BEANS SSN TEAS NS a IRN Rae ee SEAVER SOS Sis Sasa Fey as SNS SSS ete SS wa Ne ~ \ ESE hed ov Ans S . a Ys oe ss Ne \) SN SEN RN EN SN S ANE RASS DON Wi Wh iY a tae SS tis AAG ~~ \ \\ RA AN _ ~ SESS SSRIS ONS SS ; SOE SANS NS Sh NS SS ~, ey | eae THE LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF NORTH CAROLINA ENDOWED BY THE DIALECTIC AND PHILANTHROPIC SOCIETIES ” + ae F - ‘y ‘ Ss — «tomy oy i ay , ; mrt o 4 , a , oe JNIVERSITY OF N. C. ATCI CHAP PELHILL iia ih 10000758761 This book is due at the WALTER R. DAVIS LIBRARY on the last date stamped under ‘‘Date Due.” If not on hold it may be renewed by bringing it to the library. DATE DATE DUE oe: RET. . 2 ae a le Ve Pay g é iy oO Cc m ’ - ! >) BSS es SD Gs Ce SR SR EE GT oO, EE se ee es eee ee m Ww THE TRANSFORMATION BY CHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN NEW YORK . -LOVELL, CORYELL & COMPANY | MEMOIR OF CHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN. Geytus and knowledge command respect; but superior C genius and aes Pamlecee, Sues ee with argc moral. = 23 e _ reputation of an ane in whom ai eds ‘are united. may be circumscribed during life, but_its rise and extension e ; Oi slas death “prove that his claims to distinction are well founded. It is no less the duty than the pleasure of friend- ship to fortify and sustain these claims. The impartiality. of ans 8 — cannot but confirm the anticipations of affection. | ut pF same eal on the banks of the Deleware. Tei petupalee oe af moral, religious, and political—coincided with those of their - . % pious and ‘illustrious leader. | He derived the additional name of Brockden from his uncle a Charles Brockden, so respectfully mentioned by Franklin in” = his, Life, a uy avoid the vengeance of ones whose . av. aes a Oe ee I re Cae! ke re ni ORE gs Ue nS i Ue Ae ge a re ne Ma > BF REI (aie Se a NENT ty TTI S NOR aaa, eee Rede nS idea den Cue iat Vcees Ranney war Paes Coad? Scan . Pete: OO MN. uae sare me a Breaahea Diggs soe 4 MEMOIR OF . abilities finally raised him to an important office, which he - filled with distinguished reputation. His parents were pious and respectable members of the Society of Friends, and may be presumed to have instilled into their beloved offspring all that simplicity of manners and benevolence of sentiment which so honorably characterize the religious society to which they belonged. He was born in the city of Philadelphia, on the 17th day of January, 1771. He had three brothers older than himself, to whom, as well as to every other member of his family, he was from his earliest years an object of deep interest and fond affection. Of those incidents and circumstances which in childhood either control the development or indicate the character of the moral and intellectual powers of men distinguished for their talents, and which are not only interesting in themselves, but valuable as contributions to the great cause of education, it is always desirable to hear; but, when he whose life they would illustrate modestly leaves them unnoticed, the biographer can only have recourse to conjecture or to the recollections of friends. From the facts which they furnish he may deduce or infer, but he cannot establish with certainty. His narrative of these may therefore be brief without subject- ing him to censure. Of the first ten years of Mr. Brown’s life the memorials are few but sufficient. His constitution was unusually delicate and frail and his frame slender. Life opened upon him with a wan and sickly aspect, and disclosed but doubtful prospects ofa healthy manhood. The weakness of his body was, how- ever, his only weakness; his mind was not enervated. There . all was activity and strength. CHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN. 5 Debility of body does not necessarily lead to vigor of mind, The reverse of this may perhaps be maintained. But he whom nature had rendered incapable of much corporeal exertion would almost necessarily be thrown upon his intellectual re- sources for enjoyment. This was the case withthe lamented subject of this memoir. — From his earliest years he was devoted to books and reflec- tion. Maps, books, and prints were to him even in childhood objects irresistibly attractive. The study and examination of these were the constant and invariable occupations of his juvenile years. His knowledge of geography and architecture ‘in his tenth year was a subject of pride and exultation to his friends and of surprise to strangers. He entered the classical school of Robert Proud, the well- b known author of the “History of Pennsylvania,’ in his eleventh year, and left it before he had completed his six- teenth. His rapid advancement and incessant diligence while under the direction of this gentleman received, as_ they merited, his warmest commendations. His studies were, however, by no means confined to the ancient classics ; his application was unremitting to the best English models. Five years of ardent and intellectual exercise 1n classical studies! What a mass of intellectual treasures may not be — collected during such a period! What rich materials for future use may it not afford! Fortunate is the youth of whom it may be said that, for five years, he persevered with ardor and