly: waste not a moment: time
will be lost, and the deed will be omitted. Tarry not;
question not; but fly with me!'
"This deportment added afresh to her alarms. Her




Igo


WIELAND, OR


eyes pursued mine, and she said, 'What is the matter?
For God's sake what is the matter? Where would you
have me go?'
"My eyes were fixed upon her countenance while
she spoke. I thought upon her virtues; I viewed her
as the mother of my babes; as my wife: I recalled the
purpose for which I thus urged her attendance. Mv
heart faltered, and I saw that I must rouse to this work
all my faculties. The danger of the least delay was
imminent.
"I looked away from her, and again exerting my
force, drew her towards the door-'You must go with
me-indeed you must.'
"In her fright she half-resisted my efforts, and again
exclaimed, 'Good heaven! what is it you mean? Where
go? What has happened? Have you found Clara?'
"'Follow me, and you will see,' I answered, still urging her reluctant steps forward.
"'What phrenzy has seized you? Something must
needs have happened. Is she sick? Have you found her?'
"'Come and see. Follow 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.  Her 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




THE TRANSFORMATION


191


and distinctness should be lost; to escape from the sensations 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 saw that all was desolate-'Why come we here? There is no body here. I
will not go in.'
"Still I was dumb; but opening the door, I drew her
into the entry. This was 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;
my arms nerveless: I muttered prayers that my strength
might be aided from above. They availed nothing.
"Horror diffused itself over me. This conviction of
my cowardice, my rebellion, fastened upon me, and I
stood rigid and cold as marble. From this state I was
somewhat relieved by my wife's voice, who renewed
her supplications to be told why we came 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,
"0 tell me, where is she? What has become of her?
Is she sick? Dead? Is she in her chamber? O let me
go thither and know the worst!"
"This proposal set my thoughts once more in motion.
Perhaps what my rebellious heart refused to perform




I92


WIELAND, OR


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 await 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 omit this
sacrifice must not be; yet my sinews had refused to
perform it. No alternative was offered. To rebel against
the mandate was impossible; but obedience would render me the executioner of my wife. My will was strong,
but my limbs refused their office.
"She returned with 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 discover in my visage what
darkness had hitherto concealed. Her cares were now
transferred from my sister to myself, and she said in
a tremulous voice, "Wieland! you are not well: What
ails you? Can I do nothingT-or" u?'" — -...........
"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 her's,
and pressing it to her heart, spoke with that voice which
had ever swayed my will, and wafted away sorrow.
"My friend! my soul's friend! tell me thy cause of
grief. Do I not merit to partake with thee in thy cares?
Am I not thy wife?"




THE TRANSFORMATION


193


" 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 followed me, and renewed her passionate entreaties to know the cause of my distress.
"I raised my head and regarded her with stedfast
looks.  I muttered something about death, and the
injunctions 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"O Wieland! Wieland! God grant that I am mistaken; but surely something 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 symptoms would take
place. I replied to her with vehemence"Undone! No; my duty is known, and I thank my
God that my cowardice is now vanquished, and I have
power to fulfil it. Catharine! I pity the weakness 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. 'XXlhat mean
you? Why talk you of death? Bethink yourself, Wieland: bethink yourself, and this fit will pass. 0 why
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,
and endeavoured to free herself from my grasp; but
her efforts were vain.
"Surely, surely Wieland, thou dost not mean it. Am
I not thy wife? and wouldst thou kill me? Thou wilt
not; and yet-I see-thou art Wieland no longer! A




I94


WIELAND, OR


fury resistless and horrible possesses thee —Spare mespare-help-help ---"
"Till her breath was stopped she shrieked for help —
for mercy. When she could speak no longer, her gestures, her looks appealed to my compassion. My 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 eye-balls started from  their sockets.
Grimness and distortion took place of all that used to
bewitch me into transport, and subdue me into reverence.
"I was commissioned to kill thee, but not to torment thee with thfe foresight of thy death; not to multiply thy fears, and prolong thy agonies. Haggard,
and pale, and lifeless, at length thou ceasedst to contend
with thy destiny.
"This was a moment of triumph. Thus had I successfully subdued the stubbornness of human passions:
the victim which had been demanded was given: the
deed was done past recal.
"I lifted the corpse in my arms and laid it on the bed.
I gazed upon it with delight. Such was the elation 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 and
best gift, my wife!'
"For a while I thus soared above frailty. I imagined I
had set myself forever beyond the reach of selfishness; but
my imaginations were false. This rapture quickly subsided. I looked again at my wife. My joyous ebullitions
vanished, and I asked myself who it was whom I saw.
Methought it could not be Catharine. It could not be the
woman who had lodged for years in my heart; who had




THE TRANSFORMATION


I95


slept, nightly, in my bosom; who had borne in her womb,
who had fostered at her breast, the beings who called me
father; whom I had watched with delight, and cherished
with a fondness ever new and perpetually growing: it
could not be the same.
"Where was her bloom! These deadly and bloodsuffused orbs but ill resemble the azure and exstatic tenderness 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 were the traces of agony;
the gripe of the assassin had been here!
"I will not dwell upon my lapse into desperate and outrageous sorrow. The breath of heaven that sustained me
was withdrawn, and I sunk into mere man. I leaped from
the floor: I dashed my head against the wall: I uttered
screams of horror: I panted after torment 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 designed once more to raise me aloft. I thought
upon what I had done as a sacrifice to duty, and was calm.
My wife was dead; but I reflected, that though this source
of human consolation was closed, yet others were still
open. If the transports of an 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 would look upon them, and be comforted.
"While I revolved these ideas, new warmth 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 effulgence and a new mandate were necessary.
"From these thoughts I was recalled by a ray that was




I96


WIELAND, OR


shot into the room. A voice spake like that which I had
before heard-'Thou hast done well; but all is not donethe sacrifice is incomplete-thy children must be offeredthey must perish with their mother!-'
CHAPTER XX
WILL you wonder that I read no farther? Will 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, contributed to my
perseverance. In vain the solemn introduction of my
uncle, his appeals to my fortitude, and allusions to something monstrous in the events he was about to disclose;
in vain the distressful perplexity, the mysterious silence
and ambiguous answers of my attendants, especially when
the condition of my brother was the theme of my inquiries,
were remembered. I recalled the interview with Wieland
in my chamber, his preternatural tranquillity succeeded
by bursts of passion and menacing actions. All these
coincided with 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 worthy of savages trained to murder,
and exulting in agonies.
Who was the performer of the deed? Wieland! My
brother! The husband and the father! That man of gentle virtues and invincible benignity! placable and mildan idolater of peace! Surely, said I, it is a dream. 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 TRANSFORMATION


197


The paper dropped from my hand, and my eyes followed
it. I shrunk back, as if to avoid some petrifying influence
that approached me. My tongue was mute; all the functions of nature were at a stand, and I sunk upon the floor
lifeless.
The noise of my fall, as I afterwards heard, alarmed my
uncle, who was in a lower apartment, and whose apprehensions had detained him. He hastened to my chamber,
and administered the assistance which my condition
required. When I opened my eyes I beheld him before
me. His skill as a reasoner as well as a physician, was
exerted to obviate the injurious effects of this disclosure;
but he had wrongly estimated the strength of my 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 sensations,
and hideous confusion of my understanding. Time slowly
restored its customary firmness to my frame, and order
to my thoughts. The images impressed upon my mind
by this fatal paper were somewhat effaced by my malady.
They were obscure and disjointed like the parts of a
dream. I was desirous of freeing my imagination from
this chaos. For this end I questioned my uncle, who was
my constant companion. He was intimidated by the
issue of his first experiment, and took pains to elude or
discourage my inquiry. My impetuosity some times compelled him to have resort to misrepresentations and untruths.
Time effected that end, perhaps, in a more beneficial
manner. In the course of my meditations the recollections of the past gradually became more distinct. I revolved them, however, in silence, and being no longer
accompanied with surprize, they did not exercise a death



x98


WIELAND, OR


dealing power. I had discontinued the perusal of the
paper in the midst of the narrative; but what I read, combined with information elsewhere obtained, threw, perhaps, a sufficient light upon these detestable transactions;
yet my curiosity was not inactive. I desired to pursue the
remainder.
My eagerness to know the particulars of this tale was
mingled and abated by my antipathy to the scene which
would be disclosed. Hence I employed no means to effect
my purpose. I desired knowledge, and, at the same time,
shrunk back from receiving the boon.
One morning, being left alone, I rose from my bed, and
went to a drawer where my finer clothing used to be kept.
I opened it, and this fatal paper saluted my sight. I
snatched it involuntarily, and withdrew to a chair. I
debated, for a few minutes, whether I should open and
read. Now that my fortitude was put to trial, it failed.
I felt myself incapable of deliberately surveying a scene
of so much horror. I was 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 till I came
near the conclusion. The narrative of the criminal was
finished. The verdict of guilty reluctantly pronounced by
the jury, and the accused interrogated why sentence of
death should not pass. The answer was brief, solemn,
and emphatical.
"No. I have nothing to say. My tale has been told.
My 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 my deed was enjoined by heaven; that obedience was the test of perfect virtue, and the extinction
of selfishness and error, they must pronounce me a murderer,




THE TRANSFORMATION


199


"They refuse to credit my tale; they impute my acts to
the influence of daemons; they account me an example of
the highest wickedness of which human nature is capable;
they doom me to death and infamy. Have I power to
escape this evil? If I have, be sure I will exert it. I will
not accept evil at their hand, when I am entitled to good;
I will suffer only when I cannot elude suffering.
"You say that I am guilty. Impious and rash! thus to
usurp the prerogatives of your Maker! to set up your
bounded views and halting reason, as the measure of
truth!
"Thou, Omnipotent and Holy! Thou knowest that
my actions were conformable to thy will. I know not
what is crime; what actions are evil in their ultimate and
comprehensive tendency or what are good. Thy knowledge, as thy power, is unlimited. I have taken thee for
my guide, and cannot err. To the arms of thy protection,
I entrust my safety. In the awards of thy justice, I
confide for my recompense.
"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 eves from the
page; but before I had time to reflect on what I had read,
Mr. Cambridge entered the room. He quickly perceived
how I had been employed, and betrayed some solicitude
respecting the condition of my mind.
His fears, however, were superfluous. What I had read,
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 with an air of inquisitiveness,
and pointed at the roll. He comprehended my inquiry,




200


WIELAND, OR


and answered me with looks of gloomy acquiescence.
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 surprized 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?"
" 0 no; I think it not. Heaven 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
affair."
"You misunderstand me," I answered; "I believe the
agency to be external and real, but not supernatural."
"Indeed!" said he, in an accent of surprize. "Whom do
you then suppose to be the agent?"
"I know not. All is wildering conjecture. I cannot
forget Carwin. I cannot banish the suspicion that he was
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




THE TRANSFORMATION


201


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 know
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 way, the fate of my grandfather; but I am unacquainted with particulars."
"On the death of that brother," resumed my friend,
"my father was seized with dejection, which was found
to flow from two 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.
He waited from day to day in expectation of the stroke
which he predicted was speedily to fall upon him. Gradually, however, he recovered his cheerfulness and confidence. He married, and performed his part in the world
with spirit and activity. At the end of twenty-one years
it happened that he spent the summer with his family at
an house which he possessed on the sea coast in Cornwall.
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 company frequently repaired hither in
clear weather, invited by its pure airs and extensive prospects. One evening in June my father, with his wife and
some friends, chanced to be on this spot. Every one was
happy, and my father's imagination seemed particularly
alive to the grandeur of the scenery.
"Suddenly, however, his limbs trembled and his features
betrayed alarm. He threw himself into the attitude of one
listening. He 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




202


WIELAND, OR


brother had just delivered to him a summons, which must
be instantly obeyed. He then took an hasty and solemn
leave of each person, and, before their surprize 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. Unquestionably the illusions were maniacal, though the
vulgar thought otherwise. They are all reducible to one
class,l 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 supposed
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 Wieland. 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 was my security
against influences equally terrific and equally irresistable?
It would be vain to attempt to describe the state of
mind which this idea produced. I wondered at the change
which a moment had affected in my brother's condition.
Now was I stupified with tenfold wonder in contemplating
1Mania Mutabilis. See Darwin's Zoonomia, vol. ii. Class III.
1, 2, where similar cases are stated. —Brown's note.




THE TRANSFORMATION


2,03


myself. Was I not likewise transformed from rational
and human into a creature of nameless and fearful attribu'tes? Was I not transported to the brink of the same
abyss? Ere a new day should come, my hands might be
embrued in blood, and my remaining life be consigned to a
dungeon and chains.
With moral sensibility like mine, no wonder that this
new dread was more insupportable than the anguish I had
lately endured. Grief carries its own antidote along with
it. When 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'Tked
forWvrd' with gloomy satisfaction.
My silence could not conceal from my uncle the state of
my thoughts. He made unwearied efforts to divert my
attention from views so pregnant with 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, was once more revived. I was
able to devote my thoughts to my brother's state, and the
causes of this disastrous proceeding.
My opinions were the sport of eternal change. Some
times I conceived the apparition to be more than human.
I had no grounds on which to build a disbelief. I could
not deny faith to the evidence of my religion; the testimony
of men was loud and unanimous: both these concurred to
persuade me that evil spirits existed, and that their energy
was frequently exerted in the system of the world.
These ideas connected themselves with the image of
Carwin. Where is the proof, said I, that daemons may
not be subjected to the controul of men? This truth may
be distorted and debased in the minds of the ignorant.
The dogmas of the vulgar, with regard to this subject, are
glaringly absurd; but though these may justly be neglected




204


WIELAND, OR


by the wise, we are scarcely justified in totally rejecting
the possibility that men may obtain supernatural aid.
The dreams of superstition are worthy of contempt.
Witchcraft, its instruments and miracles, the compact
ratified by a bloody signature, the apparatus of sulpherous smells and thundering explosions, are monstrous
and chimerical. These have no part in the scene over
which the genius of Carwin presides. That conscious
beings, dissimilar from human, but moral and voluntary
agents as we are, somewhere 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 unknown; but is there not evidence
that it has been now exerted?
I recurred to my own experience. Here Carwin 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 Carwin's designs. There were
tokens of hostility, and not of alliance, between them.
Carwin was the miscreant whose projects 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? He was acquitted at the tribunal
of his own conscience; his behaviour 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;




THE TRANSFORMATION


205


he repelled all invectives 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, was the course of my meditations.
My weakness, and my aversion to be pointed at as an
object of surprize 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. My uncle was my principal companion. Nothing more powerfully tended to console me
than his conversation.
With regard toPlevel, jy 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.
RHitherto, indeed, I had had no cause for despair.
I was innocent of that offence which had estranged
him from   my presence.  I might reasonably expect
that my innocence would at some time be irresistably
demonstrated, and his affection for me be revived with
his esteem. Now my aversion to be thought culpable
by him continued, but was unattended with the same impatlenCe'.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.




:2o6


WIELAND, OR


My 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
discovered that Pleyel had carefully omitted the mention of those events which had drawn upon me so much
abhorrence. 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 unwilling, though
I were guilty, to injure me in the opinion of my venerable kinsman. I understood that he had frequently
visited me during my disease, had watched many successive nights by my bedside, and manifested the utmost
anxiety on my account.
The journey which he was preparing to take, at the
termination of our last interview, the catastrophe of
the ensuing night induced him to delay. The motives
of this journey I had, till now, totally mistaken. They
were explained to me by my uncle, whose tale excited
my astonishment without awakening my regret. In a
different 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 my indifference was temporary, and that the lapse of a few days
shewed me that my feelings were deadened for a time,
rather than finally extinguished.
Theresa de Stolberg was alive. She had conceived
the resolution of seeking her lover in America. To
conceal 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 pacquet which the latter received from the hands of his
servant, contained the tidings of her safe arrival at




THE TRANSFORMATION


207


Boston, and to meet her there was 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 phrenzy of love. He who had gained my affections,
may be supposed to have previously entitled himself
to my reverence; but the levity which had formerly
characterized the behaviour of this man, 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 which asserted her death, must either
have been intended to deceive, or have been itself deceived. The latter supposition was inconsistent with
the notion of a spiritual, and the former with that of a
benevolent being.
When my 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 was grieved for his errors, but trusted that my
vindication would, sooner or later, be made.
Meanwhile, tumultuous thoughts were again set
afloat by a proposal made to me by my uncle. He imagined that new airs would restore my languishing constitution, and a varied succession of objects tend to
repair the shock which my mind had received. For
this end, he proposed to me to take up my abode with
him in France or Italy.
At a more prosperous period, this scheme would have
pleased for its own sake. Now my heart sickened at
the prospect of nature. The world of man was shrowded
in misery and blood, and constituted a loathsome spectacle. I willingly closed my eyes in sleep, and regretted
that the respite it afforded me was so short. I marked
with satisfaction the progress of decay in my frame,




208


WIELAND, OR


and consented to live, merely in the hope that the course
of nature would speedily relieve me from the burthen.
Nevertheless, as he persisted in his scheme, I concurred
in it merely because he was entitled to my gratitude,
and because my refusal gave him pain.
No sooner was he informed of my consent, than he
told me I must make immediate preparation to embark,
as the ship in which he had engaged a passage would
be ready to depart in three days. This expedition was
unexpected. There was an impatience in his manner
when he urged the necessity of despatch that excited
my surprize. When I questioned him 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 review, appeared insufficient. I suspected that the
true motives were concealed, and believed that these
motives had some connection with my brother's destiny.
I now recollected that the information respecting
Wieland which had, from time to time, been imparted
to me, was always accompanied with airs of reserve
and mysteriousness. What had appeared sufficiently
explicit 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 man
in his dungeon.
Heretofore the idea of this visit had occurred 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, how could I endure to behold!
Now, however, that I was preparing to take an everlasting farewell of my country, now that an ocean was
henceforth to separate me from him, how could I part
without an interview? I would examine his situation




THE TRANSFORMATION


209


with my own eyes. I would know whether the representations which had been made to me were true. Perhaps the sight of the sister whom he was wont to love
with a passion more than fraternal, might have an auspicious influence on his malady.
Having formed this resolution, I waited to communicate it to Mr. Cambridge. I was aware that, without
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 inconvenience could arise from this proceeding. His
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
which my request affected him. After some pause, in
which his countenance betrayed every mark of perplexity, he said to me, "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 behind
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 have looked
at him, and shed a few tears in his presence."
"I believe otherwise. The sight of him would only
augment your distress, without contributing, in any
degree, to his benefit."
"I know not that," returned I. "Surely the sympathy 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 aas his enemies and
calumniators.  His sister he, probably, conceives to
partake in the general infatuation, and to join in the
cry of abhorrence that is raised against him. To be




210


WIELAND, OR


undeceived 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, what will he
think of me? His magnanimity may hinder him from
repining, but he will surely consider my behaviour as
savage and unfeeling. Indeed, dear Sir, I must pay
this visit. To embark with you without paying it, will
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 surprize 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 consequences of this error. Has he not destroyed the wife
whom he loved, the children whom he idolized? What
is it that enables him to bear the remembrance, but
the belief that he acted as his duty enjoined? Would
you rashly bereave him of this belief? Would you restore him to himself, and convince him that he was
instigated to this dreadful outrage by a perversion of
his organs, or a delusion from hell?
"Now his visions are joyous and elate. He conceives
himself to have reached a loftier degree of virtue, than any




THE TRANSFORMATION


211


other human being. The merit of his sacrifice is only
enhanced in the eyes of superior beings, by the detestation that pursues him here, and the sufferings to which he
is condemned. 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 phrenzy far more
savage and destructive than this, may be expected to succeed. I beseech you, therefore, to relinquish this scheme.
If you calmly reflect upon it, you will discover that your
duty lies in carefully shunning him."
Mr. Cambridge's reasonings suggested views to my
understanding, that had not hitherto occurred. I could
not but admit their validity, but they shewed, in a new
light, the depth of that misfortune in which my brother was
plunged. I was silent and irresolute.
Presently, I considered, that whether Wieland was a
maniac, a faithful servant of his God, the victim of hellish
illusions, or the dupe of human imposture, was by no means
certain. In this state of my mind it became me to be silent
during the visit that I projected. This visit should be
brief: I should be satisfied merely to snatch a look at him.
Admitting that a change in his opinions were not to be
desired, there was 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
scheme. Yet I persisted, and he found that to make me
voluntarily relinquish it, it was necessary to be more
explicit than he had hitherto been. He took both my
hands, and anxiously examining my countenance as he




212


WIELAND, OR


*spoke, " Clara," said he, " this visit must not be paid. We
must hasten with 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 shall be told.
"0 my dear girl!" continued he with increasing energy
in his accent, "your brother's phrenzy is, indeed, stupendous and frightful. The soul that formerly actuated his
frame has disappeared. The same form remains; but the
wise and benevolent Wieland is no more. A fury that is
rapacious of blood that lifts his strength almost above
ta       a tF-Fmortals, that bends all i_ erges —t-o~'truction of whatever was once dear to him, possesses him
wholly.
"You 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 Plevel are exacted from hjby this imagiarybeing,_ He is eager to comply with this demand.
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.
Wieland 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. Happily, 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.
"His chains, and the watchfulness of his guards, were




THE TRANSFORMATION


213


redoubled; but again, by some miracle, he restored himself 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 embruing his hands in your blood, you
must leave the country. There is no hope that his malady
will end but with his life, and no precaution will ensure
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. Your
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 I
ever expected to arrive there, but because, since my principles forbad 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 exasperated,
who was conscious of illicit motives, and who sought his
end by circumvention and surprize; but by one who deemed
himself commissioned for this act by heaven; who regarded
this career of horror as the last refinement of virtue; whose
implacability was proportioned to the reverence and love
which he felt for me, and who was inaccessible to the fear
of punishment and ignominy!
In vain should I endeavour to stay his hand by urging




2I4


WIELAND, OR


the claims of a sister or friend: these were his only reasons
for pursuing my destruction. Had 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 phrenzy
which is charged upon my brother, must belong to myself.
My foe is manacled and guarded; but I derive no security
from these restraints. I live not in a community of savages; yet, whether I sit or walk, go into crouds, 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 conducted
me; I rememberedthai when on the brink of danger, the
auftor of my peril was depicted by my fears in his form:
Thus realized, were the creatures of prophetic sleep, and
of wakeful terror!
These images were unavoidably connected with 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 vengeance.
I ran over the events that had taken place since the origin
of our intercourse with him, and reflected on the tenor
of that description which was received from Ludloe.
Mixed- -up with notions of supernatural agency, were
the vehement suspicions which I entertained, that Carwin was the enemy whose machinations had destroyed
us.
I thirsted for knowledge and for vengeance. I regarded




THE TRANSFORMATION


215


my hasty departure with reluctance, since it would remove
me from the means by which this knowledge might be obtained, and this vengeance gratified. This departure was
to take place in two 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 serving to recall the images of those I had lost!
I was tempted to relinquish my design, when it occurred
to me that I had left among my papers a journal of transactions in short-hand. I was employed in this manuscript
on that night when Pleyel's incautious curiosity tempted
him to look over my shoulder. I was then recording my
adventure in the recess, an imperfect sight of which led
him into such fatal errors.
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 destroying. 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 bespoke 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.