enthusiasm in the pursuit of knowledge and the cultiva- tion of his powers. His soul becomes imbued with the love of letters and of science, and he is already on the high-road to distinction and honor. He can hardly become the slave of low and egrovelling vices. ae : MEMOIR Or es a Mr. Brown’s application during this period was indeed so intense as seriously to endanger his health ; and, therefore, by the advice of his preceptor, he occasionally relaxed from | the severities of study and made excursions into the country. These journeys he performed on foot; and, on account of the pleasure and advantage which he derived from jhe he ever after continued the practice. : Accustomed as he had been to the confined atmosphere, the dusky streets, and unwholesome exhalations of a city, the ex- tended prospects, the varied hues, the delicious fragrance, and the balmy and elastic air of the country were unspeak- ably grateful aud refreshing. Solitary wandering leads to thoughtful musing, and this to romanticenthusiasm. It would not be difficult to predict the effects which such a practice would have upon an imagination ever active, enriched and embellished with elegant literature and various knowledge. Habits of reverie and abstraction would be insensibly con- tracted. “Present objects would gradually fade from the view, and the imagination revel, free and unfettered, amid its own creations. He had been diligent in composition before he was sixteen ; but after he left school he became indefatigable. He wrote a variety of essays, both in prose and verse, most of which imply considerable powers and uncommon acquisitions in a youth of his age. About this time, too, he invented a system. of short-hand, and successfully studied French, aided only by books. | _ But it became necessary that his efforts should be concen- trated upon a single science. eae ~~- . QOHARLES BROORDEN BROWN. q the approbation of his family, he made choice of the law, and became a student in the office of Alexander Wilcox, Hsq., a distinguished member of the Philadelphia bar. His habits of labor and application, no less than his keen discrimination and sound judgment, were admirably fitted for his new pursuit, and he entered upon it with his usual ardor and diligence. He became a member of a law society, over whose deliberations he presided with credit and ability. The recorded decisions which his duty as president required him to make evince unusual research and solidity of judgment. But polite literature and liberal studies could not be relin- quished. Law he studied from a principle of duty or neces- sity ; but literature had his secret soul» Though the dry ab- stractions and bewildering subtleties of law had something in them which particularly suited his laborious habits and speculative ingenuity, his literary propensities were irresisti- ble. He became, at the same time, a member of the Belles- Lettres Club, whose principal object was improvement in literature. In this also he became a leader. The various ad- dresses which he delivered before this society are creditable to his talents and indicative of vigor and originality of thought. During the whole of his novitiate his pen was in diligent exercise. He wrote various essays, some of them of consider- “able merit, and maintained a long and elaborate correspond- © - ence with several of his friends. Not satisfied with these labors, he kept a minute and copious journal, not merely of the incidents and occurrences of the day, but of his thoughts, feelings, and reflections. He did this for the double purpose of improvement: in thinking-and in writing. Of excellence in style he was always ambitious, and for it he most saeco - labored. 8 MEMOIR OF Besant Of the progress that he made, or was qualified to make, in the science of law, the decisions before alluded to afford abundant and convincing evidence. His qualifications and attainments were unquestionably great for so young a man : and of moral purity and elevation of sentiment he was a rare and signal example. His early associates were selected solely with a view to moral and intellectual improvement; for to sensual enjoyments and vicious pleasures he was an utter stranger. Vice in every shape was loathsome and disgusting to him. | , He was now of that age when youth swells into manhood— when the dispositions, habits, and propensities of early life become fixed and pérmanent, or, swayed by novel and un- foreseen circumstances, assume new directions, or become supplanted by others still more powerful. The period came when the study was to be succeeded by the practice of the law. To this he was decidedly averse. His resolution was fixed, and the law was abandoned. Neither argument nor persuasion could vanquish his resolution. This was not the result of whim or caprice. His passion for letters, the weak- ness of his physical constitution, and his reluctance to engage in the noise and bustle of professional business, were doubiless causes abundantly adequate to the production of this effect. The last of these originated in that habit of romantic and visionary speculation in which he so much delighted to in- dulee, and of which he gave a striking instance in the essays which he published under the title of the ‘‘Rhapsodist.” In reference to this event he says himself, “As for me, I had long ago discovered that nature had not qualified me for an actor on this stage. The nature of my education only added to these disqualifications.”’ ‘The disappointment of CHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN. g his friends was great indeed at this abandonment of the only path to fame and fortune which seemed to be open to him. They reasoned, they remonstrated ; but their labor was “in vain. His reluctance was invincible. Not even his own sense of duty could overcome it. His friends saw this, and were silent. To one so strongly attached to his family and friends, of whom he was the pride and the boast, this trial must have been peculiarly severe. The effect was soon per- ceived ; his spirits sank almost to hopelessness, and his health became visibly impaired. The portion of his life from the close of his legal studies till the time of his becoming professedly an author, in the year 1798, comprises a period of about six years. Of this part of his history the incidents are few and may be briefly told. His literary and scientific tastes were now his only re- source, and they were indulged without restraint. To dissipate the gloom and dejection into which his mind had sunk, he left Philadelphia, and, after traversing various parts of the country, he remained for a while in the city of New York. There the joys and consolations of friendship awaited him; for his friend, Dr. Elihu H. Smith, was a resi- dent of that city. By him Mr. Brown was received with all the cordiality which the most disinterested friendship could inspire. Their intercourse had commenced in Philadelphia, while respectively engaged in professional studies. Tis visit was not only productive of pleasure, but of friendship, to Mr. B. Through the kindness of his beloved friend Smith the circle of his friends was considerably enlarged, and hope was revived in his breast. He left New York gratified and strenothened. ) The impressions he received during this visit induced a 1025 te aOR OR speedy repetition of it. The second was longer than the first, and from this time the greater part of the period before mentioned was spent by him in New York. His situation there was happily adapted to gratify his best feelings and promote his favorite pursuits. Of his new friends and asso- ciates, many were distinguished, and all respectable, for literature or science. With most of these gentlemen he was + on terms of the strictest intimacy and most liberal intercourse. Many of them were members of a literary society, about that time formed in New York, under the modest title of the “Friendly Club.” Of this society Mr. B. became a member, and frequently mentions, in his journal, the pleasure and advantages: he derived from it. ‘By his friend Smith he was introduced to the friendship of Mr. Johnson and Mr. Dunlap, the latter of whom has since celebrated the talents and virtues of his friend in an extended biography. Between these gentlemen, Dr. Smith, and himself, an intimacy of the most endearing and confi- dential nature subsisted for several years, and was terminated only by death. He was an inmate in the family of Mr. Dun- lap during the greater part of this time; but he afterwards resided with his friends Johnson and Smith. Mr. Brown was of that temperament that required objects for the exer- cise of the domestic affections. Mere literary or social inter- course was not sufficient for him. In the family establish- - ments just mentioned, he found ample exercise for the sensi- bilities of his affectionate heart. | : Thus cireumstanced, his intellectual powers were ‘strongly excited and his moral propensities confirmed and strength- ened, That he made large additions to his knowledge may fairly be inferred from his known habits of labor and apph- Ht " Vesey alka a rr be een Tee io ea Sd, Se I oa ; & : a OUARLES BROCKDEN BROWN. rai ed eation. -His reading was various and extensive, but not ; always profitable. He had at this period of his life a strong :, tendency to skepticism, which, in his riper years, he rejected. This was natural, and the explanation is easy. Imperfection -iswritten upon every thing human. It requires little sagac- ity to perceive defects in existing institutions, or to suggest difficulties and to frame objections to any system of morals or religion. To a young, acute, and original inquirer these are soon apparent.. To him, if zealous and sincere in his search after truth, nothing is more vehemently desired than certainty. He strains after perfection, and, finding the system which accident, design, or necessity, first presents to his examination not to yield the satisfaction he seeks, he rejects it for another. ‘This is liable to objections as well as the former, less potent, perhaps, but still objections. An- other and another succeeds; but doubts and difficulties are _ gtill unresolved, and the inquirer, wearied. at last with the fruitless search, sinks into the indifference of skepticism, from which a more enlarged experience and deeper inquiries alone can raise him. _ During this period of his life, the moral and _ political world were in a state of the most violent excitation. The deep foundations of society were shaken. The spirit of fear- less inquiry was abroad upon the earth. Theories the most extravagant were daily promulgated, and the madness of speculation knew no bounds. 