2i6


WlELAND, OR


CHAPTER XXII
THE inhabitants of the HUT received me with a mixture
of joy and surprize. 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 acquaint
them with my welfare during my long absence.
They expressed great surprize when I informed them
of my intention to visit my cottage. Alarm and foreboding overspread their features, and they attempted to
dissuade me from visiting an house which they firmly
believed to be haunted by a thousand ghastly apparitions.
These apprehensions, however, had no power over my
conduct. I took an irregular path which led me to my own
house. All was vacant and forlorn. A small enclosure,
near which the path led, was the burying-ground belonging to the family. This I was obliged to pass. Once I had
intended to enter it, and ponder on the emblems and
inscriptions which 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 with mine or my brother's history.
I passed the entry, mounted the stair, and unlocked the




THE TRANSFORMATION


217


door of my chamber. It was with difficulty that I curbed
my fancy and smothered 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 was used to deposit it. This being secured, there
was nothing to detain me; yet I stood and contemplated
awhile the furniture and walls of my chamber. I remembered how 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 shewed himself for a moment unmasked.
Here 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 halfarticulate exclamations escaped my lips. The name of
Carwin was uttered, and eternal woes, woes like that
which his malice had entailed upon us, were heaped
upon him. I invoked all-seeing heaven to drag to light
and to punish this betrayer, and accused its providence j
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
crevices. 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




218


WIELAND, OR


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? Why should I
drag a miserable being? All, for whom I ought to live,
have perished. Am I not myself hunted to death?
At that moment, my despair suddenly became vigorous. My nerves were no longer unstrung. My powers,
that had long been deadened, were revived. My bosom
swelled with a sudden energy, and the conviction darted
through my mind, that to end my torments was, at
once, practicable and wise.
I knew how to find way to the recesses of life. I could
use a lancet with some skill, and could distinguish between
vein and artery. By piercing deep into the latter, I
should shun the evils which the future had in store for
me, and take refuge from my woes in quiet death.
I started on my feet, for my feebleness was gone,
and hasted to the closet. A lancet and other small instruments 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
the entry. My purpose was suspended, and I cast an
eager glance at my chamber door, which was open.
No one appeared, unless the shadow which 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
exclamations.
My teeth chattered, and a wild confusion took place
of my momentary calm. Thus it was when a terrific




THE TRANSFORMATION


219


visage had disclosed itself on a former night. Thus it
was when the evil destiny of Wieland assumed the lineaments of something human. What horrid apparition 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. While I had power over
my muscles, I motioned with my hand that he should vanish. My exertions could not last long; I sunk into a fit.
O that this grateful oblivion had lasted for ever!
Too quickly I recovered my senses. The power of distinct vision was no sooner restored to me, than this
hateful form again presented itself, and I once more
relapsed.
A second time, untoward nature recalled me from
the sleep of death. I found myself stretched upon the
bed. When I had power to look up, I remembered only
that I had cause to fear. My distempered fancy fashioned to itself no distinguishable image. I threw a languid glance 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 distance, that his attitude was not menacing, that his
ominous 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. His countenance was mild, but sorrow and aston



220


WIELAND, OR


ishment sat upon his features. I averted my eyes and
feebly exclaimed-" 0! fly-fly far and for ever!-I
cannot behold you and live!"
He 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 solitary and dismantled! You
die away at the sight of me! My fear whispers that
some deed of horror has.been perpetrated; that I am
the undesigning cause."
What language was this? Had he not avowed himself a ravisher? Had not this chamber witnessed his
atrocious purposes? I besought him with new vehemence
to go.
He lifted his eyes-" Great heaven! what have I done?
I think I know the extent of my offences. I have acted, but
my actions have possibly effected more than I designed.
This fear has brought me back from my retreat. I
come to repair the evil of which my rashness was the
cause, and to prevent more evil. I come to confess
my errors."
"Wretch!" I cried when 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 intellects of Wieland? Who was
it that urged him to fury, and guided him to murder?
Who, 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, I am innocent. I intended




THE TRANSFORMATION


22.1


no ill; but my folly, indirectly and remotely, may have
caused it; but what words are these! Your brother
lunatic! His children dead!"
What should I infer from this deportment? Was
the ignorance which these words implied real or pretended?-Yet how could I imagine a mere human agency
in these events? But if the influence was preternatural
or maniacal 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
detect 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, "What has happened? I came to expiate
my crimes: let me know them in their full extent. I
have horrible forebodings! What has happened?"
I was silent; but recollecting the intimation given
by this man when he was detected in my closet, which
implied some knowledge of that power which interfered in my favor, I eagerly inquired, "What was that
voice which called upon me to hold when I attempted
to open the closet? What face was that which I saw
at the bottom of the stairs? Answer me truly."
"I came to confess the truth. Your allusions are
horrible and strange. Perhaps I have but faint conceptions
of the evils which my infatuation has produced; but what
remains I will perform. It was my voice that you heard!
It was myfface that you saw!"
For a moment I doubted whether my remembrance of
events were not confused. How could he be at once
stationed at my shoulder and shut up in my closet? How




222


WIELAND, OR


could he stand near me and yet be invisible? But if
Carwin's were the thrilling voice and the fiery visage 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! Remorseless and implacable miscreant! begone!"
"I will obey," said he in a disconsolate voice; "yet,
wretch as I am, am I unworthy to 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 errors; 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 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?"
Carwin's eyes glared, and his limbs were petrified at this
intelligence. No words were requisite to prove him guiltless of these enormities: at the time, however, I was nearly
insensible to these exculpatory tokens. He walked to the
farther end of the room, and having recovered some degree
of composure, he spoke



THE TRANSFORMATION


223


"I am not this villain; I have slain no one; I have
prompted none to slay; I have handled a tool of wonderful
efficacy without malignant intentions, but without caution;
ample will be the punishment of my temerity, if my conduct has contributed to this evil." He paused.I likewise was silent. I struggled to command myself 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. 1 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 what distance I please.
"I know not that every one possesses this power. Per1 Biloquium, or ventrilocution. Sound- is varied according to
the variations of direction and distance. The art of the ventriloquist
consists in modifying his voice according to all these variations, without changing his place. See the work of the Abbe de la Chappelle, in
which are accurately 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 doubtless improvable,
if not acquirable, by art. It may, possibly, consist in an unusual
flexibility or exertion of the bottom of the tongue and the uvula.
That speech is producible by these alone must be granted, since
anatomists mention two instances of persons speaking without a
tongue. In one case, the organ was 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.
Experience shews that the human voice can imitate the voice of
all men and of all inferior animals. The sound of musical instruments, and even noises from the contact of inanimate substances,
have been accurately imitated. The mimicry of animals is notorious; and Dr. Burney (Musical Travels) mentions one who imitated
a flute and violin, so as to deceive even his ears.-Brown's Note.




224


WIELAND, OR


haps, though a casual position of my organs in my youth
shewed me that I possessed it, it is an art which may be
taught to all. Would to God I had died unknowing of the
secret! It has produced nothing but degradation and
calamity.
"For a time the possession of so potent and stupendous
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 more or less success.
I was finally betrayed by one who called himself my friend,
into acts which 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.
"My 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 contemplation 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




THE TRANSFORMATION


225


observation of your family, and chiefly visited these
precincts at night.
"I was never weary of admiring the position and ornaments of the temple. Many 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
pedestal. To read it was doubtless an offence against
politeness. Of this offence, however, I was guilty.
"Scarcely had I gone half through when I was alarmed
by the approach of your brother. To scramble down the
cliff on the opposite side was impracticable. I was unprepared to meet a stranger. Besides the aukwardness attending such an interview in these circumstances, concealment
was necessary to my safety. A thousand times had I
vowed 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, unperformed. I had
often caught parts, from my station below, of your conversation in this place, and was well acquainted with the
voice of your sister.
"Some weeks after this I was again quietly seated in
this recess. The lateness of the hour secured me, as I
thought, from all interruption. In this, however, I was
mistaken, for Wieland and Pleyel, as I judged by their
voices, earnest in dispute, ascended the hill.
"I was not sensible that any inconvenience could
possibly have flowed from my former exertion; yet it was
followed with compunction, because it was a deviation




226


WIELAND, OR


from a path which I had assigned to myself. Now my
aversion to this means of escape was enforced by an unauthorized curiosity, and by the knowledge of a bushy
hollow on the edge of the hill, where I should be safe from
discovery. Into this hollow I thrust myself.
"The propriety of removal to Europe was the question eagerly discussed. Pleyel intimated that his anxiety to go was augmented by the silence of Theresa de
Stolberg. The temptation to interfere in this dispute
was irresistible. In vain I contended with inveterate
habits. I disguised to myself the impropriety of my
conduct, by recollecting the benefits which it might
produce. Pleyel's proposal was unwise, yet it was enforced with plausible arguments and indefatigable zeal.
Your brother might be puzzled and wearied, but could
not be convinced. I conceived that to terminate the
controversy in favor 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 baroness. The latter event was 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 from
these exploits; 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




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227


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 hypocrisy, as well as licentiousness, was wrought
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 with 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 dremon 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 worship. She chiefly dwelt upon your courage, because she herself was deficient in that quality.
You held apparitions and goblins in contempt. You
took no precautions 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 woman capable of recollection
in danger, of warding off groundless panics, of discerning the true mode of proceeding, and profiting by her
best resources, is a prodigy. I was desirous of ascertaining whether you were such an one.
"My 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 was not aware of the possibility that you




z2z8


WIELAND, OR


should appropriate these menaces to yourself. Had you
been still and listened, you would have heard the struggles
and 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 view 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 surprize at your
abrupt and precipitate flight. I hastily removed the ladder; and, after some pause, curiosity and doubts of your
safety induced me to follow 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 knew not what 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 was a sudden
thought that occurred. I put my lips to the key-hole, and
sounded an alarm which effectually roused the sleepers.
My organs were 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 experiments. For some time I adhered,
with laudable forbearance, to this resolution.




THE TRANSFORMATION


229


"My life has been a life of hardship and exposure. In
the summer I prefer to make my 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 which so many picturesque
beauties and rural delights were assembled as at Mettingen.
No corer of your little domain 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 water-fall, 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
scene 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 habitation,
and was made acquainted by Judith, with your unusual
absence. I half suspected the true cause, and felt uneasiness at the danger there was that I should be deprived of
my retreat; or, at least, interrupted in the possession of it.
The girl, likewise, 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
easily 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 was, that, in future,
this spot would be cautiously shunned by you.
"I entered the recess with the utmost caution, and discovered, by your breathings, in what condition you were.
The unexpected interpretation which you placed upon my




230


WIELAND, OR


former proceeding, suggested my conduct on the present
occasion. The mode in which heaven is said by the poet,
to interfere for the prevention of crimes,1 was somewhat
analogous to my province, and never failed to occur to me
at seasons like this. It was requisite to break your slumbers, and for this end I uttered the powerful monosyllable,
"hold! hold!" My purpose was not prescribed by duty,
yet surely it was far from being atrocious and inexpiable.
To effect it, I uttered what was false, but it was well suited
to my purpose. Nothing 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 specimen of human powers that was wholly new to me.
My intercourse with your servant 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 observation of your domestic was guided
by me.
("-Peeps through the blanket of the dark, and cries
Hold! hold! "-SHAKESPEARE.-Browiz's Note.




THE TRANSFORMATION


231


"You will not be surprized that I should sometimes
profit by your absence, and adventure to examine 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, was brighter than my 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 dangerousness
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 my powers was the sole or the best means
of escape.




232


WIELAND, OR


"On that memorable night on which our last interview
took place, I came as usual to Mettingen. I was apprized
of your engagement at your brother's, from which you did
not expect to return till late. Some incident 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. Such were the motives that
induced me to make this attempt. Judith had disappeared, 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 below. I was at a loss who it
could be, whether you or your servant. Doubtful, however, as I was, I conceived 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 detection, and
ruminated without ceasing, on the behaviour which it
would be proper, in case of detection, to adopt. I was




THE TRANSFORMATION


233


unable to discover any consistent method of accounting
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 which betokened preparation for sleep. Instead of this I heard
deep-drawn sighs, and occasionally a half-expressed 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. Inquietude 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 knew not what. I
fostered the persuasion that you would now retire to bed;
but presently you approached the closet, and detection
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 would involve
me. I felt an irreconcilable aversion to detection. 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



234


WIELAND, OR


ment was inexplicable, but the relief it afforded me was
quickly gone. You returned, and I once more was thrown
into perplexity. The expedient that suggested itself was
precipitate and inartificial. 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, how was my astonishment increased when I heard your exclamations!
"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 have I felt
deeper mortification, and more painful perplexity. I did
not consider that the truth would be less injurious than
any lie which I could hastily frame. Conscious as I was
of a certain degree of guilt, I conceived that you would
form the most odious suspicions. The truth would be
imperfect, unless I were likewise to explain the mysterious
admonition which had been given; but that explanation
was of too great moment, and involved too extensive consequences to make me suddenly resolve to give it.
"I was aware that this discovery would 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 impossible. But
the mere truth would be sufficiently opprobrious, and
deprive me for ever of your good opinion.
"Thus was I rendered desperate, and my mind rapidly
passed to the contemplation of the use that might be made
of previous events. Some good genius would appear 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




THE TRANSFORMATION


235


enemy, and pretend that celestial interference 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 explication of the
scene thatfollowed. 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 wantonly 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 was always
in my power to communicate 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 fo; 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 villain. I may complete this mysterious plan by some new imposture, but I
cannot aggravate my supposed guilt.
"My resolution was formed, and I was swiftly ruminating on the means for executing it, when Pleyel appeared




236


WIELAND, OR


in sight. This incident decided my conduct. It was plain
that Pleyel was a devoted lover, but he was, at the same
time, a man of cold resolves and               To
deceive him would be the sweetest triumph I had ever
enjoyed. The deception would be momentary, but it
would likewise 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, towards the house. I was hurried onward
involuntarily and by a mechanical impulse. I followed
him as he passed the recess in the bank, and shrowding
myself in that spot, I counterfeited sounds which I knew
would arrest his steps.
"He stopped, turned, listened, approached, and overheard a dialogue whose 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 personal history and most secret
thoughts, my efforts were the more successful. When I
reviewed 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 an one, no evidence, methought, would suffice to convince him who
knew you so thoroughly as Pleyel; and yet the imposture
amounted to proof which the most jealous scrutiny would
find to be unexceptionable.




THE TRANSFORMATION


237


"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 thus
far began to subside. The remembrance of former reasonings and transactions was renewed. How 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 with the most vehement terrors: I had filled your mind with faith in shadows
and confidence in dreams: I had depraved 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 jealousy with regard to me had already been excited, and who, therefore, would not fail to
overrate the force of this evidence. What fatal act of despair or of vengeance might not this error produce?
"With regard to myself, I had acted with a phrenzy
that surpassed belief. I had warred against my peace and
my fame: I had banished myself from the fellowship 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 and tumultuous
regrets. The night passed away in this state of confusion;




238


238      WIELAND, OR


and next morning in the gazette lef t 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 complicated 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 my 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 now perceived that my precautions had been wise, for
that the intervention of an ocean was insufficient for my
security.
"Let me not dwell on the sensations which this discovery
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.
"Having gained this interview, I purposed to seek some
retreat in the wilderness, inaccessible to your inquiry and
to the malice of my foe, where I might henceforth 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 would make of the opportunity which this proposal
afforded you of procuring the seizure of my person; but




THE TRANSFORMATION


239


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 of
Mettingen: I approached your habitation at the appointed
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 period in our intercourse, removed this impediment. I ascended to the first floor, but
met with no one, nor any thing that indicated the presence
of an 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 any one
within would subject me; I therefore called out in my own
voice, but so modified that it should appear to ascend from
the court below, 'Who is in the chamber? Is 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 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 surprize me. My approach had
been wary, and the silence that ensued my call had likewise preceded it; a circumstance that tended to dissipate
my fears.




240


WIELAND, OR


"At length it occurred to me that Judith might possibly
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 deserted. 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 spectacle to which my conceptions
of horror had not yet reached.
"In the midst of shuddering and trepidation, the signal
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 anly suspicions, however
enormous. It was plain that this catastrophe 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 unconquerable, and perceived that the end for which I sought an interview was
not now to be accomplished.
"In this state of things it was likewise expedient to conceal my being within. I put out the light and hurried down
stairs. To my unspeakable surprize, notwithstanding
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 so little
foreseen, I was again subjected to the empire of mechanical




THE TRANSFORMATION:241


and habitual impulses. I dreaded the efects 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 untoward fate, your eyes were cast back, and you saw me in
the very act of utterance. I fled through the darksome
avenue at which I entered, covered with the shame of this
detection.
"With diligence, stimulated by a thousand ineffable
emotions, I pursued my intended journey. I have a
brother whose farm is situated in the bosom of a fertile
desert, near the sources of the Leheigh, and thither I 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 moment when
you attempted to open it. How could you have otherwise
remained so long in the chamber apparently fearless and
tranquil? And yet, having made this discovery, how could
you persist in dragging me forth: persist in defiance of an
interdiction so emphatical and solemn?
"But your sister's death was an event detestable 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 will



242


WIELAND, OR


ing to defer. it till the task which I had set myself was
finished. That being done, I resumed the resolution. The
motives to incite me to this continually acquired force.
The more I revolved the events happening at Mettingen,
the more insupportable and ominous my terrors beca'me.
My waking hours and my sleep were vexed by dismal
presages and frightful intimations.
"Catharine was dead by violence. Surely my malignant
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 controul, and which experience had shewn me
was infinite in power? Every day might add to the catalogue of horrors of which this was the source, and a seasonable disclosure of the truth might prevent numberless ills.
"Fraught with 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 incurable grief, and of
rapid decay.
"I have uttered the truth. This is the extent of my
offences. You tell me an horrid tale of Wieland being
led to the destruction of his wife 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
was unknown to me till now; nay, it is still unknown to
me."
At that moment, the closing of a door in the 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
word that he had uttered. I had no breath to interrupt


k




THE TRANSFORMATION


243


this 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 voice and face which I heard
and saw. He attempts to give an 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 bad him begone if the silence had not
been interrupted; but now I feared no more for myself;
and the milkiness of my nature was curdled into hatred 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 had hitherto exerted, would avail to rescue him from any 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 sometimes at
the closet, sometimes at the window, and sometimes 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 respecting
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 eves and




244


2WIELAND, OR


the eyes of Carwin were, at the same moment, darted upon
him. A second glance was not needed to inform us who
he was. His locks were tangled, and fell confusedly 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 tomr 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 with 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 recognize 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 unconscious of his presence.
Grief at this scene of ruin and blast was at first the only
sentiment of which I was conscious. A fearful stillness ensued. At length Wieland, 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. Dastardly
wretch! thus eternally questioning the behests of thy
Maker! weak in resolution! wayward in faith!"
He advanced to me, and, after another pause, resumed:
"Poor girl! a dismal fate has set its mark upon thee. Thy




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245


life is demanded as a sacrifice. Prepare thee to die. Make
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 phrenzy, 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. My life was in danger, and my
brother's hand was about to be embrued in my blood. I
firmly believed that Carwin's was the instigation. I could
rescue me from this abhorred fate; I could dissipate 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 persh  These
tioughts gave strength to my limbs, and energy to my
accents: I started on my feet:
"O 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.
He is leagued with hell, but will not avow it; yet he confesses that the agency was his."
My brother turned slowly his eyes, and fixed them upon
Carwin. Every joint in the frame of the latter trembled.
His complexion was paler than a ghost's. His 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




246


WIELAND, OR


has been made. Answer it. The visage-the voice-at
the bottom of these stairs-at the hour of eleven-To
whom 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 abundant
testimonies of his guilt. But what if Wieland should be
undeceived! What if he shall find his acts to have proceeded not from an heavenly prompter, but from human
treachery! Will not his rage mount into whirlwind? Will
not he tare limb from limb this devoted wretch?
Instinctively I recoiled from this image, but it gave 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 precipitation, and these, it was necessary, if possible, to prevent.
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 resumed, addressing himself to
Carwin. "Answer me; whose form-whose voice-was
it. thy contrivance? Answer me."
The answer was now given, but confusedly and scarcely




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247


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 wear the same aspect. His eyes were downcast:
he was motionless: his respiration became hoarse, like that
of a man in the agonies of death. Carwin seemed unable
to say more. He 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. He broke silence. The stoutest heart would have
been appalled by the tone in which he spoke. He addressed himself to Carwin.
"Why 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 controul. Begone!1"
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 words more and I lay aside the pen for ever. Yet
why should I not relinquish it now? All that I have said is
preparatory to this scene, and my fingers, tremulous and




248


WIELAND, OR


cold as my heart, refuse any further exertion. This must
not be. Let my last energies support 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 havock 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 which I had endured, compared
with those inflicted on my brother, were as nothing. I
thirsted for his blood, and was tormented with an insatiable appetite for iiis destruction; yet my brother was unmoved, and had dismissed him in safety. Surely thou
wast more than man, while I am sunk below the beasts.
Did I place a right construction on the conduct of Wieland? Was the error that misled him so easily rectified?
Were views so vivid and faith so strenuous thus liable to
fading and to change? Was there not reason to doubt the
accuracy of my perceptions? With images like these was
my mind thronged, till the deportment 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




THE TRANSFORMIATION 2


2149


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 summoningthe  essenerwho had formerly
communed with him, to attest the value of those new
doubts. In vain the summons 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
power to lift my eyes to his face: I was dubious of his
purpose: this purpose might aim at my life.
Alas! nothing but subjection to danger, and exposure to
temptation, can show us what 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; yet 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, however monstrous.
Can I bear to think-can I endure to relate the outrage
which my heart meditated? Where were my 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 my mind: where then were my hopes of rescue?
Methinks it is too much. I stand aside, as it were, from
myself; I estimate my own deservings; a hatred, immortal
and inexorable, is my due. I listen to my own pleas, and
find them empty and false: yes, I acknowledge that my
guilt surpasses that of all mankind: I confess that the




250


WIELAND, OR


curses of a world, and the frowns of a deity, are inadequate
to my 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
fmade 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.
0, 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 towering in virtue!
He was probably unconscious of my design, but presently
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. He 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 profound 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 contracted into
folds, eyes dim with unbidden drops, and a ruefulness of
aspect which no words can describe, were now visible.




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251


His looks touched into energy the same sympathies in
me, and I poured forth a flood of tears. This passion 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. What thinkest
thou? Shall I not do better in the next?"
I could make no answer. The mildness of his tone astonished and encouraged me. I continued to regard him with
wistful and anxious looks.
"I think," resumed he, "I will try. My wife and my
babes have gone before. Happy wretches! I have sent
you to repose, and ought not to linger behind."
These words 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. He
quickly noticed my fears, and comprehended them.
Stretching towards me his hand, with an air of increasing
mildness: "Take it," said he: "Fear not for thy own
sake, nor for mine. The cup is gone by, and its transient
inebriation is succeeded by the soberness of truth.
"Thou angel whom I was wont to worship! fearest thou,
my sister, for thy life? Once it was the scope of my
labours to destroy thee, but I was prompted to the deed
by heaven; such, at least, was my belief. Thinkest thou
that thy death was sought to gratify malevolence? No.
I am pure from all stain. I believed that my God was 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 man. If a
devil has deceived me, he came in the habit of an angel. If
I erred, it was not my judgment that deceived me, but




252


WIELAND, OR


my senses. In thy sight, being of beings! I am still pure.
Still will I look for my reward in thy justice! "
Did my ears truly report these sounds? If I did not err,
my brother was restored to just perceptions. He knew
himself to have been betrayed to the murder of his wife
and children, to have been the victim of infernal artifice;
yet he found consolation in the rectitude of his motives.
He was not devoid of sorrow, for this was 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 rashness and my criminal despair, I doubted whether any one could be stedfast and
wise.
Such was my weakness, that even in the midst of these
thoughts, my mind glided into abhorrence of Carwin, and I
uttered in a low voice, 0! Carwin! Carwin! What hast
thou to answer for?
My brother immediately noticed the involuntary exclamation: "Clara!" said he, "be thyself. Equity used
to be a theme for thy eloquence. Reduce its lessons to
practice, and be just to that unfortunate man. The instrument has done its work, and I am satisfied.
"I thank thee, nl asiminatio! My
enemy is thine also. I deemed him to be man, the man
with whom 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. His mournful




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253


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 thee 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. He left us at my
bidding, and I put up a prayer that my doubts should be
removed. Thy eyes were 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 daemon. The visage and voice which
urged me to the sacrifice of my family, were his. Now he
personates a human form: then he was invironed with the
lustre of heaven."Clara," he continued, advancing closer to me, "thy
death must come. This minister is evil, but he from whom
his commission was received is God. Submit then with all
thy wonted resignation to a decree that cannot be reversed
or resisted. Mark 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 scene exists only in memory, when
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 was unconquerably
averse to death; but death, imminent and full of agony
as that which was threatened, was nothing. This was not
the only or chief inspirer of my fears.
For him, not for myself, was my soul tormented. I
might die, and no crime, surpassing the reach of mercy,
would pursue me to the presence of my Judge; but my




:254


WIELAND, OR


assassin would survive to contemplate his deed, and that
assassin was Wieland!
Wings to bear me beyond his reach I had not. I could
not vanish with a thought. The door was open, but my
murderer was interposed between that and me. Of selfdefence I was incapable. The phrenzy 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. My sight became confused; my limbs were
seized with convulsion; I spoke, but my words were halfformed:"Spare me, my brother! Look down, righteous Judge!
snatch me from this fate! take away this fury from him,
or turn it elsewhere!"
Such was the agony of my thoughts, that I noticed not
steps entering my apartment. Supplicating eyes were cast
upward, but when my prayer was breathed, I once more
wildly gazed at the door. A form met my sight: I shuddered as if the God whom I invoked were present. It was
Carwin that again intruded, and who stood before me,
erect in attitude, and stedfast in look!
The sight of him awakened new and rapid thoughts.
His recent tale was remembered: his magical transitions
and mysterious energy of voice. Whether he were infernal or miraculous, or human, there was no power and
no need to decide. Whether the contriver or not of this
spell, he was able to unbind it, and to check the fury of
my brother. He had ascribed to himself intentions not
malignant. Here now was afforded a test of his truth.
Let him interpose, as from above; revoke the savage decree
which the madness of Wieland has assigned to heaven,
and extinguish for ever this passion for blood!
My mind detected at a glance this avenue to safety. The




THE TRANSFORMATION


255


recommendatiohs it possessed thronged as it were together,
and made but one impression on my intellect. Remoter
effects and collateral dangers I saw not. Perhaps the
pause of an instant had sufficed to call them up. The
improbability that the influence which governed Wieland
was external or human; the tendency of this stratagem
to sanction so fatal an error, or substitute a more destructive rage in place of this; the sufficiency of Carwin's mere
muscular forces to counteract the efforts, and restrain the
fury of Wieland, might, at a second glance, have been discovered; but no second glance was allowed. My first
thought hurried me to action, and, fixing my eyes upon
Carwin I exclaimed"0 wretch! once more hast thou come? Let it be to
abjure thy malice; to counterwork this hellish stratagem;
to turn from me and from my brother, this desolating rage!
"Testify thy innocence or thy remorse: exert the powers
which 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 adjure thee, by that God
whose voice thou hast dared to counterfeit, to save my
life!
"Wilt thou then go? leave me! Succourless!"
Carwin listened to my intreaties unmoved, and turned
from me. He seemed to hesitate a moment: then glided
through the door. Rage and despair stifled my utterance.
The interval of respite was passed; 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
now it seized again my attention, and I grasped it with
force.
He seemed to notice not the entrance or exit of Carwin.




256


WIELAND, OR


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 withdrawn; fury
kindled in every feature; all that was human in his face
gave way to an expression supernatural and tremendous.
I felt my left arm within his grasp.Even now I hesitated to strike. I shrunk from his
assault, but in vain.Here let me desist. Why should I rescue this event from
oblivion? Why should I paint this detestable conflict?
Why not terminate at once this series of horrors?-Hurry
to the verge of the precipice, and cast myself for ever beyond remembrance and beyond hope?
Still I live: with this load upon my breast; with this
phantom to pursue my steps; with adders lodged in my
bosom, and stinging me to madness: still I consent to live!
Yes, I will rise above the sphere of mortal passions: I
will spurn at the cowardly remorse that bids me seek impunity in silence, or comfort in forgetfulness. My nerves
shall be new strung to the task. Have I not resolved? I
will die. The gulph 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 performance of this
deed. Already was the energy awakened, and the impulse
given, that should bear the fatal steel to his heart, whenWieland shrunk back: his hand was withdrawn. Breathless with affright and desperation, I stood, freed from his
grasp; unassailed; untouched.
Thus long had the power which controuled the scene




THE TRANSFORMATION


257


forborne to interfere; but now his might was irresistible,
and Wieland in a moment was disarmed of all his purposes.
A voice, louder than human organs could produce, shriller
than language can depict, burst from the ceiling, and commanded him-to hold!
Trouble and dismay succeeded to the stedfastness that
had lately been displayed in the looks of Wieland. His
eyes roved from one quarter to another, with an expression
of doubt. He seemed to wait for a further intimation.
Carwin's agency was here easily recognized. I had besought him to interpose in my defence. He 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.
Why did he not forbear when this end was accomplished?
Why did his misjudging zeal and accursed precipitation
overpass that limit? Or meant he thus to crown the scene,
and conduct his inscrutable plots to this consummation?
Such ideas were the fruit of subsequent contemplation.
This moment was pregnant with fate. I had no power
to reason. In the career of my tempestuous thoughts, rent
into pieces, as my mind was, by accumulating horrors,
Carwin was 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 were
uttered from above:
"Man of errors! cease to cherish thy delusion: not
heaven or hell, but thy senses have misled thee to commit
these acts. Shake off thy phrenzy, and ascend into rational
and human. Be lunatic no longer."
My brother opened his lips to speak. His tone was terrific and faint. He muttered an appeal to heaven. It was




258


WIELAND, OR


difficult to comprehend 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 affirmative.
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 wifea loss for which he was indebted to his own misguided hand;
Wieland was transformed at once into the man of sorrows!
He reflected not tF-atc^rfesdifosIuTdbe as-reasonably
denied to the last, as to any former intimation; that one
might as justly be ascribed to erring or diseased senses as
the other. He saw not that this discovery in no degree
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. Words he had none. Now
he sat upon the floor, motionless in all his limbs, with his
eyes glazed and fixed; a monument of woe.
Anon a spirit of tempestuous but undesigning activity
seized him. He rose from his place and strode across the
floor, tottering and at random. His eyes were without
moisture, and gleamed with the fire that consumed his
vitals. The muscles of his face were agitated by convulsion. His lips moved, but no sound escaped him.
That nature should long sustain this conflict was not to
be believed. My state was little different from that of
my brother. I entered, as it were, into his thought. My




THE TRANSFORMATION '


259


heart was visited and rent by his pangs-Oh that thy
phrenzy 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! that death would
cover thee with his oblivion!
What 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 paricide and savage! Can Iwish 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 opposite
sides of his head with a force sufficient to crush it into
pieces; it was to tear his mind from self-contemplation;
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, my 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. His 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
stream 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 spectacle
like this was it my fate to be reserved! Thy eyes were
closed-thy face ghastly with death-thy arms, and the
spot where thou liedest, floated in thy life's blood! These




260


WIELAND, OR


images 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. My voice summoned him to my aid; but I
scarcely noticed his re-entrance, and now faintly recollect
his terrified looks, his broken exclamations, his vehement
avowals 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. His guilt was a point to which I was indifferent. Ruffian or devil, black as hell or bright as
angels, thencefofrth'he was nothing to me. I was incapable
of sparing a look or a thought from the ruin that was
spread at my feet.
When he left me, I was scarcely conscious of any variation in the scene. He informed the inhabitants of the hut
of what had passed, and they flew to the spot. Careless of
his own safety, he hasted to the city to inform my friends
of my condition.
My uncle speedily arrived at the house. The body of
Wieland was removed from my presence, and they supposed that I would follow it; but no, my home is ascertained; here I have taken up my rest, and never wilLI go
hence, till, like Wieland, I am borne to my grave.
Importunit-y was] tried n -vain: they threatened to remove me by violence-nay, violence was 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 were ineffectual.
My repugnance to move gave birth to ferociousness and
phrenzy when force was employed, and they were obliged
to consent to my return.
They besought me-they remonstrated-they appealed




THE TRANSFORMATION


26i


to every duty that connected me with him that made me,
and with my fellow-men-in vain. While I live I will not
go hence. Have I not fulfilled my destiny?
Why will ye torment me with your reasonings and reproofs? Can ye restore to me the hope of my better days?
Can ye give me back Catharine and her babes? Can ye
recall to life him who died at my feet?
I will eat-I will drink-I will lie 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 beseech you, so
slight a boon.
Talk not to me, 0 my revered 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 havock
was produced by an illusion of the senses. Be it so: I care
not from what source these disasters have flowed; it suffices that they have swallowed up our hopes and our existence.
What 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 quick deliverance from
life and all the ills that attend it.Go wretch! torment me not with thy presence and thy
prayers.-Forgive thee? Will that avail thee when thy
fateful hour shall arrive? Be thou acquitted at thy own
tribunal, and 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 wouldest not behold my death!




262


WIELAND, OR


Thou art gone! murmuring and reluctant! And now my
repose is coming-my work is done!
CHAPTER XXVII
[Written three years after the foregoing, and dated at Montpellier.]
I IMAGINED that I had forever laid aside the pen; and
that I should take up my abode in this part of the world,
was of all events the least probable. My destiny I believed to be accomplished, and I looked forward to a speedy
termination of my life with the fullest confidence.
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 impossible, 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 will obliterate the deepest impressions. 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 with disdain; yet, as day follows day, the turbulence of our emotions shall subside, and our fluctuations
be finally succeeded by a calm.
Perhaps, however, the conquest of despair was chiefly
owing to an accident which rendered my continuance in
my own house impossible. At the conclusion of my long,
and, as I then supposed, my last letter to you, I mentioned my resolution to-wait for death in the very spot




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263


which had been the principal scene of my misfortunes.
From 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
memorials of the fate of my family, would tend to foster
my disease. A swift 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 constitution
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 dissuaded me from this task; but his remonstrances were as
fruitless on this head as they had been on others. They
would have withheld from me the implements of writing;
but they quickly perceived that to withstand would be
more injurious than to comply with my wishes. Having
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 with wonder and humiliation. 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 which only I could be instrumental to
the benefit of others; that the exercise of the social and
beneficent affections, the contemplation of nature and the




264


WIELAND, OR


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 was owing to my fortitude or to my capacity for instruction. Better thoughts
grew up in my mind imperceptibly. I cannot but congratulate myself on the change, though, 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. My uncle took up his abode with
me, 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 tranquillity, however, 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 phantastical incongruities that pestered me.
My uncle, Wieland, Pleyel and Carwin were successively
and momently discerned amidst the storm. Sometimes
I was swallowed up by whirlpools, or caught up in the air
by half-seen and gigantic forms, and thrown upon pointed
rocks, or cast among the billows. Sometimes gleams of
light were shot into a dark abyss, on the verge of which
I was standing, and enabled me to discover, for a moment,
its enormous depth and hideous precipices. Anon, I was
transported to some ridge of AEtna, and made a terrified
spectator of its fiery torrents and its pillars of smoke.
However strange it may seem, I was conscious, even
during my dream, of my real situation. I knew myself to
be asleep, and struggled to break the spell, by muscular
exertions. These did not avail, and I continued to suffer
these abortive creations till a loud voice, at my bed side,




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265


and some one shaking me with violence, put an end to my
reverie. My eyes were unsealed, and I started from my
pillow.
My chamber was filled with smoke, which, though in
some degree luminous, would permit me to see nothing,
and by which I was nearly suffocated. The crackling of
flames, and the deafening clamour of voices without,
burst upon my ears. Stunned as I was by this hubbub,
scorched with heat, and nearly choaked by the accumulating vapours, I was unable to think dr act for my own
preservation; I was incapable, indeed, of comprehending
my danger.
I was caught up, in an instant, by a pair of sinewy arms,
borne to the window, and carried down 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 embers
had been placed in a barrel in the cellar of the building.
The barrel had caught fire; this was communicated to the
beams of the lower floor, and thence to the upper part of
the structure. It was 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 condition was overlooked till my
escape was rendered nearly impossible.
My danger being known, and a ladder quickly procured,
one of the spectators ascended to my chamber, and effected my deliverance in the manner before related.
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 which had seized my faculties. The monotonous and gloomy series of my thoughts




266


WIELAND, OR


was broken. My habitation was levelled with the ground,
and I was obliged to seek a new one. A new train of images, disconnected with the fate of my family, forced itself
on my attention, and a belief insensibly sprung up, that
tranquillity, if not happiness, was still within my reach.
Notwithstanding the shocks which my frame had endured,
the anguish of my thoughts no sooner abated than I recovered my health.
I now willingly listened to my uncle's solicitations to be
the companion of his voyage. Preparations were easily
made, and after a tedious passage, we set our feet on the
shore of the ancient world. The memory of the past did
not forsake me; but the melancholy which it generated, and
the tears with which it filled my eyes, where not unprofitable. My curiosity was revived, and I contemplated,
with ardour, the spectacle of living manners and the monuments of past ages.
In proportion as my heart was reinstated in the possession 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 woman, and made his residence
in the neighbourhood of Boston. I was glad that circumstances would not permit an interview 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 fortitude, cured me, in some degree,
of this folly. I continued 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 opinion of the
latter. Though separated so widely our correspondence




THE TRANSFORMATION


267


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 an half elapsed when Theresa was snatched
from him by death, in the hour in which she gave him the
first pledge of their mutual affection. This event was
borne by him with his customary fortitude. It induced
him, however, to make a change in his plans. He disposed
of his property in America, and joined my uncle and me,
who had terminated the wanderings of two years at Montpellier, which will henceforth, I believe, be our permanent
abode.
If you reflect upon that entire confidence which had subsisted from our infancy between Pleyel and myself; on
the passion that I had contracted, and which was merely
smothered for a time; and on the esteem which was mutual,
you will not, perhaps, be surprized 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 remembrance of Theresa, to whom he had
been bound by ties more of honor than of love, he tendered
his affections to me. I need not add that the tender was
eagerly accepted.
Perhaps you are somewhat interested in the fate of Carwin. He saw, when too late, the danger of imposture. So
much affected was he by the catastrophe to which he was a
witness, that he laid aside all regard to his own safety.
He 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 Mr. Cambridge, who imputed to




2,68


WIELAND, OR


maniacal illusion the conduct of Wieland, though he conceived the previous and unseen agency of Carwin, to have
indirectly but powerfully predisposed to this deplorable
perversion of mind.
It was easy for Carwin to elude the persecutions of
Ludloe. It was merely requisite to hide himsdlf in a remote
district of Pennsylvania. This, when he parted from us,
he determined to do. He is now probably engaged 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 thoughtlessly inflicted.
More urgent considerations hindered me from mentioning, 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. His southern journies being finished,
he returned to Philadelphia. Before he reached the city
he left the highway, 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, shewed him that the
mansion was deserted.
He proceeded thence to my habitation, which he found,
in like manner, gloomy and tenantless. His surprize may
be easily conceived. The rustics who occupied the hut
told him an imperfect and incredible tale. He hasted
to the city, and extorted from Mrs. Baynton a full disclosure of late disasters.
He was inured to adversity, and recovered, after no long
time, from the shocks produced by this disappointment of
his darling scheme. Our intercourse did not terminate




THE TRANSFORMATION:z69


with 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 disappearance of his
wife, in the manner which I formerly related to you.
I have dwelt upon the ardour of their conjugal attachment, and mentioned that no suspicion had ever glanced
upon her purity. This, though the belief was long cherished, recent discoveries have shewn to be questionable.
No doubt her integrity would have survived to the
present moment, if an extraordinary fate had not befallen
her.
Major Stuart had been engaged, while in Germany, in
a contest of honor with an Aid de Camp of the Marquis of
Granby. His adversary had propagated a rumour injurious to his character. A challenge was sent; a meeting
ensued; and Stuart wounded and disarmed the calumniator. The offence was atoned for, and his life secured by
suitable concessions.
Maxwell, that was his name, shortly after, in consequence of succeeding to a rich inheritance, sold his commission and returned to London. His fortune was speedily
augmented by an opulent marriage. Interest was his sole
inducement to this marriage, though the lady had been
swayed by a credulous affection. The true state of his
heart was quickly discovered, and a separation, by mutual
consent, took place. The lady withdrew to an estate in a
distant county, and Maxwell continued to consume his
time and fortune in the dissipation of the capital.
Maxwell, though deceitful and sensual, possessed great
force of mind and specious accomplishments. He contrived to mislead the generous mind of Stuart, and to
regain the esteem which his misconduct, for a time, had
forfeited. He was recommended by her husband to the
confidence of Mrs. Stuart. Maxwell was stimulated by




270


WIELAND, OR


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 which time had
produced, her maturity in age and knowledge of the world
-all combined to render this attempt hopeless. Maxwell,
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
subtile, and the influence of false reasoning, when enforced
by eloquence and passion, so unbounded, that no human
virtue is secure from degeneracy. 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 withdrawn from her husband and transferred to him.
She could not, as yet, be reconciled to dishonor. All efforts to induce her to elope with him were ineffectual.
She permitted herself to love, and to avow her love; but
at this limit she stopped, and was immoveable.
Hence this revolution in her sentiments was productive
only of despair. Her rectitude of principle preserved 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. Maxwell,
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 invincible 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 revealing facts which




THE TRANSFORMATION


27I


the artifices of her seducer had hitherto concealed from her.
Mrs. Maxwell had been prompted to this disclosure by a
knowledge 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 husband'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 Maxwell,
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 communication. 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. Maxwell's abode was situated on the banks of the
Wey. Stuart was her kinsman; their youth had been spent
together; and Maxwell 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 between them was
occasioned by a tour which the latter had undertaken, in
the year after his return from America, to Wales, and the
western counties. This interview produced pleasure and
regret in each. Their own transactions 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 well as for the
safety of her husband, persuaded her to concealment; but
the former being dead, and the latter being out of the kingdom, she ventured to produce Mrs. Stuart's letter, and to




27:2


WIELAND, OR


communicate her own knowledge of the treachery of Maxwell. 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 passion refused to adhere to it.
At this time my uncle and I resided at Avignon. Among
the English resident there, and with whom we maintained
a social intercourse, was Maxwell. This man's talents and
address rendered him a favorite both with my uncle and
myself. He 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 was unable to judge.
He was one in a large circle at a villa in the environs, to
which I had likewise been invited, when Stuart abruptly
entered the apartment. He was recognized with genuine
satisfaction by me, and with seeming pleasure by Maxwell.
In a short time, some affair of moment being pleaded,
which required an immediate and exclusive 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 himself in vain
to prevent an hostile meeting, consented to attend them as
a surgeon.-Next morning, at sun-rise, was the time chosen.
I returned early in the evening to my lodgings. Preliminaries 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




THE TRANSFORMATION


273


molestation, 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 discovered; but the details communicated by Stuart, respecting the history of Maxwell, naturally pointed him out as an
object of suspicion. No one expressed more concern, on account of this disaster, than he; and he pretended an ardent
zeal to vindicate his character from the aspersions that were
cast upon it. Thenceforth, however, I denied myself to his
visits; and shortly after he disappeared from this scene.
Few possessed more estimable qualities, and a better
title to happiness and the tranquil honors of long life,
than the mother and 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. Maxwell 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, that 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 Wieland 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.