7 , Toward the close of these times of such fearful excite- ment he commenced his career as an author, and his first ee publication was “Alcuin: a Dialogue on the Rights of Be “Women.” This was written during the autumn and winter ~ of the year T7194; : It isan eloquent and ingenious specula- P 12: : MEMOIR OF tion, of which, though we may praise the elegance of the language, the originality of the style, and the subtlety of the argument, we cannot but condemn the unsoundness of the doctrine. Though published, it was scarcely known to the public, and the author consequently acquired from it’ neither reputation nor profit. About the same period he wrote a small novel, in the form of aseries of letters, which he never published, and which, though not destitute of merit, it would be unnecessary to notice here, did not the composition of it seem to have been the circumstance which led to his subsequent efforts in the same walk. On this work he remarks in his journal, “I commenced something in the form of aromance. I had at first no definite conceptions of my design. As my pen pro- ceeded forward, my invention was tasked, and the materials that it afforded were arranged and digested.” ‘“ Every new attempt will be better than the last, and, considered in the light of a prelude or first link, it may merit that praise to which it may possess no claim, considered as a last, best creation.” It was indeed a prelude to a series, which he now in rapid succession produced, of the most original, powerful, and masterly, though faulty and in some respects imperfect and objectionable, works of fiction of which American literature could then, or perhaps can now, boast; and which will ad- vantageously sustain a comparison with European works of the same species of composition, in most of the qualities essential to such productions. Mr. Brown wrote six works of this description, wpon which his fame has hitherto chiefly rested :—‘“ Wieland,” “ Ormond,” ‘Arthur Mervyn,” “Edgar Huntly,” “Clara Howard,” and -_ ss OHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN. — 13 «Jane Talbot.” The first five were published in the interval that elapsed from the spring of 1798 till the summer of 1801, a period of little more than three years, and in which he completed his thirtieth year. The last was published some- what later. | Upon the character of these fictions little more can be said upon this occasion. They have now in their favor the voice of British criticism, tardy as it has ever been to pro- claim the merits of American genius; and that excellence must indeed be positive on this side of the Atlantic which ean win or extort applause from the judges on the other. They are indeed remarkable productions. Once read the im- pression they make is never forgotten. They are original in every sense—in the conception, the style, the execution; in the characters, sentiments, manners, incidents, altogether original. Full of energy and pathos, they abound with pas- sages of genuine eloquence and irresistible force. Few works excite such breathless anxiety and awful apprehension. The tone of seriousness and solemnity that pervades them repels the ordinary reader of novels. One fond of mere love-tales - must not look into them for enjoyment. They are calculated only for those who indulge in the deep and powerful emo- tions; for those who think and feel stronely ; who delight patiently to trace every action to its appropriate motive ; and to mark the ebbs and flows of passion, and follow them out to their furthest consequences. To such readers they will always be welcome, notwithstanding the admission that the characters and incidents are too frequently in extremes and lie barely within the range-of probability. Few writers of ficti- tious narrative can be pronounced equal to Mr. Brown in the analysis of the thoughts and emotions of the soul, in exqui- & in. 10 are bite gala oie gait Ye a eee eis in peteig SUG aaeat Se Hs - -MRMOIR OR site skill in the arrangement and development of incidents, and in accuracy, extent, and variety of knowledge. ‘During this period he not only wrote a variety of essays and fugitive pieces in prose and verse, some of which were published in the journals of the day, but he at the same time conducted, with great credit and ability, a periodical work, in the city of New York, under the title of the “Monthly Maga-— vine and American Review.” This work, begun in April, 1799, and closed in the autumn of the year 1800, was almost entirely the production of his own pen; though he received some valuable contributions from his literary and scientifie friends, particularly in the critical department. It abounds with curious and learned essays, ingenious speculations, inter- esting tales, and valuable information, and affords some of the best specimens of liberal, candid, and manly criticism that the American press has hitherto produced. In closing this short summary of his first literary labors, it is but justice to his memory to claim for him the honor of having been