I




MEMOIRS OF CARWIN, THE BILOQUIST1
I WAS the second son of a farmer, whose place of residence
was a western district of Pennsylvania. My eldest brother
seemed fitted by nature for the employment to which he
was destined. His wishes never led him astray from the
hay-stack and the furrow. His ideas never ranged beyond
the sphere of his vision, or suggested the possibility that
to-morrow could differ from to-day. He could read and
write, because he had no alternative between learning the
lesson prescribed to him, and punishment. He was diligent, as long as fear urged him forward, but his exertions
ceased with the cessation of this motive. The limits of
his acquirements consisted in signing his name, and spelling out a chapter in the bible.
My character was the reverse of his. My thirst of
knowledge was augmented in proportion as it was supplied
with gratification. The more I heard or read, the more
restless and unconquerable my curiosity became. My
lThe English edition of this fragment, issued in 1822, had the
following prefatory statement:
"The deep interest excited by the works of this Author, already
known in England, arises chiefly from the skill with which he has
developed the hidden springs and complicated machinery of human
actions; and from the talent he has displayed in tracing the intricacies of the chain which connects causes apparently trivial with
stupendous events. Unlike most other writers, his modes of thinking, the systems of ratiocination with which he invests his characters, and the peculiarities arising from the state of society in which
his scenes are laid, are more the objects of our admiration or attention than the incidents or themes of his fictions. The incomplete
state, in which some of the following posthumous pieces have been
left, is therefore the less to be regretted."
275




276


MEMOIRS OF CARWIN,


senses were perpetually alive to novelty, my fancy teemed
with visions of the future, and my attention fastened upon
every thing mysterious or unknown.
My father intended that my knowledge should keep
pace with that of my brother, but conceived that all beyond
the mere capacity to write and read was useless or pernicious. He took as much pains to keep me within these
limits, as to make the acquisitions of my brother come up
to them, but his efforts were not equally successful in both
cases. The most vigilant and jealous scrutiny was exerted
in vain: reproaches and blows, painful privations and
ignominious penances had no power to slacken my zeal
and abate my perseverance. He might enjoin upon me
the most laborious tasks, set the envy of my brother to
watch me during the performance, make the most diligent
search after my books, and destroy them without mercy,
when they were found; but he could not out-root my darling propensity. I exerted all my powers to elude his watchfulness. Censures and stripes were sufficiently unpleasing
to make me strive to avoid them. To effect this desirable
end, I was incessantly employed in the invention of stratagems and the execution of expedients.
My passion was surely not deserving of blame, and I
have frequently lamented the hardships to which it subjected me; yet, perhaps, the claims which were made upon
my ingenuity and fortitude were not without beneficial
effects upon my character.
This contention lasted from the sixth to the fourteenth
year of my age. My father's opposition to my schemes
was incited by a sincere though unenlightened desire for
my happiness. That all his efurLs were secretly eluded
or obstinately repelled, was a source of the bitterest regret.
He has often lamented, with tears, what he called my
incorrigible depravity, and encouraged himself to perse



THE BILOQUIST


277


verance by the notion of the ruin that would inevitably
overtake me if I were allowed to persist in my present
career. Perhaps the sufferings which arose to him from
the disappointment, were equal to those which he inflicted on me.
In my fourteenth year, events happened which ascertained my future destiny. One evening I had been sent
to bring cows from a meadow, some miles distant from my
father's mansion. My time was limited, and I was menaced with severe chastisement if, according to my custom,
I should stay beyond the period assigned.
For some time these menaces rung in my ears, and I
went on my way with speed. I arrived at the meadow,
but the cattle had broken the fence and escaped. It was
my duty to carry home the earliest tidings of this accident,
but the first suggestion was to examine the cause and
manner of this escape. The field was bounded by cedar
railing. Five of these rails were laid horizontally from post
to post. The upper one had been broken in the middle,
but the rest had merely been drawn out of the holes on
one side, and rested with their ends on the ground. The
means which had been used for this end, the reason why
one only was broken, and that one the uppermost, how a
pair of horns could be so managed as to effect that which
the hands of man would have found difficult, supplied a
theme of meditation.
Some accident recalled me from this reverie, and reminded me how much time had thus been consumed. I
was terrified at the consequences of my delay, and sought
with eagerness how they might be obviated. I asked myself if there were not a way back shorter than that by
which I had come. The beaten road was rendered circuitous by a precipice that projected into a neighbouring
stream, and closed up a passage by which the length of the




278


MEMOIRS OF CARWIN,


way would have been diminished one half; at the foot of
the cliff the water was of considerable depth, and agitated
by an eddy. I could not estimate the danger which I
should incur by plunging into it, but I was resolved to make
the attempt. I have reason to think, that this experiment,
if it had been tried, would have proved fatal, and my
father, while he lamented my untimely fate, would have
been wholly unconscious that his own unreasonable demands had occasioned it.
I turned my steps towards the spot. To reach the edge
of the stream was by no means an easy undertaking, so
many abrupt points and gloomy hollows were interposed.
I had frequently skirted and penetrated this tract, but
had never been so completely entangled in the maze as
now: hence I had remained unacquainted with a narrow
pass, which, at the distance of an hundred yards from the
river, would conduct me, though not without danger and
toil, to the opposite side of the ridge.
This glen was now discovered, and this discovery induced me to change my plan. If a passage could be here
effected, it would be shorter and safer than that which
led through the stream, and its practicability was to be
known only by experiment. The path was narrow, steep,
and overshadowed by rocks. The sun was nearly set, and
the shadow of the cliff above, obscured the passage almost
as much as midnight would have done: I was accustomed
to despise danger when it presented itself in a sensible form,
but, by a defect common in every one's education, goblins
and spectres were to me objects of the most violent apprehensions. These were unavoidably connected with
solitude and darkness, and were present to my fears when
I entered this gloomy recess.
These terrors are always lessened by calling the attention
away to some indifferent object. I now made use of this




THE BILOQUIST


279


expedient, and began to amuse myself by hallowing as
loud as organs of unusual compass and vigour would enable me. I uttered the words which chanced to occur to
me, and repeated in the shrill tones of a Mohock savage...
"Cow! cow! come home! home!"... These notes were
of course reverberated from the rocks which on either side
towered aloft, but the echo was confused and indistinct.
I continued, for some time, thus to beguile the way,
till I reached a space more than commonly abrupt, and
which required all my attention. My rude ditty was
suspended till I had surmounted this impediment. In a
few minutes I was at leisure to renew it. After finishing
the strain, I paused. In a few seconds a voice as I then
imagined, uttered the same cry from the point of a rock
some hundred feet behind me; the same words, with equal
distinctness, and deliberation, and in the same tone, appeared to be spoken. I was startled by this incident, and
cast a fearful glance behind, to discover by whom it was
uttered. The spot where I stood was buried in dusk, but
the eminences were still invested with a luminous and
vivid twilight. The speaker, however, was concealed from
my view.
I had scarcely begun to wonder at this occurrence, when
a new occasion for wonder, was afforded me. A few seconds, in like manner, elapsed, when my ditty was again rehearsed, with a no less perfect imitation, in a different
quarter.... To this quarter I eagerly turned my eyes,
but no one was visible.... The station, indeed, which
this new speaker seemed to occupy, was inaccessible to
man or beast.
If I were surprized at this second repetition of my words,
judge how much my surprize must have been augmented,
when the same calls were a third time repeated, and coming still in a new direction. Five times was this ditty




280


MEMOIRS OF CAR"WIN,


successively resounded, at intervals nearly equal, always
from a new quarter, and with little abatement of its original distinctness and force.
A little reflection was sufficient to shew that this was
no more than an echo of an extraordinary kind. My terrors were quickly supplanted by delight. The motives to
dispatch were forgotten, and I amused myself for an hour,
with talking to these cliffs: I placed myself in new positions, and exhausted my lungs and my invention in new
clamours.
The pleasures of this new discovery were an ample
compensation for the ill treatment which I expected on
my return. By some caprice in my father I escaped merely
with a few reproaches. I seized the first opportunity of
again visiting this recess, and repeating my amusement;
time, and incessant repetition, could scarcely lessen its
charms or exhaust the variety produced by new tones
and new positions.
The hours in which I was most free from interruption
and restraint were those of moonlight. My brother and I
occupied a small room above the kitchen, disconnected,
in some degree, with the rest of the house. It was the
rural custom to retire early to bed and to anticipate the
rising of the sun. When the moonlight was strong epough
to permit me to read, it was my custom to escape from
bed, and hie with my book to some neighbouring eminence,
where I would remain stretched on the mossy rock, till
the sinking or beclouded moon, forbade me to continue
my employment. I was indebted for books to a friendly
person in the neighbourhood, whose compliance with my
solicitations was prompted partly by benevolence and
partly by enmity to my father, whom he could not more
egregiously offend than by gratifying my perverse and
pernicious curiosity.




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281


In leaving my chamber I was obliged to use the utmost
caution to avoid rousing my brother, whose temper disposed him to thwart me in the least of my gratifications.
My purpose was surely laudable, and yet on leaving the
house and returning to it, I was obliged to use the vigilance and circumspection of a thief.
One night I left my bed with this view. I posted first to
my vocal glen, and thence scrambling up a neighbouring
steep, which overlooked a wide extent of this romantic
country, gave myself up to contemplation, and the persual
of Milton's Comus.
My reflections were naturally suggested by the singularity of this echo. To hear my own voice speak at a distance
would have been formerly regarded as prodigious. To
hear too, that voice, not uttered by another, by whom
it might easily be mimicked, but by myself! I cannot
now recollect the transition which led me to the notion
of sounds, similar to these, but produced by other means
than reverberation. Could I not so dispose my organs
as to make my voice appear at a distance?
From speculation I proceeded to experiment. The idea
of a distant voice, like my own, was intimately present to
my fancy. I exerted myself with a most ardent desire, and
with something like a persuasion that I should succeed.
I started with surprize, for it seemed as if success had
crowned my attempts. I repeated the effort, but failed.
A certain position of the organs took place on the first
attempt, altogether new, unexampled and as it were,
by accident, for I could not attain it on the second experiment.
You will not wonder that I exerted myself with indefatigable zeal to regain what had once, though for so short
a space, been in my power. Your own ears have witnessed
the success of these efforts. By perpetual exertion I gained




282


MEMOIRS OF CARWIN,


it a second time, and now was a diligent observer of the
circumstances attending it. Gradually I subjected these
finer and more subtle motions to the command of my will.
What was at first difficult, by exercise and habit, was
rendered easy. I learned to accommodate my voice to
all the varieties of distance and direction.
It cannot be denied that this faculty is wonderful and
rare, but when we consider the possible modifications of
muscular motion, how few of these are usually exerted,
how imperfectly they are subjected to the will, and yet
that the will is capable of being rendered unlimited and
absolute, will not our wonder cease?
We have seen men who could hide their tongues so
perfectly that even an Anatomist, after the most accurate
inspection that a living subject could admit, has affirmed
the organ to be wanting, but this was effected by the
exertion of muscles unknown and incredible to the greater
part of mankind.
The concurrence of teeth, palate and tongue, in the
formation of speech should seem to be indispensable, and
yet men have spoken distinctly though wanting a tongue,
and to whom, therefore, teeth and palate were superfluous. The tribe of motions requisite to this end, are
wholly latent and unknown, to those who possess that
organ.
I mean not to be more explicit. I have no reason to
suppose a peculiar conformation or activity in my own
organs, or that the power which I possess may not, with
suitable directions and by steady efforts, be obtained by
others, but I will do nothing to facilitate the acquisition.
It is by far, too liable to perversion for a good man to
desire to possess it, or to teach it to another.
There remained but one thing to render this instrument
as powerful in my hands as it was capable of being. From




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283


my childhood, I was remarkably skilful at imitation.
There were few voices whether of men or birds or beasts
which I could not imitate with success. To add my ancient, to my newly acquired skill, to talk from a distance,
and at the same time, in the accents of another, was the
object of my endeavours, and this object, after a certain
number of trials, I finally obtained.
In my present situation every thing that denoted intellectual exertion was a crime, and exposed me to invectives
if not to stripes. This circumstance induced me to be
silent to all others, on the subject of my discovery. But,
added to this, was a confused belief, that it might be made
in some way instrumental to my relief from the hardships
and restraints of my present condition. For some time I
was not aware of the mode in which it might be rendered
subservient to this end.
My father's sister was an ancient lady, resident in
Philadelphia, the relict of a merchant, whose decease left
her the enjoyment of a frugal competence. She was without children, and had often expressed her desire that her
nephew Frank, whom she always considered as a sprightly
and promising lad, should be put under her care. She
offered to be at the expence of my education, and to bequeath to me at her death her slender patrimony.
This arrangement was obstinately rejected by my father,
because it was merely fostering and giving scope to propensities, which he considered as hurtful, and because
his avarice desired that this inheritance should fall to no
one but himself. To me, it was a scheme of ravishing
felicity, and to be debarred from it was a source of anguish
known to few. I had too much experience of my father's
pertinaciousness ever to hope for a change in his views;
yet the bliss of living with my aunt, in a new and busy
scene, and in the unbounded indulgence of my literary




284


MEMOIRS OF CARWIN,


passion, continually occupied my thoughts: for a long
time these thoughts were productive only of despondency
and tears.
Time only enchanced the desirableness of this scheme;
my new faculty would naturally connect itself with these
wishes, and the question could not fail to occur whether
it might not aid me in the execution of my favourite plan.
A thousand superstitious tales were current in the family.
Apparitions had been seen, and voices had been heard on
a multitude of occasions. My father was a confident
believer in supernatural tokens. The voice of his wife,
who had been many years dead, had been twice heard at
midnight whispering at his pillow. I frequently asked
myself whether a scheme favourable to my views might
not be built upon these foundations. Suppose (thought
I) my mother should be made to enjoin upon him compliance with my wishes?
This idea bred in me a temporary consternation. To
imitate the voice of the dead, to counterfeit a commission
from heaven, bore the aspect of presumption and impiety.
It seemed an offence which could not fail to draw after it
the vengeance of the deity. My wishes for a time yielded
to my fears, but this scheme in proportion as I meditated
on it, became more plausible; no other occurred to me so
easy and so efficacious. I endeavoured to persuade myself that the end proposed, was, in the highest degree
praiseworthy, and that the excellence of my purpose would
justify the means employed to attain it.
My resolutions were, for a time, attended with fluctuations and misgivings. These gradually disappeared, and
my purpose became firm; I was next to devise the means
of effecting my views, this did not demand any tedious
deliberation. It was easy to gain access to my father's
chamber without notice or detection, cautious footsteps,




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and the suppression of breath would place me, unsuspected and unthought of, by his bed side. The words I
should use, and the mode of utterance were not easily
settled, but having at length selected these, I made myself by much previous repetition, perfectly familiar with
the use of them.
I selected a blustering and inclement night, in which
the darkness was augmented by a veil of the blackest
clouds. The building we inhabited was slight in its structure, and full of crevices through which the gale found
easy way, and whistled in a thousand cadences. On this
night the elemental music was remarkably sonorous, and
was mingled not unfrequently with thunder heard remote.
I could not divest myself of secret dread. My heart
faultered with a consciousness of wrong. Heaven seemed
to be present and to disapprove my work; I listened to
the thunder and the wind, as to the stern voice of this
disapprobation. Big drops stood on my forehead, and
my tremors almost incapacitated me from proceeding.
These impediments however I surmounted; I crept
up stairs, at midnight, and entered my father's chamber.
The darkness was intense and I sought with outstretched
hands for his bed. The darkness, added to the trepidation
of my thoughts, disabled me from making a right estimate
of distances: I was conscious of this, and when I advanced
within the room, paused.
I endeavoured to compare the progress I had made with
my knowledge of the room, and governed by the result
of this comparison, proceeded cautiously and with hands
still outstretched in search of the foot of the bed. At this
moment lightning flashed into the room: the brightness
of the gleam was dazzling, yet it afforded me an exact
knowledge of my situation. I had mistaken my way, and
discovered that my knees nearly touched the bedstead,




286


MEMOIRS OF CARWIN,


and that my hands at the next step, would have touched
my father's cheek. His closed eyes and every line in his
countenance, were painted, as it were, for an instant on
my sight.
The flash was accompanied with a burst of thunder,
whose vehemence was stunning. I always entertained a
dread of thunder, and now recoiled, overborne with terror.
Never had I witnessed so luminous a gleam and so tremendous a shock, yet my father's slumber appeared not
to be disturbed by it.
I stood irresolute and trembling; to prosecute my purpose in this state of mind was impossible. I resolved for
the present to relinquish it, and turned with a view of
exploring my way out of the chamber. Just then a light
seen through the window, caught my eye. It was at first
weak but speedily increased; no second thought was necessary to inform me that the barn, situated at a small distance from the house, and newly stored with hay, was in
flames, in consequence of being struck by the lightning.
My terror at this spectacle made me careless of all consequences relative to myself, I rushed to the bed and throwing myself on my father, awakened him by loud cries.
The family were speedily roused, and were compelled to
remain impotent spectators of the devastation. Fortunately the wind blew in a contrary direction, so that our
habitation was not injured.
The impression that was made upon me by the incidents
of that night is indelible. The wind gradually rose into
a hurricane; the largest branches were torn from the trees,
and whirled aloft into the air; others were uprooted and
laid prostrate on the ground. The barn was a spacious
edifice, consisting wholly of wood, and filled with a plenteous harvest. Thus supplied with fuel, and fanned by the
wind, the fire raged with incredible fury; meanwhile clouds




THE BILOQUIST:287


rolled above, whose blackness was rendered more conspicuous by reflection from the flames; the vast volumes
of smoke were dissipated in a moment by the storm, while
glowing fragments and cinders were borne to an immense
height, and tossed every where in wild confusion. Ever
and anon the sable canopy that hung around us was
streaked with lightning, and the peals, by which it was
accompanied were deafening, and with scarcely any intermission.
It was, doubtless, absurd to imagine any connexion between this portentous scene and the purpose that I had
meditated, yet a belief of this connexion, though wavering
and obscure, lurked in my mind; something more than a
coincidence merely casual, appeared to have subsisted
between my situation, at my father's bed side, and the
flash that darted through the window, and diverted me
from my design. It palsied my courage, and strengthened
my conviction, that my scheme was criminal.
After some- time had elapsed, and tranquillity was, in
some degree, restored in the family, my father reverted
to the circumstances in which I had been discovered on the
first alarm of this event. The truth was impossible to be
told. I felt the utmost reluctance to be guilty of a falsehood, but by falsehood only could I elude detection. That
my guilt was the offspring of a fatal necessity, that the
injustice of others gave it birth and made it unavoidable,
afforded me slight consolation. Nothing can be more
injurious than a lie, but its evil tendency chiefly respects
our future conduct. Its direct consequences may be
transient and few, but it facilitates a repetition, strengthens
temptation, and grows into habit. I pretended some
necessity had drawn me from my bed, and that discovering the condition of the barn, I hastened to inform my
father.




288


MEMOIRS OF CARWIN,


Some time after this, my father summoned me to his
presence. I had been previously guilty of disobedience
to his commands, in a matter about which he was usually
very scrupulous. My brother had been privy to my
offence, and had threatened to be my accuser. On this
occasion I expected nothing but arraignment and punishment. Weary of oppression, and hopeless of any change
in my father's temper and views, I had formed the resolution of eloping from his house, and of trusting, young as
I was, to the caprice of fortune. I was hesitating whether
to abscond without the knowledge of the family, or to
make my resolutions known to them, and while I avowed
my resolution, to adhere to it in spite of oppositions and
remonstrances I received this summons.
I was employed at this time in the field; night was approaching, and I had made no preparation for departure;
all the preparation in my power to make, was indeed small;
a few clothes, made into a bundle, was the sum of my possessions. Time would have little influence in improving
my prospects, and I resolved to execute my scheme immediately.
I left my work intending to seek my chamber, and taking
what was my own, to disappear for ever. I turned a stile
that led out of the field into a bye path, when my father
appeared before me, advancing in an opposite direction;
to avoid him was impossible, and I summoned my fortitude
to a conflict with his passion.
As soon as we met, instead of anger and unbraiding, he
told me that he had been reflecting on my aunt's proposal,
to take me under her protection, and had concluded that
the plan was proper; if I still retained my wishes on that
head, he would readily comply with them; and that if I
chose, I might set off for the city next morning, as a neighbour's waggon was preparing to go.




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I shall not dwell on the rapture with which this proposal
was listened to: it was with difficulty that I persuaded
myself that he was in earnest in making it, nor could I
divine the reasons, for so sudden and unexpected a change
in his maxims.... These I afterwards discovered.
Some one had instilled into him fears, that my aunt exasperated at his opposition to her request, respecting the
unfortunate Frank, would bequeath her property to
strangers; to obviate this evil, which his avarice prompted
him to regard as much greater than any mischief, that
would accrue to me, from the change of my abode, he
embraced her proposal.
I entered with exultation and triumph on this new scene;
my hopes were by no means disappointed. Detested
labour was exchanged for luxurious idleness. I was master
of my time, and the chuser of my occupations. My kinswoman on discovering that I entertained no relish for the
drudgery of colleges, and was contented with the means
of intellectual gratification, which I could obtain under
her roof, allowed me to pursue my own choice.
Three tranquil years passed away, during which, each
day added to my happiness, by adding to my knowledge.
My biloquial faculty was not neglected. I improved it
by an assiduous exercise; I deeply reflected on the use
to which it might be applied. I was not destitute of pure
intentions; I delighted not in evil; I was incapable of
knowingly contributing to another's misery, but the sole
or principal end of my endeavours was not the happiness
of others.
I was actuated by ambition. I was delighted to possess
superior power; I was prone to manifest that superiority,
and was satisfied if this were done, without much solicitude
concerning consequences. I sported frequently with the
apprehensions of my associates, and threw out a bait for




290


MEMOIRS OF CARWIN,


their wonder, and supplied them with occasions for the
structure of theories. It may not be amiss to enumerate
one or two adventures in which I was engaged. i.
I had taken much pains to improve the sagacity of a
favourite Spaniel. It was my purpose, indeed, to ascertain
to what degree of improvement the principles of reasoning
and imitation could be carried in a dog. There is no doubt
that the animal affixes distinct ideas to sounds. What
are the possible limits of his vocabulary no one can tell.
In conversing with my dog I did not use English words,
but selected simple monosyllables. Habit likewise enabled
him to comprehend my gestures. If I crossed my hands
on my breast he understood the signal and laid down behind me. If I joined my hands and lifted them to my
breast, he turned home. If I grasped one arm above the
elbow, he ran before me. If I lifted my hand to my forehead he trotted composedly behind. By one motion I
could make him bark; by another I could reduce him to
silence. He would howl in twenty different strains of
mournfulness at my bidding. He would fetch and carry
with undeviating faithfulness.
His actions being thus chiefly regulated by gestures,
that to a stranger would appear indifferent or casual, it
was easy to produce a belief that the animal's knowledge
was much greater than in truth, it was.
One day, in a mixed company, the discourse turned upon
the unrivalled abilities of Damon. Damon hiad, indeed,
acquired in all the circles which I frequented, an extraordinary reputation. Numerous instances of his sagacity
were quoted and some of them exhibited on the spot.
Much surprise was excited by the readiness with which
he appeared to comprehend sentences of considerable
abstraction and complexity, though, he in reality, attended
to nothing but the movements of hand or fingers with




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29r


which I accompanied my word. I enhanced the astonishment of some and excited the ridicule of others, by observing that my dog not only understood English when spoken
by others, but actually spoke the language himself, with
no small degree of precision.
This assertion could not be admitted without proof;
proof, therefore, was readily produced. At a known signal,
Damon began a low interrupted noise, in which the astonished hearers clearly distinguished English words.
A dialogue began between the animal and his master,
which was maintained, on the part of the former, with
great vivacity and spirit. In this dialogue the dog asserted the dignity of his species and capacity of intellectual improvement. The company separated lost in
wonder, but perfectly convinced by the evidence that had
been produced.
On a subsequent occasion a select company was assembled at a garden, at a small distance from the city.
Discourse glided through a variety of topics, till it lighted
at length on the subject of invisible beings. From the
speculations of philosophers we proceeded to the creations
of the poet. Some maintained the justness of Shakspeare's
delineations of aerial beings, while others denied it. By no
violent transition, Ariel and his songs were introduced,
and a lady, celebrated for her musical skill, was solicited to
accompany her pedal harp with the song of "Five fathom
deep thy father lies."... She was known to have set,
for her favourite instrument, all the songs of Shakspeare.
My youth made me little more than an auditor on
this occasion. I sat apart from the rest of the company,
and carefully noted every thing.. The track which the
conversation had taken, suggested a scheme which was
not thoroughly digested when the lady began her enchanting strain.




292


MEMOIRS OF CARWIN,


She ended and the audience were mute with rapture.
The pause continued, when a strain was wafted to our
ears from another quarter. The spot where we sat
was embowered by a vine. The verdant arch was lofty
and the area beneath was spacious.
The sound proceeded from above. At first it was
faint and scarcely audible; presently it reached a louder
key, and every eye was cast up in expectation of beholding a face among the pendant clusters. The strain was
easily recognised, for it was no other than that which
Ariel is made to sing when finally absolved from the
service of the wizard.
In the Cowslips bell I lie,
On the Bat's back I do flyAfter summer merrily; &c.
Their hearts palpitated as they listened: they gazed
at each other for a solution of the mystery. At length
the strain died away at distance, and an interval of
silence was succeeded by an earnest discussion of the
cause of this prodigy. One supposition only could be
adopted, which was, that the strain was uttered by
human organs. That the songster was stationed on
the roof of the arbour, and having finished his melody
had risen into the viewless fields of air.
I had been invited to spend a week at this house:
this period was nearly expired when I received information that my aunt was suddenly taken sick, and that
her life was in imminent danger. I immediately set
out on my return to the city, but before my arrival
she was dead.
This lady was entitled to my gratitude and esteem;
I had received the most essential benefits at her hand.
I was not destitute of sensibility, and was deeply affected




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by this event: I will own, however, that my grief was
lessened by reflecting on the consequences of her death,
with regard to my own condition. I had been ever
taught to consider myself as her heir, and her death,
therefore, would free me from certain restraints.
My aunt had a female servant, who had lived with
her for twenty years: she was married, but her husband,
who was an artizan, lived apart from her: I had no reason to suspect the woman's sincerity and disinterestedness; but my aunt was no sooner consigned to the
grave than a will was produced, in which Dorothy was
named her sole and universal heir.
It was in vain to urge my expectations and my claimsthe instrument was legibly and legally drawn up,Dorothy was exasperated by my opposition and surmises, and vigorously enforced her title. In a week
after the decease of my kinswoman, I was obliged to
seek a new dwelling. As all my property consisted in
my cloths and my papers, this was easily done.
My condition was now calamitous and forlorn. Confiding in the acquisition of my aunt's patrimony, I had
made no other provision for the future. I hated manual labour, or any task of which the object was gain.
To be guided in my choice of occupations by any motive
but the pleasure which the occupation was qualified
to produce, was intolerable to my proud, indolent, and
restive temper.
This resource was now cut off; the means of immediate subsistence were denied me: If I had determined
to acquire the knowledge of some lucrative art, the
acquisition would demand time, and, meanwhile, I
was absolutely destitute of support. My father's house
was, indeed, open to me, but I preferred to stifle myself with the filth of the kennnel, rather than return to it.




294


MEMOIRS OF CARWIN,


Some plan it was immediately necessary to adopt.
The exigence of my affairs, and this reverse of fortune,
continually occupied my thoughts; I estranged myself from society and books, and devoted myself to
lonely walks and mournful meditation.
One morning as I ranged along the bank of Schuylkill, I encountered a person, by name Ludloe, of whom
I had some previous knowledge. He was from Ireland;
was a man of some rank and apparently rich: I had
met with him before, but in mixed companies, where
little direct intercourse had taken place between us.
Our last meeting was in the arbour where Ariel was
so unexpectedly introduced.
Our acquaintance merely justified a transient salutation; but he did not content himself with noticing me
as I passed, but joined me in my walk and entered into
conversation. It was easy to advert to the occasion
on which we had last met, and to the mysterious incident which then occurred. I was solicitous to dive
into his thoughts upon this head and put some questions which tended to the point that I wished.
I was somewhat startled when he expressed his belief,
that the performer of this mystic strain was one of the
company then present, who exerted, for this end, a
faculty not commonly possessed.  Who this person
was he did not venture to guess, and I could not discover, by the tokens which he suffered to appear, that
his suspicions glanced at me. He expatiated with great
profoundness and fertility of ideas, on the uses to which
a faculty like this might be employed. No more powerful
engine, he said, could be conceived, by which the ignorant
and credulous might be moulded to our purposes; managed by a man of ordinary talents, it would open for him
the straightest and surest avenues to wealth and power.




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295


His remarks excited in my mind a new strain of thoughts.
I had not hitherto considered the subject in this light,
though vague ideas of the importance of this art could
not fail to be occasionally suggested: I ventured to
inquire into his ideas of the mode, in which an art like
this could be employed, so as to effect the purposes he
mentioned.
He dealt chiefly in general representations. Men,
he said, believed in the existence and energy of invisible
powers, and in the duty of discovering and conforming
to their will. This will was supposed to be sometimes
made known to them through the medium of their senses.
A voice coming from a quarter where no attendant
form could be seen would, in most cases, be ascribed
to supernal agency, and a command imposed on them,
in this manner, would be obeyed with religious scrupulousness. Thus men might be imperiously directed in
the disposal of their industry, their property, and even
of their lives. Men, actuated by a mistaken sense of
duty, might, under this influence, be led to the commission of the most flagitious, as well as the most heroic
acts: If it were his desire to accumulate wealth, or
institute a new sect, he should need no other instrument.
I listened to this kind of discourse with great avidity,
and regretted when he thought proper to introduce
new topices. He ended by requesting me to visit him,
which I eagerly consented to do. When left alone, my
imagination was filled with the images suggested by
this conversation. The hopelessness of better fortune,
which I had lately harboured, now gave place to cheering confidence. Those motives of rectitude which should
have deterred me from this species of imposture, had
never been vivid or stable, and were still more weakened
by the artifices of which I had already been guilty. The




:z96


MEMOIRS OF CARWIN,


utility or harmlessness of the end, justified, in my eyes,
the means.
No event had been more unexpected by me, than
the bequest of my aunt to her servant. The will, under
which the latter claimed, was dated prior to my coming
to the city. I was not surprised, therefore, that it had
once been made, but merely that it had never been
cancelled or superseded by a later instrument. My
wishes inclined me to suspect the existence of a later
will, but I had conceived that, to ascertain its existence,
was beyond my power.
Now, however, a different opinion began to be entertained. This woman like those of her sex and class was
unlettered and superstitious. Her faith in spells and
apparitions, was of the most lively kind. Could not
her conscience be awakened by a voice from the grave!
Lonely and at midnight, my aunt might be introduced,
upbraiding her for her injustice, and commanding her
to atone for it by acknowledging the claim of the rightful proprietor.
True it was, that no subsequent will might exist,
but this was the fruit of mistake, or of negligence. She
probably intended to cancel the old one, but this act
might, by her own weakness, or by the artifices of her
servant, be delayed till death had put it out of her power.
In either case a mandate from the dead could scarcely
fail of being obeyed.
I considered this woman as the usurper of my property.  Her husband like herself, were laborious and
covetous; their good fortune had made no change in
their mode of living, but they were as frugal and as
eager to accumulate as ever. In their hands, money
was inert and sterile, or it served to foster their vices.
To take it from them would, therefore? be a benefit




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both to them and to myself; not even an imaginary
injury would be inflicted. Restitution, if legally compelled to it, would be reluctant and painful, but if enjoined by Heaven would be voluntary, and the performance of a seeming duty would carry with it, its
own reward.
These reasonings, aided by inclination, were sufficient to determine me. I have no doubt but their fallacy would have been detected in the sequel, and my
scheme productive of nothing but confusion and remorse.
From these consequences, however, my fate interposed,
as in the former instance, to save me.
Having formed my resolution, many preliminaries
to its execution were necessary to be settled. These
demanded deliberation and delay; meanwhile I recollected my promise to Ludloe, and paid him a visit. I
met a frank and affectionate reception. It would not
be easy to paint the delight which I experienced in this
man's society. I was at first oppressed with the sense
of my own inferiority in age, knowledge and rank.
Hence arose numberless reserves and incapacitating
diffidences; but these were speedily dissipated by the
fascinations of this manl's address.  His superiority
was only rendered, by time, more conspicuous, but
this superiority, by appearing never to be present to
his own mind, ceased to be uneasy to me. My questions required to be frequently answered, and my mistakes to be rectified; but my keenest scrutiny, could
detect in his manner, neither arrogance nor contempt.
He seemed to talk merely from the overflow of his ideas,
or a benevolent desire of imparting information.
My visits gradually became more frequent. Meanwhile my wants increased, and the necessity of some
change in my condition became daily more urgent.




298


MEMOIRS OF CARWIN,


This incited my reflections on the scheme which I had
formed. The time and place suitable to my design,
were not selected without much anxious inquiry and
frequent waverings of purpose. These being at length
fixed, the interval to elapse, before the carrying of my
design into effect, was not without perturbation and
suspense. These could not be concealed from my new
friend and at length prompted him to inquire into the cause.
It was not possible to communicate the whole truth;
but the warmth of his manner inspired me with some
degree of igenuousness. I did not hide from him my
former hopes and my present destitute condition. He
listened to my tale with no expressions of sympathy,
and when I had finished, abruptly inquired whether
I had any objection to a voyage to Europe? I answered
in the negative. He then said that he was preparing
to depart in a fortnight, and advised me to make up
my mind to accompany him.
This unexpected proposal gave me pleasure and surprize, but the want of money occurred to me as an insuperable objection. On this being mentioned, Oho!
said he, carelessly, that objection is easily removed,
I will bear all expenses of your passage myself.
The extraordinary beneficence of this act as well as
the air of uncautiousness attending it, made me doubt
the sincerity of his offer, and when new declarations
removed this doubt, I could not forbear expressing at
once my sense of his generosity and of my own unworthiness.
He replied that generosity had been expunged from
his catalogue as having no meaning or a vicious one.
It was the scope of his exertions to be just. This was
the sum of human duty, and he that fell short, ran beside,
or outstripped justice was a criminal. What he gave




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2-99


me was my due or not my due. If it were my due, I
might reasonably demand it from him and it was wicked
to withhold it. Merit on one side or gratitude on the
other, were contradictory and unintelligible.
If I were fully convinced that this benefit was not
my due and yet received it, he should hold me in contempt. The rectitude of my principles and conduct
would be the measure of his approbation, and no benefit should he ever bestow which the receiver was not
entitled to claim, and which it would not be criminal
in him to refuse.,,
These principles were not new from the mouth of
Ludloe, but they had, hitherto, been regarded as the
fruits of a venturous speculation in my mind. I had
never traced them into their practical consequences,
and if his conduct on this occasion had not squared
with his maxims, I should not have imputed to him
inconsistency. I did not ponder on these reasonings
at this time: objects of immediate importance engrossed
my thoughts.
One obstacle to this measure was removed. When
my voyage was performed how should I subsist in my
new abode? I concealed not my perplexity and he
commented on it in his usual manner. How did I mean
to subsist, he asked, in my own country? The means
of living would be, at least, as much within my reach
there as here. As to the pressure of immediate and
absolute want, he believed I should be exposed to little
hazard. With talents such as mine, I must be hunted
by a destiny peculiarly malignant, if I could not provide myself with necessaries wherever my lot were cast.
He would make allowances, however, for my diffidence
and self-distrust, and would obviate my fears by expressing
his own intentions with regard to me. I must be ap



300


MEMOIRS OF CARWIN,


prised, however, of his true meaning. He laboured to
shun all hurtful and vitious things, and therefore carefully
abstained from making or confiding in promises. It was
just to assist me in this voyage, and it would probably be
equally just to continue to me similar assistance when it
was finished. That indeed was a subject, in a great degree, within my own cognizance. His aid would be proportioned to my wants and to my merits, and I had only
to take care that my claims were just, for them to be
admitted.
This scheme could not but appear to me eligible. I
thirsted after an acquaintance with new scenes; my present
situation could not be changed for a worse; I trusted to
the constancy of Ludloe's friendship; to this at least it
was better to trust than to the success of my imposture on
Dorothy, which was adopted merely as a desperate expedient: finally I determined to embark with him.
In the; course of this voyage my mind was busily employed. There were no other passengers besides ourselves,
so that my own condition and the character of Ludloe,
continually presented themselves to my reflections. It
will be supposed that I was not- a vague or indifferent
observer.
There were no vicissitudes in the deportment or lapses
in the discourse of my friend. His feelings appeared to
preserve an unchangeable tenor, and his thoughts and
words always to flow with the same rapidity. His slumber
was profound and his wakeful hours serene. He was regular and temperate in all his exercises and gratifications.
Hence were derived his clear perceptions and exuberant
health.
This treatment of me, like all his other mental and
corporal operations, was modelled by one inflexible standard. Certain scruples and delicacies were incident to my




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30I


situation. Of the existence of these he seemed to be unconscious, and yet nothing escaped him inconsistent with
a state of absolute equality.
I was naturally inquisitive as to his fortune and the
collateral circumstances of his condition. My notions of
politeness hindered me from making direct inquiries. By
indirect means I could gather nothing but that his state
was opulent and independent, and that he had two sisters
whose situation resembled his own.
Though, in conversation, he appeared to be governed
by the utmost candour; no light was let in upon the former
transactions of his life. The purpose of his visit to America
I could merely guess to be the gratification of curiosity.
My future pursuits must be supposed chiefly to occupy
my attention. On this head I was destitute of all stedfast
views. Without profession or habits of industry, or sources
of permanent revenue, the world appeared to me an ocean
on which my bark was set afloat, without compass or sail.
The world into which I was about to enter, was untried
and unknown, and though I could consent to profit by
the guidance I was unwilling to rely on the support of
others.
This topic being nearest my heart, I frequently introduced into conversation with my friend; but on this subject he always allowed himself to be led by me, while on
all others, he was zealous to point the way. To every
scheme that I proposed he was sure to cause objections.
All the liberal professions were censured as perverting the
understanding, by giving scope to the sordid motive of
gain, or embuing the mind with erroneous principles.
Skill was slowly obtained, and success, though integrity
and independence must be given for it, dubious and instable. The mechanical trades were equally obnoxious;
they were vitious by contributing to the spurious gratifica



302


MEMOIRS OF CARWIN,


tion of the rich and multiplying the objects of luxury;
they were destructive to the intellect and vigour of the
artizan; they enervated his frame and brutalized his mind.
When I pointed out to him the necessity of some species
of labour, he tacitly admitted that necessity, but refused
to direct me in the choice of a pursuit, which though not
free from defect should yet have the fewest inconveniences. He dwelt on the fewness of our actual wants, the
temptations which attend the possession of wealth, the
benefits of seclusion and privacy, and the duty of unfettering our minds from the prejudices which govern the world.
His discourse tended merely to unsettle my views and
increase my perplexity. This effect was so uniform that
I at length desisted from all allusions to this theme and
endeavoured to divert my own reflections from it. When
our voyage should be finished, and I should actually tread
this new stage, I believed that I should be better qualified
to judge of the measures to be taken by me.
At length we reached Belfast. From thence we immediately repaired to Dublin. I was admitted as a member of
his family. When I expressed my uncertainty as to the
place to which it would be proper for me to repair, he gave
me a blunt but cordial invitation to his house. My circumstances allowed me no option, and I readily complied.
My attention was for a time engrossed by a diversified
succession of new objects. Their novelty however disappearing, left me at liberty to turn my eyes upon myself
and my companion, and here my reflections were supplied
with abundant food.
His house was spacious and commodious, and furnished
with profusion and elegance. A suit of apartments was
assigned to me, in which I was permitted to reign uncontroled and access was permitted to a well furnished library.
My food was furnished in my own room, prepared in the




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303


manner which I had previously directed. Occasionally
Ludloe would request my company to breakfast, when an
hour was usually consumed in earnest or sprightly conversation. At all other times he was invisible; and his
apartments, being wholly separate from mine, I had no
opportunity of discovering in what way his hours were
employed.
He defended this mode of living as being most compatible with liberty. He delighted to expatiate on the evils
of cohabitation. Men, subjected to the same regimen,
compelled to eat and sleep and associate at certain hours,
were strangers to all rational independence and liberty.
Society would never be exempt from servitude and misery,
till those artificial ties which held human beings together
under the same roof were dissolved. He endeavoured to
regulate his own conduct in pursuance of these principles,
and to secure to himself as much freedom as the present
regulations of society would permit. The same independence which he claimed for himself he likewise extended
to me. The distribution of my own time, the selection
of my own occupations and companions, should belong
to myself.
But these privileges, though while listening to his arguments I could not deny them to be valuable, I would have
willingly dispensed with. The solitude in which I lived
became daily more painful. I ate and drank, enjoyed
clothing and shelter, without the exercise of forethought
or industry; I walked and sat, went out and returned for
as long and at what seasons I thought proper, yet my condition was a fertile source of discontent.
I felt myself removed to a comfortless and chilling
distance from Ludloe. I wanted to share in his occupations and views. With all his ingenuousness of aspect
and overflow of thoughts, when he allowed me his company,




304


MEMOIRS OF CARWIN,


I felt myself painfully bewildered with regard to his genuine
condition and sentiments.
He had it in his power to introduce me to society, and
without an introduction, it was scarcely possible to gain
access to any social circle or domestic fireside. Add to
this, my own obscure prospects and dubious situation.
Some regular intellectual pursuit would render my state
less irksome, but I had hitherto adopted no scheme of
this kind.
Time tended, in no degree, to alleviate my dissatisfaction. It increased till the determination became at
length formed of opening my thoughts to Ludloe. At
the next breakfast interview which took place, I introduced
the subject, and expatiated without reserve, on the state
of my feelings. I concluded with entreating him to point
out some path in which my talents might be rendered useful to himself or to mankind.
After a pause of some minutes, he said What would
you do? You forget the immaturity of your age. If you
are qualified to act a part in the theatre of life, step forth;
but you are not qualified. You want knowledge, and with
this you ought previously to endow yourself.-Means,
for this end, are within your reach. Why should you
waste your time in idleness, and torment yourself with
unprofitable wishes? Books are at hand-books from
which most sciences and languages can be learned. Read,
analise, digest; collect facts, and investigate theories:
ascertain the dictates of reason, and supply yourself with
the inclination and the power to adhere to them. You
will not, legally speaking, be a man in less than three years.
Let this period be devoted to the acquisition of wisdom.
Either stay here, or retire to a house I have on the banks
of Killarney, where you will find all the conveniences of
study.




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305


I could not but reflect with wonder at this man's
treatment of me. I could plead none of the rights of
relationship; yet I enjoyed the privileges of a son. He
had not imparted to me any scheme, by pursuit of which
I might finally compensate him for the expense to which
my maintenance and education would subject him.
He gave me reason to hope for the continuance of his
bounty. He talked and acted as if my fortune were
totally disjoined from his; yet was I indebted to him
for the morsel which sustained my life. Now it was
proposed to withdrew myself to studious leisure, and
romantic solitude. All my wants, personal and intellectual, were to be supplied gratuitously and copiously.
No means were prescribed by which I might make compensation for all these benefits.  In conferring them
he seemed to be actuated by no view to his own ultimate
advantage. He took no measures to secure my future
services.
I suffered these thoughts to escape me, on this occasion,
and observed, that to make my application successful,
or useful, it was necessary to pursue some end. I must
look forward to some post which I might hereafter occupy
beneficially to myself or others; and for which all the
efforts of my mind should be bent to qualify myself.
These hints gave him visible pleasure; and now, for
the first time, he deigned to advise me on this head.
His scheme, however, was not suddenly produced.
The way to it was circuitous and long. It was his
business to make every new step appear to be suggested by my own reflections. His own ideas were the
seeming result of the moment, and sprang out of the
last idea that was uttered. Being hastily taken up,
they were, of course, liable to objection. These objections, sometimes occurring to me and sometimes to




3o6


MEMOIRS OF CARWIN,


him, were admitted or contested with the utmost candour. One scheme went through numerous modifications before it was proved to be ineligible, or before it
yielded place to a better. It was easy to perceive, that
books alone were insufficient to impart knowledge:
that men must be examined with our own eyes to make
us acquainted with their nature: that ideas collected
from observation and reading, must correct and illustrate each other: that the value of all principles, and
their truth, lie in their practical effects. Hence, gradually arose, the usefulness of travelling, of inspecting
the habits and manners of a nation, and investigating,
on the spot, the causes of their happiness and misery.
Finally, it was determined that Spain was more suitable than any other, to the views of a judicious traveller.
My language, habits, and religion were mentioned
as obstacles to close and extensive views; but these
difficulties successively  and  slowly  vanished.  Converse with books, and natives of Spain, a steadfast purpose and unwearied diligence would efface all differences between me and a Castilian with respect to speech.
Personal habits, were changeable, by the same means.
The bars to unbounded intercourse, arising from the
religion of Spain being irreconcileably opposite to mine,
cost us no little trouble to surmount, and here the skill
of Ludloe was eminently displayed.
I had been accustomed to regard as unquestionable,
the fallacy of the Romish faith. This persuasion was
habitual and the child of prejudice, and was easily
shaken by the artifices of this logician. I was first led
to bestow a kind of assent on the doctrines of the Roman
church; but my convictions were easily subdued by a
new species of argumentation, and, in a short time,
I reverted to my ancient disbelief, so that, if an exterior




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307


conformity to the rights [rites] of Spain were requisite
to the attainment of my purpose, that conformity must
be dissembled.
My moral principles had hitherto been vague and
unsettled. My circumstances had led me to the frequent practice of insincerity; but my transgressions as
they were slight and transient, did not much excite
my previous reflections, or subsequent remorse.  My
deviations, however, though rendered easy by habit,
were by no means sanctioned by my principles. Now
an imposture, more profound and deliberate, was projected; and I could not hope to perform well my part,
unless steadfastly and thoroughly persuaded of its rectitude.
My friend was the eulogist of sincerity. He delighted
to trace its influence on the happiness of mankind; and
proved that nothing but the universal practice of this
virtue was necessary to the perfection of human society.
His doctrine was splendid and beautiful. To detect
its imperfections was no easy task; to lay the foundations of virtue in utility, and to limit, by that scale,
the operation of general principles; to see that the value
of sincerity, like that of every other mode of action,
consisted in its tendency to good, and that, therefore
the obligation to speak truth was not paramount or
intrinsical: that my duty is modelled on a knowledge
and foresight of the conduct of others; and that, since
men in their actual state, are infirm and deceitful, a
just estimate of consequences may sometimes make
dissimulation my duty were truths that did not speedily
occur. The discovery, when made, appeared to be a
joint work. I saw nothing in Ludloe but proofs of candour, and a judgment incapable of bias.
The means which this man employed to fit me for




308


MEMOIRS OF CARWIN,


his purpose, perhaps owed their success to my youth
and ignorance. I may have given you exaggerated
ideas of his dexterity and address. Of that I am unable
to judge. Certain it is, that no time or reflection has
abated my astonishment at the profoundness of his
schemes, and the perseverance with which they were
pursued by him. To detail their progress would expose
me to the risk of being tedious, yet none but minute
details would sufficiently display his patience and subtlety.
It will suffice to relate, that after a sufficient period
of preparation and arrangements being made for maintaining a copious intercourse with Ludloe, I embarked
for Barcelona. A restless curiosity and vigorous appjlication have distinguished my character in every scene.
Here was a spacious field for the exercise of all my energies. I sought out a preceptor in my new religion. I
entered into the hearts of priests and confessors,-the
hidalgo and the peasant, the monk and the prelate,
the austere and voluptuous devotee were scrutinised
in all their forms.
Man was the chief subject of my study, and the social
sphere that in which I principally moved; but I was
not inattentive to inanimate nature, nor unmindful
of the past. If the scope of virtue were to maintain
the body in health, and to furnish its highest enjoyments to every sense, to increase the number, and accuracy, and order of our intellectual stores, no virtue was
ever more unblemished than mine. If to act upon our
conceptions of right, and to acquit ourselves of all prejudice and selfishness in the formation of our principles,
entitle us to the testimony of a good conscience, I might
justly claim it.
I shall not pretend to ascertain my rank in the moral




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309


scale. Your notions of duty differ widely from mine.
If a system of deceit, pursued merely from the love
of truth; if voluptuousness, never gratified at the expense of health, may incur censure, I am censurable.
This, indeed, was not the limit of my deviations.
Deception was often unnecessarily practised, and my
biloquial faculty did not lie unemployed. What has
happened to yourselves may enable you, in some degree,
to judge of the scenes in which my mystical exploits
engaged me. In none of them, indeed, were the effects
equally disastrous, and they were, for the most part, the
result of well digested projects.
To recount these would be an endless task. They
were designed as mere specimens of power, to illustrate
the influence of superstition: to give sceptics the consolation of certainty: to annihilate the scruples of a
tender female, or facilitate my access to the bosoms of
courtiers and monks.
The first achievement of this kind took place in the
convent of the Escurial. For some time the hospitality
of this brotherhood allowed me a cell in that magnificent and gloomy fabric. I was drawn hither chiefly
by the treasures of Arabian literature, which are preserved here in the keeping of a learned Maronite, from
Lebanon. Standing one evening on the steps of the
great altar, this devout friar expatiated on the miraculous evidences of his religion; and, in a moment of
enthusiasm, appealed to San Lorenzo, whose martyrdom
was displayed before us. No sooner was the appeal
made than the saint, obsequious to the summons, whispered his responses from the shrine, and commanded
the heretic to tremble and believe. This event was
reported to the convent. With whatever reluctance,
I could not refuse my testimony to its truth, and its




3io


MEMOIRS OF CARWIN,


influence on my faith was clearly shewn in my subsequent conduct.
A lady of rank, in Seville, who had been guilty of many
unauthorized indulgences, was, at last, awakened to remorse, by a voice from Heaven, which she imagined had
commanded her to expiate her sins by an abstinence from
all food for thirty days. Her friends found it impossible
to outroot this persuasion, or to overcome her resolution
even by force. I chanced to be one in a numerous company where she was present.. This fatal illusion was mentioned, and an opportunity afforded to the lady of defending her scheme. At a pause in the discourse, a voice was
heard from the ceiling, which confirmed the truth of her
tale; but, at the same time revoked the command, and, in
consideration of her faith, pronounced her absolution.
Satisfied with this proof, the auditors dismissed their
unbelief, and the lady consented to eat.
In the course of a copious correspondence with' Ludloe,
the observations I had collected were given. A sentiment,
which I can hardly describe, induced me to be-silent on all
adventures connected with my bivocal projects. On other
topics, I wrote fully, and without restraint. I painted,
in vivid hues, the scenes with which I was daily conversant,
and pursued, fearlessly, every speculation on religion and
government that occurred. This spirit was encouraged
by Ludloe, who failed not to comment on my narrative,
and multiply deductions from my principles.
He taught me to ascribe the evils that infest society to
the errors of opinion. The absurd and unequal distribution of power and property gave birth to poverty and
riches, and these were the sources of luxury and crimes.
These positions were readily admitted; but the remedy
for these ills, the means of rectifying these errors were not
easily discovered. We have been inclined to impute them




THE BILOQUIST


3II


to inherent defects in the moral constitution of men: that
oppression and tyranny grow up by a sort of natural
necessity, and that they will perish only when the human
species is extinct. Ludloe laboured to prove that this was,
by no means, the case: that man is the creature of circum- \
stances: that he is capable of endless improvement: that  r
his progress has been stopped by the artificial impediment
of government: that by the removal of this, the fondest
dreams of imagination will be realised.
From detailing and accounting for the evils which exist
under our present institutions, he usually proceeded to
delineate some scheme of Utopian felicity, where the
empire of reason should supplant that of force: where justice should be universally understood and practised; where
the interest of the whole and of the individual should be seen
by all to be the same; where the public good should be
the scope of all activity; where the tasks of all should
be the same, and the means of subsistence equally distributed.
No one could contemplate his pictures without rapture.
By their comprehensiveness and amplitude they filled the
imagination. I was unwilling to believe that in no region
of the world, or at no period could these ideas be realised.
It was plain that the nations of Europe were tending to
greater depravity, and would be the prey of perpetual
vicissitude. All individual attempts at their reformation
would be fruitless. He therefore who desired the diffusion
of right principles, to make a just system be adopted by
a whole community, must pursue some extraordinary
method.
In this state of mind I recollected my native country,
where a few colonists from Britain had sown the germe
[germ], of populous and mighty empires., Attended, as
they were, into their new abode by all their prejudices,




312


MEMOIRS OF CARWIN,


yet such had been the influence of new circumstances, of
consulting for their own happiness, of adopting simple
forms of government, and excluding nobles and kings
from their system, that they enjoyed a degree of happiness
far superior to their parent state.
To conquer the prejudices and change the habits of
millions, are impossible. The human mind, exposed to
social influences, inflexibly adheres to the direction that
is given to it; but for the same reason why men, who begin
in error will continue, those who commence in truth, may
be expected to persist. Habit and example will operate
with equal force in both instances.
Let a few, sufficiently enlightened and disinterested,
take up their abode in some unvisited region. Let their
social scheme be founded in equity, and how small soever
their original number may be, their growth into a nation
is inevitable. Among other effects of national justice,
was to be ranked the swift increase of numbers. Exempt
from servile obligations and perverse habits, endowed
with property, wisdom, and health, hundreds will expand,
with inconceivable rapidity into thousands and thousands,
into millions; and a new race, tutored in truth, may, in
a few centuries, overflow the habitable world.
Such were the visions of youth! I could not banish
them from my mind. I knew them to be crude; but believed that deliberation would bestow upon them solidity
and shape. Meanwhile, I imparted them to Ludloe.
In answer to the reveries and speculations which I sent
to him respecting this subject, Ludloe informed me, that
they had led his mind into a new sphere of meditation.
He had long and deeply considered in what way he might
essentially promote my happiness. He had entertained
a faint hope that I would one day be qualified for a station
like that to which he himself had been advanced. This




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313


post required an elevation and stability of views which
human beings seldom reach, and which could be attained
by me only by a long series of heroic labours. Hitherto
every new stage in my intellectual progress had added
vigour to his hopes, and he cherished a stronger belief
than formerly that my career would terminate auspiciously. This, however, was necessarily distant. Many
preliminaries must first be settled; many arduous accomplishments be first obtained; and my virtue be subjected
to severe trials. At present it was not in his power to be
more explicit; but if my reflections suggested no better
plan, he advised me to settle my affairs in Spain, and return to him immediately. My knowledge of this country
would be of the highest use, on the supposition of my
ultimately arriving at the honours to which he had alluded;
and some of these preparatory measures could be taken
only with his assistance, and in his company.
This intimation was eagerly obeyed, and, in a short
time, I arrived at Dublin. Meanwhile my mind had
copious occupation in commenting on my friend's letter.
This scheme, whatever it was, seemed to be suggested by
my mention of a plan of colonisation, and my preference
of that mode of producing extensive and permanent effects on the condition of mankind. It was easy therefore
to conjecture that this mode had been pursued under
some mysterious modifications and conditions.
It had always excited my wonder that so obvious an
expedient had been overlooked. The globe which we
inhabit was very imperfectly known. The regions and
nations unexplored, it was reasonable to believe, surpassed
in extent, and perhaps in populousness, those with which
we were familiar. The order of Jesuits had furnished an
example of all the errors and excellences of such a scheme.
Their plan was founded on erroneous notions of religion




314


MEMOIRS OF CARWIN,


and policy, and they had absurdly chosen a scene 1 within
reach of the injustice and ambition of an European tyrant.
It was wise and easy to profit by their example. Resting on the two props of fidelity and zeal, an association
might exist for ages in the heart of Europe, whose influence might be felt, and might be boundless, in some
region of the southern hemisphere; and by whom a moral
and political structure might be raised, the growth of pure
wisdom, and totally unlike those fragments of Roman
and Gothic barbarism, which cover the face of what are
called the civilised nations. The belief now rose in my
mind that some such scheme had actually been prosecuted,
and that Ludloe was a coadjutor. On this supposition,
the caution with which he approached to his point, the
arduous probation which a candidate for a part on this
stage must undergo, and the rigours of that test by which
his fortitude and virtue must be tried, were easily explained. I was too deeply imbued with veneration for
the effects of such schemes, and too sanguine in my confidence in the rectitude of Ludloe, to refuse my concurrence in any scheme by which my qualifications might
at length be raised to a due point.
Our interview was frank and affectionate. I found
him situated just as formerly. His aspect, manners,
and deportment were the same. I entered once more
on my former mode of life, but our intercourse became
more frequent.  We constantly breakfasted together,
and our conversation was usually prolonged through
half the morning.
For a time our topics were general. I thought proper
to leave to him the introduction of more interesting
themes: this, however, he betrayed no inclination to
do. His reserve excited some surprise, and I began to
1 Paraguay. Brown's note.




THE BILOQUIST


3I5


suspect that whatever design he had formed with regard
to me, had been laid aside. To ascertain this question,
I ventured, at length, to recall his attention to the subject of his last letter, and to inquire whether subsequent
reflection had made any change in his views.
He said that his views were too momentous to be
hastily taken up, or hastily dismissed; the station, my
attainment of which depended wholly on myself, was
high above vulgar heads, and was to be gained by years
of solicitude and labour. This, at least, was true with
regard to minds ordinarily constituted; I, perhaps,
deserved to be regarded as an exception, and might be
able to accomplish in a few months that for which others
were obliged to toil during half their lives.
Man, continued he, is the slave of habit. Convince
him to-day that his duty leads straight forward: he
shall advance, but at every step his belief shall fade;
habit will resume its empire, and to-morrow he shall
turn back, or betake himself to oblique paths.
We know not our strength till it be tried. Virtue,
till confirmed by habit, is a dream. You are a man
imbued by errors, and vincible by slight temptations.
Deep enquiries must bestow light on your opinions,
and the habit of encountering and vanquishing temptation
must inspire you with fortitude. Till this be done you
are unqualified for that post, in which you will be invested with divine attributes, and prescribe the condition of a large portion of mankind.
Confide not in the firmness of your principles, or the
steadfastness of your integrity.  Be always vigilant
and fearful. Never think you have enough of knowledge, and let not your caution slumber for a moment,
for you know not when danger is near.
I acknowledged the justice of his admonitions, and




MEMOIRS OF CARWIN,


professed myself willing to undergo any ordeal which
reason should prescribe. What, I asked, were the conditions, on the fulfilment of which depended my advancement to the station he alluded to? Was it necessary to
conceal from me the nature and obligations of this rank?
These enquiries sunk him more profoundly into meditation than I had ever before witnessed. After a pause,
in which some perplexity was visible, he answered:
I scarcely know what to say. As to promises, I claim
them not from you. We are now arrived at a point,
in which it is necessary to look around with caution,
and that consequences should be fully known. A number of persons are leagued together for an end of some
moment. To make yourself one of these is submitted
to your choice. Among the conditions of their alliance
are mutual fidelity and secrecy.
Their existence depends upon this: their existence
is known only to themselves. This secrecy must be
obtained by all the means which are possible. When
I have said thus much, I have informed you, in some
degree, of their existence, but you are still ignorant of
the purpose contemplated by this association, and of
all the members, except myself. So far no dangerous
disclosure is yet made: but this degree of concealment
is not sufficient. Thus much is made known to you,
because it is unavoidable. The individuals who compose this fraternity are not immortal, and the vacancies
occasioned by death must be supplied from among the
living.  The candidates must be instructed and prepared, and they are always at liberty to recede. Their
reason must approve the obligations and duties of their
station, or they are unfit for it. If they recede, one
duty is still incumbent upon them: they must observe
an inviolable silence. To this they are not held by any




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317


promise. They must weigh consequences, and freely
decide; but they must not fail to number among these
consequences their own death.
Their death will not be prompted by vengeance. The
executioner will say, he that has once revealed the tale
is likely to reveal it a second time; and, to prevent this,
the betrayer must die. Nor is this the only consequence:
to prevent the further revelation, he, to whom the secret
was imparted must likewise perish. He must not console himself with the belief that his trespass will be
unknown. The knowledge cannot, by human means,
be withheld from this fraternity. Rare, indeed, will
it be that his purpose to disclose is not discovered before
it can be effected, and the disclosure prevented by his
death.
Be well aware of your condition. What I now, or
may hereafter mention, mention not again. Admit
not even a doubt as to the propriety of hiding it from
all the world. There are eyes who will discern this doubt
amidst the closest folds of your heart, and your life
will instantly be sacrificed.
At present be the subject dismissed. Reflect deeply
on the duty which you have already incurred. Think
upon your strength of mind, and be careful not to lay
yourself under impracticable obligations. It will always
be in your power to recede. Even after you are solemnly
enrolled a member, you may consult the dictates of
your own understanding, and relinquish your post;
but while you live, the obligation to be silent will perpetually attend you.
We seek not the misery or death of any one, but we
are swayed by an immutable calculation. Death is
to be abhorred, but the life of the betrayer is productive of more evil than his death: his death, therefore,




3I8


MEMOIRS OF CARWIN,


we chuse, and our means are instantaneous and unerring.
I love you. The first impulse of my love is to dissuade you from seeking to know more. Your mind
will be full of ideas; your hands will be perpetually busy
to a purpose into which no human creature, beyond
the verge of your brotherhood, must pry. Believe me,
who have made the experiment, that compared with
this task, the task of inviolable secrecy, all others are
easy. To be dumb will not suffice; never to know any
remission in your zeal or your watchfulness will not
suffice. If the sagacity of others detect your occupations, however strenuously you may labour for concealment, your doom is ratified, as well as that of the
wretch whose evil destiny led him to pursue you.
Yet if your fidelity fail not, great will be your recompence. For all your toils and self-devotion, ample will
be the retribution. Hitherto you have been wrapt in
darkness and storm; then will you be exalted to a pure
and unruffled element. It is only for a time that temptation will environ you, and your path will be toilsome.
In a few years you will be permitted to withdraw to
a land of sages, and the remainder of your life will
glide away in the enjoyments of beneficence and wisdom.
Think deeply on what I have said. Investigate your
own motives and opinions, and prepare to submit them
to the test of numerous hazards and experiments.
Here my friend passed to a new topic. I was desirous of reverting to this subject, and obtaining further
information concerning it, but he assiduously repelled
all my attempts, and insisted on my bestowing deep
and impartial attention on what had already been disclosed. I was not slow to comply with his directions.




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31I9


My mind refused to admit any other theme of contemplation than this.
As yet I had no glimpse of the nature of this fraternity.
I was permitted to form conjectures, and previous incidents bestowed but one form upon my thoughts. In
reviewing the sentiments and deportment of Ludloe,
my belief continually acquired new strength. I even
recollected hints and ambiguous allusions in his discourse, which were easily solved, on the supposition
of the existence of a new model of society, in some unsuspected corner of the world.
I did not fully perceive the necessity of secrecy; but this
necessity perhaps would be rendered apparent, when I
should come to know the connection that subsisted between Europe and this imaginary colony. But what was
to be done? I was willing to abide by these conditions.
My understanding might not approve of all the ends proposed by this fraternity, and I had liberty to withdraw
from it, or to refuse to ally myself with them. That the
obligation of secrecy should still remain, was unquestionably reasonable.
It appeared to be the plan of Ludloe rather to damp
than to stimulate my zeal. He discouraged all attempts
to renew the subject in conversation. He dwelt upon
the arduousness of the office to which I aspired, the temptations to violate my duty with which I should be continually
beset, the inevitable death with which the slightest breach
of my engagements would be followed, and the long apprenticeship which it would be necessary for me to serve,
before I should be fitted to enter into this conclave.
Sometimes my courage was depressed by these representations......My zeal, however, was sure to revive;
and at length Ludloe declared himself willing to assist
me in the accomplishment of my wishes. For this end,




320


MEMOIRS OF CARWIN,


it was necessary; he said, that I should be informed of a
second obligation, which every candidate must assume.
Before any one could be deemed qualified, he must be
thoroughly known to his associates. For this end, he
must determine to disclose every fact in his history, and
every secret of his heart. I must begin with making these
confessions, with regard to my past life, to Ludloe, and
must continue to communicate, at stated seasons, every
new thought, and every new occurrence, to him. This
confidence was to be absolutely limitless: no exceptions
were to be admitted, and no reserves to be practised; and
the same penalty attended the infraction of this rule as
of the former. Means would be employed, by which the
slightest deviation, in either case, would be detected, and
the deathful consequence would follow with instant and
inevitable expedition. If secrecy were difficult to practise,
sincerity, in that degree in which it was here demanded,
was a task infinitely more arduous, and a period of new
deliberation was necessary before I should decide. I was
at liberty to pause: nay, the longer was the period of
deliberation which I took, the better; but, when I had
once entered this path, it was not in my power to recede.
After having solemnly avowed my resolution to be thus
sincere in my confession, any particle of reserve or duplicity would cost me my life.
This indeed was a subject to be deeply thought upon.
Hitherto I had been guilty of concealment with regard
to my friend-I had entered into no formal compact, but
had been conscious of a kind of tacit obligation to hide no
important transaction of my life from him. This consciousness was the source of continual anxiety. I had
exerted, on numerous occasions, my bivocal faculty, but,
in my intercourse with Ludloe, had suffered not the slightest intimation to escape me with regard to it. This reserve




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321


was not easily explained. It was, in a great degree, the
product of habit; but I likewise considered that the efficacy
of this instrument depended upon its existence being unknown. To confide the secret to one, was to put an end
to my privilege: how widely the knowledge would thenceforth be diffused, I had no power to foresee.
Each day multiplied the impediments to confidence.
Shame hindered me from acknowledging my past reserves. Ludloe, from the nature of our intercourse, would
certainly account my reserve, in this respect, unjustifiable,
and to excite his indignation or contempt was an unpleasing undertaking. Now, if I should resolve to persist in
my new path, this reserve must be dismissed: I must
make him master of a secret which was precious to me
beyond all others; by acquainting him with past concealments, I must risk incurring his suspicion and his anger.
These reflections were productive of considerable embarrassment.
There was, indeed, an avenue by which to escape these
difficulties, if it did not, at the same time, plunge me into
greater. My confessions might, in other respects, be
unbounded, but my reserves, in this particular, might be
continued. Yet should I not expose myself to formidable
perils? Would my secret be for ever unsuspected and
undiscovered?
When I considered the nature of this faculty, the impossibility of going farther than suspicion, since the agent
could be known only by his own confession, and even
this confession would not be believed by the greater part
of mankind, I was tempted to conceal it.
In most cases, if I had asserted the possession of this
power, I should be treated as a liar; it would be considered
as an absurd and audacious expedient to free myself
from the suspicion of having entered into compact with a




322


MEMOIRS OF CARWIN,


daemon, or of being myself an emissary of the grand foe.
Here, however, there was no reason to dread a similar
imputation, since Ludloe had denied the preternatural
pretensions of these airy sounds.
My conduct on this occasion was no wise influenced by
the belief of any inherent sanctity in truth. Ludloe had
taught me to model myself in this respect entirely with a
view to immediate consequences. If my genuine interest,
on the whole, was promoted by veracity, it was proper to
adhere to it; but, if the result of my investigation were
opposite, truth was to be sacrificed without scruple.
Meanwhile, in a point of so much moment, I was not
hasty to determine. My delay seemed to be, by no means,
unacceptable to Ludloe, who applauded my discretion,
and warned me to be circumspect. My attention was
chiefly absorbed by considerations connected with this
subject, and little regard was paid to any foreign occupation or amusement.
One evening, after a day spent in my closet, I sought
recreation by walking forth. My mind was chiefly occupied by the review of incidents which happened in
Spain. I turned my face towards the fields, and recovered
not from my reverie, till I had proceeded some miles on
the road to Meath. The night had considerably advanced,
and the darkness was rendered intense, by the setting of
the moon. Being somewhat weary, as well as undetermined in what manner next to proceed, I seated myself on a grassy bank beside the road. The spot which I
had chosen was aloof from passengers, and shrowded in the
deepest obscurity.
Some time elapsed, when my attention was excited by
the slow approach of an equipage. I presently discovered
a coach and six horses, but unattended, except by coachman and postillion, and with no light to guide them on




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323


their way. Scarcely had they passed the spot where I
rested, when some one leaped from beneath the hedge, and
seized the head of the fore-horses. Another called upon
the coachman to stop, and threatened him with instant
death if he disobeyed. A third drew open the coachbdoor,
and ordered those within to deliver their purses. A shriek
of terror showed me that a lady was within, who eagerly
consented to preserve her life by the loss of her money.
To walk unarmed in the neighbourhood of Dublin,
especially at night, has always been accounted dangerous.
I had about me the usual instruments of defence. I was
desirous of rescuing this person from the danger which
surrounded her, but was somewhat at a loss how to effect
my purpose. My single strength was insufficient to contend with three ruffians. After a moment's debate, an
expedient was suggested, which I hastened to execute.
Time had not been allowed for the ruffian who stood
beside the carriage to receive the plunder, when several
voices, loud, clamorous, and eager, were heard in the
quarter whence the traveller had come. By trampling
with quickness, it was easy to imitate the sound of many
feet. The robbers were alarmed, and one called upon
another to attend. The sounds increased, and, at the
next moment, they betook themselves to flight, but not
till a pistol was discharged. Whether it was aimed at the
lady in the carriage, or at the coachman, I was not permitted to discover, for the report affrighted the horses,
and they set off at full speed.
I could not hope to overtake them: I knew not whither
the robbers had fled, and whether, by proceeding, I might
not fall into their hands...... These considerations induced me to resume my feet, and retire from the scene
as expeditiously as possible. I regained my own habitation without injury.




324


MEMOIRS OF CARWIN,


I have said that I occupied separate apartments from
those of Ludloe. To these there were means of access
without disturbing the family. I hastened to my chamber,
but was considerably surprised to find, on entering my
apartment, Ludloe seated at a table, with a lamp before
him.
My momentary confusion was greater than his. On
discovering who it was, he assumed his accustomed
looks, and explained appearances, by saying, that he
wished to converse with me on a subject of importance,
and had therefore sought me at this secret hour, in
my own chamber. Contrary to his expectation, I was
absent. Conceiving it possible that I might shortly return, he had waited till now. He took no further notice
of my absence, nor manifested any desire to know the
cause of it, but proceeded to mention the subject which
had brought him hither. These were his words.
You have nothing which the laws permit you to call
your own. Justice entitles you to the supply of your
physical wants, from those who are able to supply them;
but there are few who will acknowledge your claim,
or spare an atonm of their superfluity to appease your
cravings.  That which they will not spontaneously
give, it is not right to wrest from them by violence.
What then is to be done?
Property is necessary to your own subsistence. It
is useful, by enabling you to supply the wants of others.
To give food, and clothing, and shelter, is to give life,
to annihilate temptation, to unshackle virtue, and propagate felicity. How shall property be gained?
You may set your understanding or your hands at
work. You may weave stockings, or write poems, and
exchange them for money; but these are tardy and
meagre schemes. The means are disproportioned to




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325


the end, and I will not suffer you to pursue them. My
justice will supply your wants.
But dependence on the justice of others is a precarious condition. To be the object is a less ennobling
state than to be bestower of benefit. Doubtless you
desire to be vested with competence and riches, and
to hold them by virtue of the law, and not at the will
of a benefactor....... He paused, as if waiting for my
assent to his positions. I readily expressed my concurrence, and my desire to pursue any means compatible
with honesty. He resumed.
There are various means, besides labour, violence, or
fraud. It is right to select the easiest within your reach.
It happens that the easiest is at hand. A revenue of
some thousands a year, a stately mansion in the city,
and another in Kildare, old and faithful domestics, and
magnificent furniture, are good things. Will you have
them?
A gift like that, replied I, will be attended by momentous conditions. I cannot decide upon its value, until
I know these conditions.
The sole condition is your consent to receive them.
Not even the airy obligation of gratitude will be created
by acceptance. On the contrary, by accepting them,
you will confer the highest benefit upon another.
I do not comprehend you. Something surely must
be given in return.
Nothing. It may seem strange that, in accepting
the absolute controul of so much property, you subject yourself to no conditions; that no claims of gratitude or service will accrue; but the wonder is still greater.
The law equitably enough fetters the gift with no restraints, with respect to you that receive it; but not
so with regard to the unhappy being who bestows it,




326


MEMOIRS OF CARWIN,


That being must part, not only with property but liberty.
In accepting the property, you must consent to enjoy
the services of the present possessor. They cannot be
disjoined.
Of the true nature and extent of the gift, you should
be fully apprized. Be aware, therefore, that, together
with this property, you will receive absolute power
over the liberty and person of the being who now possesses it. That being must become your domestic slave;
be governed, in every particular, by your caprice.
Happily for you, though fully invested with this
power, the degree and mode in which it will be exercised
will depend upon yourself.... You may either totally
forbear the exercise, or employ it only for the benefit
of your slave. However injurious, therefore, this authority may be to the subject of it, it will, in some sense,
only enhance the value of the gift to you.
The attachment and obedience of this being will
be chiefly evident in one thing. Its duty will consist
in conforming, in every instance, to your will. All the
powers of this being are to be devoted to your happiness; but there is one relation between you which enables you to confer, while exacting, pleasure.... This
relation is sexual. Your slave is a woman; and the bond,
which transfers her property and person to you, is....
marriage.
My knowledge of Ludloe, his principles, and reasonings, ought to have precluded that surprise which I
experienced at the conclusion of his discourse. I knew
that he regarded the present institution of marriage
as a contract of servitude, and the terms of it unequal
and unjust. When my surprise had subsided, my thoughts
turned upon the nature of his scheme. After a pause
of reflection, I answered:




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327


Both law and custom have connected obligations
with marriage, which, though heaviest on the female,
are not light upon the male. Their weight and extent
are not immutable and uniform; they are modified by
various incidents, and especially by the mental and
personal qualities of the lady.
I am not sure that I should willingly accept the property and person of a woman decrepit with age, and
enslaved by perverse habits and evil passions: whereas
youth, beauty, and tenderness would be worth accepting, even for their own sake, and disconnected with
fortune.
As to altar vows, I believe they will not make me
swerve from equity. I shall exact neither service nor
affection from my spouse. The value of these, and,
indeed, not only the value, but the very existence, of
the latter depends upon its spontaneity.  A promise
to love tends rather to loosen than strengthen the tie.
As to myself, the age of illusion is past. I shall not
wed, till I find one whose moral and physical constitution will make my personal fidelity easy. I shall judge
without mistiness or passion, and habit will come in
aid of an enlightened and deliberate choice.
I shall not be fastidious in my choice. I do not expect, and scarcely desire, much intellectual similitude
between me and my wife. Our opinions and pursuits
cannot be in common. While women are formed by
their education, and their education continues in its present state, tender hearts and misguided understandings
are all that we can hope to meet with.
What are the character, age, and person of the woman
to whom you allude? and what prospect of success would
attend my exertions to obtain her favour?
I have told you she is rich. She is a widow, and owes




328


MEMOIRS OF CARWIN,


her riches to the liberality of her husband, who was a
trader of great opulence, and who died while on a mercantile adventure to Spain. He was not unknown to
you. Your letters from Spain often spoke of him. In
short, she is the widow of Benington, whom you met
at Barcelona. She is still in the prime of life; is not
without many feminine attractions; has an ardent and
credulent temper; and is particularly given to devotion.
This temper it would be easy to regulate according to
your pleasure and your interest, and I now submit to
you the expediency of an alliance with her.
I am a kinsman, and regarded by her with uncommon
deference; and my commendations, therefore, will be
of great service to you, and shall be given.
I will deal ingenuously with you. It is proper you
should be fully acquainted with the grounds of this
proposal.  The benefits of rank, and property, and
independence, which I have already mentioned as likely
to accrue to you from this marriage, are solid and
valuable benefits; but these are not the sole advantages, and to benefit you, in these respects, is not my
whole view.
No. My treatment of you henceforth will be regulated by one principle. I regard you only as one undergoing a probation or apprenticeship; as subjected to
trials of your sincerity and fortitude. The marriage
I now propose to you is desirable, because it will make
you independent of me. Your poverty might create
an unsuitable bias in favour of proposals, one of whose
effects would be to set you beyond fortune's reach.
That bias will cease, when you cease to be poor and
dependent.
Love is the strongest of all human delusions. That
fortitude, which is not subdued by the tenderness and




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329


blandishments of woman, may be trusted; but no fortitude,
which has not undergone that test, will be trusted by us.
This woman is a charming enthusiast. She will never
marry but him whom she passionately loves. Her power
over the heart that loves her will scarcely have limits.
The means of prying into your transactions, of suspecting
and sifting your thoughts, which her constant society with
you, while sleeping and waking, her zeal and watchfulness
for your welfare, and her curiosity, adroitness, and penetration will afford her, are evident. Your danger, therefore,
will be imminent. Your fortitude will be obliged to have
recourse, not to flight, but to vigilance. Your eye must
never close.
Alas! what human magnanimity can stand this test!
How can I persuade myself that you will not fail? I waver
between hope and fear. Many, it is true, have fallen,
and dragged with them the author of their ruin, but some
have soared above even these perils and temptations,
with their fiery energies unimpaired, and great has been,
as great ought to be, their recompense.
But you are doubtless aware of your danger. I need
not repeat the consequences of betraying your trust, the
rigour of those who will judge your fault, the unerring and
unbounded scrutiny to which your actions, the most secret
and indifferent, will be subjected.
Your conduct, however, will be voluntary. At your
own option be it, to see or not to see this woman. Circumspection, deliberation, forethought, are your sacred
duties and highest interest.
Ludloe's remarks on the seductive and bewitching
powers of women, on the difficulty of keeping a secret
which they wish to know, and to gain which they employ
the soft artillery of tears and prayers, and blandishments
and menaces, are familiar to all men, but they had little




33o


MEMOIRS OF CARWIN,


weight with me, because they were unsupported by my
own experience. I had never had any intellectual or sentimental connection with the sex. My meditations and
pursuits had all led a different way, and a bias had gradually been given to my feelings, very unfavourable to the
refinements of love. I acknowledge, with shame and
regret, that I was accustomed to regard the physical and
sensual consequences of the sexual relation as realities,
and everything intellectual, disinterested, and heroic,
which enthusiasts connect with it, as idle dreams. Besides, said I, I am yet a stranger to the secret, on the preservation of which so much stress is laid, and it will be optional
with me to receive it or not. If, in the progress of my
acquaintance with Mrs. Benington, I should perceive
any extraordinary danger in the gift, cannot I refuse, or
at least delay to comply with any new conditions from
Ludloe? Will not his candour and his affection for me
rather commend than disapprove my diffidence? In fine,
I resolved to see this lady.
She was, it seems, the widow of Benington, whom I
knew in Spain. This man was an English merchant settled at Barcelona, to whom I had been commended by
Ludloe's letters, and through whom my pecuniary supplies were furnished......  Much intercourse and
some degree of intimacy had taken place between us, and
I had gained a pretty accurate knowledge of his character.
I had been informed, through different channels, that his
wife was much his superior in rank, that she possessed
great wealth in hei own right, and that some disagreement
of temper or views occasioned their separation. She had
married him for love, and still doated on him: the occasions for separation having arisen, it seems, not on her
side but on his. As his habits of reflection were nowise
friendly to religion, and as hers, according to Ludloe, were




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33I


of the opposite kind, it is possible that some jarring had
arisen between them from this source. Indeed, from some
casual and broken hints of Benington, especially in the
latter part of his life, I had long since gathered this conjecture...... Something, thought I, may be derived
from my acquaintance with her husband favourable to
my views.
I anxiously waited for an opportunity of acquainting
Ludloe with my resolution. On the day of our last conversation, he had made a short excursion from town, intending to return the same evening, but had continued
absent for several days. As soon as he came back, I hastened to acquaint him with my wishes.
Have you well considered this matter, said he. Be
assured it is of no trivial import. The moment at which
you enter the presence of this woman will decide your
future destiny. Even putting out of view the subject
of our late conversations, the light in which you shall
appear to her will greatly influence your happiness, since,
though you cannot fail to love her, it is quite uncertain
what return she may think proper to make. Much, doubtless, will depend on your own perseverance and address,
but you will have many, perhaps insuperable obstacles
to encounter on several accounts, and especially in her
attachment to the memory of her late husband. As to
her devout temper, this is nearly allied to a warm imagination in some other respects, and will operate much more
in favour of an ardent and artful lover, than against him.
I still expressed my willingness to try my fortune with
her.
Well, said he, I anticipated your consent to my proposal,
and the visit I have just made was to her. I thought it
best to pave the way, by informing her that I had met
with one for whom she had desired me to look out. You




332


MEMOIRS OF CARWIN,


must know that her father was one of these singular men
who set a value upon things exactly in proportion to the
difficulty of obtaining or comprehending them. His passion was for antiques, and his favourite pursuit during
a long life was monuments in brass, marble, and parchment, of the remotest antiquity. He was wholly indifferent to the character or conduct of our present sovereign
and his ministers, but was extremely solicitous about the
name and exploits of a king of Ireland that lived two or
three centuries before the flood. He felt no curiosity to
know who was the father of his wife's child, but would
travel a thousand miles, and consume months, investigating which son of Noah it was that first landed on the
coast of Munster. He would give a hundred guineas from
the mint for a piece of old decayed copper no bigger than
his nail, provided it had aukward characters upon it, too
much defaced to be read. The whole stock of a great
bookseller was, in his eyes, a cheap exchange for a shred
of parchment, containing half a homily written by St.
Patrick. He would have gratefully given all his patrimonial
domains to one who should inform him what pendragon or
druid it was who set up the first stone on Salisbury plain.
This spirit, as you may readily suppose, being seconded
by great wealth and long life, contributed to form a very
large collection of venerable lumber, which, though beyond all price to the collector himself, is of no value to
his heiress but so far as it is marketable. She designs to
bring the whole to auction, but for this purpose a catalogue
and description are necessary. Her father trusted to a
faithful memory, and to vague and scarcely legible memorandums, and has left a very arduous task to any one
who shall be named to the office. It occurred to me, that
the best means of promoting your views was to recommend you to this office.




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333


You are not entirely without the antiquarian frenzy
yourself. The employment, therefore, will be somewhat
agreeable to you for its own sake. It will entitle you to
become an inmate of the same house, and thus establish
an incessant intercourse between you, and the nature of
the business is such, that you may perform it in what
time, and with what degree of diligence and accuracy you
please.
I ventured to insinuate that, to a woman of rank and
family, the character of a hireling was by no means a
favourable recommendation.
He answered, that he proposed, by the account he
should give of me, to obviate every scruple of that nature.
Though my father was no better than a farmer, it is not
absolutely certain but that my remoter ancestors had
princely blood in their veins: but as long as proofs of my
low extraction did not impertinently intrude themselves,
my silence, or at most, equivocal surmises, seasonably
made use of, might secure me from all inconveniences on
the score of birth. He should represent me, and I was
such, as his friend, favourite, and equal, and my passion
for antiquities should be my principal inducement to
undertake this office, though my poverty would make no
objection to a reasonable pecuniary recompense.
Having expressed my acquiescence in his measures, he
thus proceeded: My visit was made to my kinswoman,
for the purpose, as I just now told you, of paving your
way into her family; but, on my arrival at her house, I
found nothing but disorder and alarm. Mrs. Benington,
it seems, on returning from a longer ride than customary,
last Thursday evening, was attacked by robbers. Her
attendants related an imperfect tale of somebody advancing at the critical moment to her rescue. It seems, however, they did more harm than good; for the horses took




334


MEMOIRS OF CARWIN,


to flight and overturned the carriage, in consequence of
which Mrs. Benington was severely bruised. She has
kept her bed ever since, and a fever was likely to ensue,
which has only left her out of danger to-day.
As the adventure before related, in which I had so much
concern, occured at the time mentioned by Ludloe, and
as all other circumstances were alike, I could not doubt
that the person whom the exertion of my mysterious
powers had relieved was Mrs. Benington: but what an
ill-omened interference was mine! The robbers would
probably have been satisfied with the few guineas in her
purse, and, on receiving these, would have left her to
prosecute her journey in peace and security, but, by
absurdly offering a succour, which could only operate
upon the fears of her assailants, I endangered her life,
-first by the desperate discharge of the pistol and next by
the fright of the horses......  My anxiety, which
would have been less if I had not been, in some degree,
myself, the author of the evil, was nearly removed by
Ludloe's proceeding to assure me that all danger was at
an end, and that he left the lady in the road to perfect
health. He had seized the earliest opportunity of acquainting her with the purpose of his visit, and had brought back
with him her cheerful acceptance of my services. The
next week was appointed for my introduction.
With such an object in view, I had little leisure to
attend to any indifferent object. My thoughts were continually bent upon the expected introduction, and my
impatience and curiosity drew strength, not merely from
the character of Mrs. Benington, but from the nature of
my new employment. Ludloe had truly observed, that
I was infected with somewhat of this antiquarian mania
myself, and I now remembered that Benington had frequently alluded to this collection in possession of his




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33 5


wife. My curiosity had then been more than once excited by his representations, and I had formed a vague
resolution of making myself acquainted with this lady
and her learned treasure, should I ever return to Ireland......Other incidents had driven this matter from
my mind.
Meanwhile, affairs between Ludloe and myself remained
stationary. Our conferences, which were regular and
daily, related to general topics, and though his instructions
were adapted to promote my improvement in the most useful branches of knowledge, they never afforded a glimpse
towards that quarter where my cutiosity was most active.
The next week now arrived, but Ludloe informed me
that the state of Mrs. Benington's health required a short
excursion into the country, and that he himself proposed
to bear her company. The journey was to last about a
fortnight, after which I might prepare myself for an introduction to her.
This was a very unexpected and disagreeable trial to
my patience. The interval of solitude that now succeeded
would have passed rapidly and pleasantly enough, if an
event of so much moment were not in suspense. Books,
of which I was passionately fond, would have afforded
me delightful and incessant occupation, and Ludloe, by
ways of reconciling me to unavoidable delays, had given
me access to a little closet, in which his rarer and more
valuable books were kept.
All my amusements, both by inclination and necessity,
were centered in myself and at home. Ludloe appeared
to have no visitants, and though frequently abroad, or at
least secluded from me, had never proposed my introduction to any of his friends, except Mrs. Benington.
My obligations to him were already too great to allow
me to lay claim to new favours and indulgences, nor, in



336


MEMOIRS OF CARWIN,


deed, was my disposition such as to make society needful
to my happiness. My character had been, in some degree, modelled by the faculty which I possessed. This
deriving all its supposed value from impenetrable secrecy,
and Ludloe's.admonitions tending powerfully to impress
me with the necessity of wariness and circumspection in
my general intercourse with mankind, I had gradually
fallen into sedate, reserved, mysterious, and unsociable
habits. My heart wanted not a friend.
In this temper of mind I set myself to examine the
novelties which Ludloe's private book-cases contained.
'Twill be strange, thought I, if his favourite volumes do
not show some marks of my friend's character. To know
a man's favourite or most constant studies cannot fail of
letting in some little light upon his secret thoughts, and
though he would not have given me the reading of these
books, if he had thought them capable of unveiling more
of his concerns than he wished, yet possibly my ingenuity
may go one step farther than he dreams of. You shall
judge whether I was right in my conjectures.
The books which composed this little library were
chiefly the voyages and travels of the missionaries of the
sixteenth and seventeenth centuries.  Added to these
were some works upon political economy and legislation.
Those writers who have amused themselves with reducing
their ideas to practice, and drawing imaginary pictures
of nations or republics, whose manners or government
came up to their standard of excellence, were, all of whom
I had ever heard, and some I had never heard of before,
to be found in this collection. A translation of Aristotle's
republic, the political romances of Sir Thomas More,
Harrington, and Hume, appeared to have been much
read, and Ludloe had not been sparing of his marginal
comments. In these writers he appeared to find nothing




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3 37


but error and absurdity; and his notes were introduced
for no other end than to point out groundless principles
and false conclusions.... The style of these remarks
was already familiar to me. I saw nothing new in them,
or different from the strain of those speculations with
which Ludloe was accustomed to indulge himself in conversation with me.
After having turned over the leaves of the printed
volumes, I at length alighted on a small book of maps,
from which, of course, I could reasonally expect no information, on that point about which I was most curious.
It was an atlas, in which the maps had been drawn by the
pen. None of them contained any thing remarkable, so
far as I, who was indeed a smatterer in geography, was
able to perceive, till I came to the end, when I noticed a
map, whose prototype I was wholly unacquainted with.
It was drawn on a pretty large scale, representing two
islands, which bore some faint resemblance, in their relative proportions, at least, to Great Britain and Ireland.
In shape they were widely different, but as to size there
was no scale by which to measure them. From the great
number of subdivisions, and from signs, which apparently
represented towns and cities, I was allowed to infer, that
the country was at least as extensive as the British isles.
This map was apparently unfinished, for it had no names
inscribed upon it.
I have just said, my geographical knowledge was imperfect. Though I had not enough to draw the outlines
of any country by memory, I had still sufficient to recognise what I had before seen, and to discover that none
of the larger islands in our globe resembled the one before
me. Having such and so strong motives to curiosity, you
may easily imagine my sensations on surveying this map.
Suspecting, as I did, that many of Ludloe's intimations




338


MEMOIRS OF CARWIN,


alluded to a country well known to him, though unknown
to others, I was, of course, inclined to suppose that this
country was now before me.
In search of some clue to this mystery, I carefully inspected the other maps in this collection. In a map of
the eastern hemisphere I soon observed the outlines of
islands, which, though on a scale greatly diminished, were
plainly similar to that of the land above described.
It is well known that the people of Europe are strangers to very nearly one half of the surface of the globe.
From the south pole up to the equator, it is only the
small space occupied by southern Africa and by South
America with which we are acquainted. There is a
vast extent, sufficient to receive a continent as large
as North America, which our ignorance has filled only
with water. In Ludloe's maps nothing was still to be
seen, in these regions, but water, except in that spot
where the transverse parallels of the southern tropic
and the 150th degree east longitude intersect each other.
On this spot were Ludloe's islands placed, though without any name or inscription whatever.
I needed not to be told that this spot had never been
explored by any European voyager, who had published
his adventures. What authority had Ludloe for fixing
a habitable land in this spot? and why did he give us
nothing but the courses of shores and rivers, and the
scite of towns and villages, without a name?
As soon as Ludloe had set out upon his proposed
journey of a fortnight, I unlocked his closet, and continued rummaging among these books and maps till
night. By that time I had turned over every book and
almost every leaf in this small collection, and did not
open the closet again till near the end of that period.
Meanwhile I had many reflections upon this remark



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339


able circumstance. Could Ludloe have intended that
I should see this atlas? It was the only book that could
be styled a manuscript on these shelves, and it was
placed beneath several others, in a situation far from
being obvious and forward to the eye or the hand. Was
it an oversight in him to leave it in my way, or could
he have intended to lead my curiosity and knowledge a
little farther onward by this accidental disclosure? In
either case how was I to regulate my future deportment
toward him? Was I to speak and act as if this atlas
had escaped my attention or not? I had already, after
my first examination of it, placed the volume exactly
where I found it. On every supposition I thought this
was the safest way, and unlocked the closet a second
time, to see that all was precisely in the original order.How was I dismayed and confounded on inspecting
the shelves to perceive that the atlas was gone. This
was a theft, which, from the closet being under lock and
key, and the key always in my own pocket, and which,
from the very nature of the thing stolen, could not be
imputed to any of the domestics. After a few moments
a suspicion occurred, which was soon changed into a
certainty by applying to the housekeeper, who told me
that Ludloe had returned, apparently in much haste,
the evening of the day on which he had set out upon
his journey, and just after I had left the house, that
he had gone into the room where this closet of books
was, and, after a few minutes' stay, came out again
and went away. She told me also, that he had made
general enquiries after me, to which she had answered,
that she had not seen me during the day, and supposed
that I had spent the whole of it abroad. From this
account it was plain, that Ludloe had returned for no
other purpose but to remove this book out of my reach.




340


MEMOIRS OF CARWIN,


But if he had a double key to this door, what should
hinder his having access, by the same means, to every
other locked up place in the house?
This suggestion made me start with terror. Of so
obvious a means for possessing a knowledge of everything under his roof, I had never been till this moment
aware. Such is the infatuation which lays our most
secret thoughts open to the world's scrutiny. We are
frequently in most danger when we deem ourselves
most safe, and our fortress is taken sometimes through
a point, whose weakness nothing, it should seem, but
the blindest stupidity could overlook.
My terrors, indeed, quickly subsided when I came
to recollect that there was nothing in any closet or cabinet of mine which could possibly throw light upon subjects
which I desired to keep in the dark. The more carefully I inspected my own drawers, and the more I reficted on the character of Ludloe, as I had known it,
the less reason did there appear for my suspicions;
but I drew a lesson of caution from this circumstance,
which contributed to my future safety.
From this incident I could not but infer Ludloe's
unwillingness to let me so far into his geographical secret, as well as the certainty of that suspicion, which
had very early been suggested to my thoughts, that
Ludloe's plans of civilization had been carried into
practice in some unvisited corner of the world. It was
strange, however, that he should betray himself by
such an inadvertency. One who talked so confidently
of his own powers, to unveil any secret of mine, and,
at the same time, to conceal his own transactions, had
surely committed an unpardonable error in leaving
this important document in my way. My reverence,
indeed, for Ludloe was such, that I sometimes enter



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341


tained the notion that this seeming oversight was, in
truth, a regular contrivance to supply me with a knowledge, of which, when I came maturely to reflect, it was
impossible for me to make any ill use. There is no
use in relating what would not be believed; and should
I publish to the world the existence of islands in the
space allotted by Ludloe's maps to these incognita,
what would the world answer? That whether the space
described was the sea or land was of no importance.
That the moral and political condition of its inhabitants
was the only topic worthy of rational curiosity. Since
I had gained no information upon this point; since I
had nothing to disclose but vain and fantastic surmises;
I might as well be ignorant of everything. Thus, from
secretly condemning Ludloe's imprudence, I gradually
passed to admiration of his policy. This discovery had
no other effect than to stimulate my curiosity; to keep
up my zeal to prosecute the journey I had commenced
under his auspices.
I had hitherto formed a resolution to stop where I
was in Ludloe's confidence: to wait till the success should
be ascertained of my projects with respect to Mrs. Benington, before I made any new advance in the perilous
and mysterious road into which he had led my steps.
But, before this tedious fortnight had elapsed, I was
grown extremely impatient for an interview, and had
nearly resolved to undertake whatever obligation he
should lay upon me.
This obligation was indeed a heavy one, since it included the confession of my vocal powers. In itself
the confession was little. To possess this faculty was
neither laudable nor culpable, nor had it been exercised
in a way which I should be very much ashamed to acknowledge. It had led me into many insincerities and




34:2


MEMOIRS OF CARWIN,


artifices, which, though not justifiable by any creed,
was entitled to some excuse, on the score of youthful
ardour and temerity. The true difficulty in the way of
these confessions was the not having made them already.
Ludloe had long been entitled to this confidence, and,
though the existence of this power was venial or wholly
innocent, the obstinate concealment of it was a different matter, and would certainly expose me to suspicion
and rebuke. But what was the alternative? To conceal it. To incur those dreadful punishments awarded
against treason in this particular. Ludloe's menaces
still rung in my ears, and appalled my heart. How
should I be able to shun them? By concealing from
every one what I concealed from him? How was my
concealment of such a faculty to be suspected or proved?
Unless I betrayed myself, who could betray me?
In this state of mind, I resolved to confess myself
to Ludloe in a way that he required, reserving only
the secret of this faculty. Awful, indeed, said I, is the
crisis of my fate. If Ludloe's declarations are true, a
horrid catastrophe awaits me: but as fast as my resolutions were shaken, they were confirmed anew by the
recollection-Who can betray me but myself? If I
deny, who is there can prove? Suspicion can never
light upon the truth! If it does, it can never be converted into certainty. Even my own lips cannot confirm it, since who will believe my testimony?
By such illusions was I fortified in my desperate resolution.
Ludloe returned at the time appointed. He informed
me that Mrs. Benington expected me next morning. She
was ready to depart for her country residence, where she
proposed to spend the ensuing summer, and would carry
me along with her. In consequence of this arrangement,




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he said, many months would elapse before he should see
me again. You will indeed, continued he, be pretty much
shut up from all society. Your books and your new friend
will be your chief, if not only companions. Her life is not
a social one, because she has formed extravagant notions
of the importance of lonely worship and devout solitude.
Much of her time will be spent in meditation upon pious
books in her closet. Some of it in long solitary rides in
her coach, for the sake of exercise. Little will remain for
eating and sleeping, so that unless you can prevail upon
her to violate her ordinary rules for your sake, you will be
left pretty much to yourself. You will have the more
time to reflect upon what has hitherto been the theme of
our conversations. You can come to town when you want
to see me. I shall generally be found in these apartments.
In the present state of my mind, though impatient to
see Mrs. Benington, I was still more impatient to remove
the veil between Ludloe and myself. After some pause,
I ventured to enquire if there was any impediment to my
advancement in the road he had already pointed out to
my curiosity and ambition.
He replied, with great solemnity, that I was already
acquainted with the next step to be taken in this road.
If I was prepared to make him my confessor, as to the
past, the present, and the future, without exception or
condition, but what arose from defect of memory, he was
willing to receive my confession.
I declared myself ready to do so.
I need not, he returned, remind you of the consequences
of concealment or deceit. I have already dwelt upon
these consequences. As to the past, you have already told
me, perhaps, all that is of any moment to know. It is in
relation to the future that caution will be chiefly necessary.
Hitherto your actions have been nearly indifferent to the




344


MEMOIRS OF CARWIN,


ends of your future existence. Confessions of the past
are required, because they are an earnest of the future
character and conduct. Have you then-but this is too
abrupt. Take an hour to reflect and deliberate. Go by
yourself; take yourself to severe task, and make up your
mind with a full, entire, and unfailing resolution; for the
moment in which you assume this new obligation will
make you a new being. Perdition or felicity will hang upon
that moment.
This conversation was late in the evening. After I had
consented to postpone this subject, we parted, he telling
me that he would leave his chamber door open, and as soon
as my mind was made up I might come to him.
I retired accordingly to my apartment, and spent the
prescribed hour in anxious and irresolute reflections; They
were no other than had hitherto occurred, but they occurred with more force than ever. Some fatal obstinacy,
however, got possession of me, and I persisted in the resolution of concealing one thing. We become fondly attached to objects and pursuits, frequently for no conceivable reason but the pain and trouble they cost us. In
proportion to the danger in which they involve us do we
cherish them. Our darling potion is the poison that
scorches our vitals.
After some time, I went to Ludloe's apartment. I found
him solemn, and yet benign, at my entrance. After intimating my compliance with the terms prescribed, which I
did, in spite of all my labour for composure, with accents
half faultering, he proceeded to put various questions to
me, relative to my early history.
I knew there was no other mode of accomplishing the
end in view, but by putting all that was related in the
form of answers to questions; and when meditating on
the character of Ludloe, I experienced excessive uneasi



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345


ness as to the consummate art and penetration which
his questions would manifest. Conscious of a purpose
to conceal, my fancy invested my friend with the robe of
a judicial inquisitor, all whose questions should aim at
extracting the truth, and entrapping the liar.
In this respect, however, I was wholly disappointed.
All his inquiries were general and obvious.-They betokened curiosity, but not suspicion; yet there were moments when I saw, or fancied I saw, some dissatisfaction
betrayed in his features; and when I arrived at that period
of my story which terminated with my departure, as his
companion, for Europe, his pauses were, I thought, a
little longer and more museful than I liked. At this period,
our first conference ended. After a talk, which had commenced at a late hour, and had continued many hours,
it was time to sleep, and it was agreed that next morning
the conference should be renewed.
On retiring to my pillow, and reviewing all the circumstances of this interview, my mind was filled with apprehension and disquiet. I seemed to recollect a thousand
things, which showed that Ludloe was not fully satisfied
with my part in this interview. A strange and nameless
mixture of wrath and of pity appeared, on recollection, in
the glances which, from time to time, he cast upon me.
Some emotion played upon his features, in which, as my
fears conceived, there was a tincture of resentment and
ferocity. In vain I called my usual sophistries to my aid.
In vain I pondered on the inscrutable nature of my peculiar
faculty. In vain I endeavoured to persuade myself, that,
by telling the truth, instead of entitling myself to Ludloe's
approbation, I should only excite his anger, by what he
could not but deem an attempt to impose upon his belief
an incredible tale of impossible events. I had never heard
or read of any instance of this faculty. I supposed the




346


MEMOIRS OF CARWIN,


case to be absolutely singular, and I should be no more
entitled to credit in proclaiming it, than if I should maintain that a certain billet of wood possessed the faculty
of articulate speech. It was now, however, too late to
retract. I had been guilty of a solemn and deliberate
concealment. I was now in the path in which there was
no turning back, and I must go forward.
The return of day's encouraging beams in some degree
quited my nocturnal terrors, and I went, at the appointed
hour, to Ludloe's presence. I found him with a much
more cheerful aspect than I had expected, and began to
chide myself, in secret, for the folly of my late apprehensions.
After a little pause, he reminded me, that he was only
one among many, engaged in a great and arduous design.
As each of us, continued he, is mortal, each of us must,
in time, yield his post to another.-Each of us is ambitious
to provide himself a successor, to have his place filled by
one selected and instructed by himself. All our personal
feelings and affections are by no means intended to be
swallowed up by a passion for the general interest; when
they can be kept alive and be brought into play, in subordination and subservience to the great end, they are
cherished as useful, and revered as laudable; and whatever
austerity and rigour you may impute to my character,
there are few more susceptible of personal regards than I
am.
You cannot know, till you are what I am, what deep,
what all-absorbing interest I have in the success of my
tutorship on this occasion. Most joyfully would I embrace
a thousand deaths, rather than that you should prove a
recreant. The consequences of any failure in your integrity will, it is true, be fatal to yourself; but there are
some minds, of a generous texture, who are more impatient




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347


under ills they have inflicted upon others, than of those
they have brought upon themselves; who had rather
perish themselves, in infamy, than bring infamy or death
upon a benefactor.
Perhaps of such noble materials is your mind composed.
If I had not thought so, you would never have been an
object of my regard, and therefore, in the motives that
shall impel you to fidelity, sincerity and perseverance,
some regard to my happiness and welfare will, no doubt,
have place.
And yet I exact nothing from you on this score. If
your own safety be insufficient to controul you, you are not
fit for us. There is, indeed, abundant need of all possible
inducements to make you faithful. The task of concealing nothing from me must be easy. That of concealing
every thing from others must be the only arduous one.
The first you can hardly fail of performing, when the
exigence requires it, for what motive can you possibly
have to practise evasion or disguise with me? You have
surely committed no crime; you have neither robbed, nor
murdered, nor betrayed. If you have, there is no room
for the fear of punishment or the terror of disgrace to step
in, and make you hide your guilt from me. You cannot
dread any farther disclosure, because I can have no interest in your ruin or your shame: and what evil could
ensue the confession of the foulest murder, even before
a bench of magistrates, more dreadful than that which
will inevitably follow the practice of the least concealment
to me, or the least undue disclosure to others?
You cannot easily conceive the emphatical solemnity
with which this was spoken. Had he fixed piercing eyes
on me while he spoke; had I perceived him watching my
looks, and labouring to penetrate my secret thoughts, I
should doubtless have been ruined: but he fixed his eyes




348


MEMOIRS OF CARWIN,


upon the floor, and no gesture or look indicated the smallest suspicion of my conduct. After some pause, he continued, in a more pathetic tone, while his whole frame
seemed to partake of his mental agitation.
I am greatly at a loss by what means to impress you
with a full conviction of the truth of what I have just said.
Endless are the sophistries by which we seduce ourselves
into perilous and doubtful paths. What we do not see,
we disbelieve, or we heed not. The sword may descend
upon our infatuated head from above, but we who are,
meanwhile, busily inspecting the ground at our feet, or
gazing at the scene around us, are not aware or apprehensive of its irresistible coming. In this case it must not
be seen before it is felt, or before that time comes when the
danger of incurring it is over. I cannot withdraw the
veil, and disclose to your view the exterminating angel.
All must be vacant and blank, and the danger that stands
armed with death at your elbow must continue to be
totally invisible, till that moment when its vengeance is
provoked or unprovokable. I will do my part to encourage
you in good, or intimidate you from evil. I am anxious
to set before you all the motives which are fitted to influence your conduct; but how shall I work on your convictions?
Here another pause ensued, which I had not courage
enough to interrupt. He presently resumed.
Perhaps you recollect, a visit which you paid, on
Christmas day, in the year  ~, to the cathedral church
at Toledo. Do you remember?
A moment's reflection recalled to my mind all the incidents of that day. I had good reason to remember them.
I felt no small trepidation when Ludloe referred me to that
day, for, at the moment, I was doubtful whether there had
not been some bivocal agency exerted on that occasion.




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349


Luckily, however, it was almost the only similar occasion
in which it had been wholly silent.
I answered in the affirmative, I remember them perfectly.
And yet, said Ludloe, with a smile that seemed intended
to disarm this declaration of some of its terrors, I suspect
your recollection is not as exact as mine, nor, indeed, your
knowledge as extensive. You met there, for the first time,
a female, whose nominal uncle, but real father, a dean of
that ancient church, resided in the blue stone house, the
third from the west angle of the square of St. Jago.
All this was exactly true.
This female, continued he, fell in love with you. Her
passion made her deaf to all the dictates of modesty and
duty, and she gave you sufficient intimations, in subsequent interviews at the same place, of this passion; which,
she being fair and enticing, you were not slow in comprehending and returning. As not only the safety of your
intercourse, but even of both your lives, depended on
being shielded even from suspicion, the utmost wariness
and caution was observed in all your proceedings. Tell
me whether you succeeded in your efforts to this end.
I replied, that, at the time, I had no doubt but I had.
And yet, said he, drawing something from his pocket,
and putting it into my hand, there is the slip of paper,
with the preconcerted emblem inscribed upon it, which
the infatuated girl dropped in your sight, one evening, in
the left aisle of that church. That paper you imagined
you afterwards burnt in your chamber lamp. In pursuance of this token, you deferred your intended visit,
and next day the lady was accidentally drowned, in passing a river. Here ended your connexion with her, and
with her was buried, as you thought, all memory of this
transaction.




350


MEMOIRS OF CARWIN,


I leave you to draw your own inference from this disclosure. Meditate upon it when alone. Recall all the
incidents of that drama, and labour to conceive the means
by which my sagacity has been able to reach events that
took place so far off, and under so deep a covering. If you
cannot penetrate these means, learn to reverence my assertions, that I cannot be deceived; and let sincerity be
henceforth the rule of your conduct towards me, not
merely because it is right, but because concealment is
impossible.
We will stop here. There is no haste required of us.
Yesterday's discourse will suffice for to-day, and for many
days to come. Let what has already taken place be the
subject of profound and mature reflection. Review, once
more, the incidents of your early life, previous to your
introduction to me, and, at our next conference, prepare
to supply all those deficiencies occasioned by negligence,
forgetfulness, or design on our first. There must be some.
There must be many. The whole truth can only be disclosed after numerous and repeated conversations. These
must take place at considerable intervals, and when all
is told, then shall you be ready to encounter the final
ordeal, and load yourself with heavy and terrific sanctions.
I shall be the proper judge of the completeness of your
confession.-Knowing previously, and by unerring means,
your whole history, I shall be able to detect all that is
deficient, as well as all that is redundant. Your confessions have hitherto adhered to the truth, but deficient
they are, and they must be, for who, at a single trial, can
detail the secrets of his life? whose recollection can fully
serve him at an instant's notice? who can free himself, by
a single effort, from the dominion of fear and shame? We
expect no miracles of fortitude and purity from our disciples. It is our discipline, our wariness, our laborious




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35I


preparation that creates the excellence we have among us.
We find it not ready made.
I counsel you to join Mrs. Benington without delay.
You may see me when and as often as you please. When
it is proper to renew the present topic, it shall be renewed.
Till then we will be silent.-Here Ludloe left me alone,
but not to indifference or vacuity. Indeed I was overwhelmed with the reflections that arose from this conversation. So, said I, I am still saved, if I have wisdom enough
to use the opportunity, from the consequences of past
concealments. By a distinction which I had wholly overlooked, but which could not be missed by the sagacity
and equity of Ludloe, I have praise for telling the truth,
and an excuse for withholding some of the truth. It was,
indeed, a praise to which I was entitled, for I had made
no additions to the tale of my early adventures. I had no
motive to exaggerate or dress out in false colours. What
I sought to conceal, I was careful to exclude entirely,
that a lame or defective narrative might awaken no suspicions.
The allusion to incidents at Toledo confounded and
bewildered all my thoughts. I still held the paper he had
given me. So far as memory could be trusted, it was the
same which, an hour after I had received it, I burnt, as I
conceived, with my own hands. How Ludloe came into
possession of this paper; how he was apprised of incidents,
to which only the female mentioned and myself were
privy; which she had too good reason to hide from all the
world, and which I had taken infinite pains to bury in
oblivion, I vainly endeavoured to conjecture.




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