among the first—perhaps of having been the first—of those American writers who set an example of liter- ary independence by drawing upon their own resources, thus stimulating the national mind to exertion in the fields of lit- | erature and science. He was, it is believed, the first native American author who devoted himself to literary pursuits as a — regular occupation, and who depended upon them for a per- manent support. Mr. Brown continued to reside in the city of New York and its neighborhood from the spring of 1798 till the autumn of the year 1800, at the conclusion of which he removed to his native city, Philadelphia. : _ Riper years and more extensive communion with his fellow- ~ ee eee Le tt) 2 =~ bet aE? By ans ane Sogn Ok ee begs 78 : CHARLES BROOKRDEN BROWN. ———‘15 men during his residence in New York corrected, without weakening, his moral enthusiasm and romantic sensibilities, The realities of experience were gradually and imperceptibly substituted for the visions of a glowing and luxurious imagi- nation, and his moral progress was eminently beneficial and salutary. Friendship in him was so powerful and elevated a sentiment that not even the dangers of pestilence could deter him from the performance of those duties which it seemed to him to prescribe. Though he made occasional excursions in the warm sea- sons, sometimes for health and sometimes for pleasure and relaxation, yet his favorite studies and pursuits were zealously continued, and he added largely to the ample stock of litera- ture and science which he had previously acquired. His cor- respondence was prosecuted with his wonted activity, and his | journals were, as usual, detailed and copious. His pen, in- deed, was incessantly employed ; and, for the three years guc- ceeding his return to his paternal abode, he not only wrote a variety of lighter essays, in prose and verse, but planned and made considerable collections for future works of more dura- _ ble utility and elevated aim than any he had yet produced, - and from which, when completed, he might expect both profit and reputation. The year 1803 was an important era in his life, as from this is to be dated the commencement of his career as a political writer ; and we can only reeret that he did not write more on subjects of such vast practical importance, upon which he has shown himself so admirably qualified to write well. Three of the speculations which he published at different periods upon a “political subjects are especially worthy of notice and consider- " “ation :—that on the ‘‘Cession of Louisiana to France,” that 16 | MEMOIR OF on the “Treaty with England rejected by Mr. Jefferson,” and that on ‘“* Commercial Restrictions.” The candid and impartial reader will bestow upon these productions no mean praise. They are evidently the work of a clear, sagacious, original, and comprehensive thinker ; the soundness and accuracy of whose views and opinions are strongly implied in the manliness, candor, and perspicuity with which those of the adverse parties are stated and exam- ined. To the praise of variety and depth of knowledge, vigor of argument, and comprehensiveness of view, they are emi- nently entitled. They display a boldness and independence of thought, a freedom from prejudice and party bias, and an impartiality of decision, very unusual in writings of this de- scription among us. The characteristic originality of the author is seen in almost every page. On subjects so compli- cated and various as those discussed in these productions, different opinions may be entertained and different conclu- sions drawn by men of the greatest knowledge and brightest intellect, without subjecting them to the imputation of igno- yance or unfairness. Of the ability displayed in those essays, a careful perusal will afford decisive evidence. For the disinter- estedness and purity of the author’s motives, those who knew him best. can best answer. No American could be actuated by a more noble and elevated patriotism, or could perceive more clearly and paint more vividly the glorious destinies of his country. 3 A second edition of the ‘‘Cession of Louisiana” was called for and speedily issued in February, 1803. The public at- tention was ingeniously and forcibly directed to the impor-— tance of the acquisition, and to the necessity that it should, at all hazards, be secured to these States. We may therefore ~ CHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN. | 17 justly claim for the author the honor of having, in some small degree, contributed to the subsequent annexation of that im- portant and extensive country to the American Union. There was nothing for which he had a deeper abhorrence than for party intemperance and strife. He freely and fairly allowed to others the freedom which he exercised himself, and he could prove an adversary to be in the wrong without the imputation of selfish or dishonorable motives. He there- fore, in his pamphlet on the British Treaty of 1806, fearlessly | but decorously declared his opinions of public men and their measures. He aimed sedulously and solely to establish truth. If he failed, his judgment, not his intentions, must be called in question. He was decidedly opposed to embargoes and restrictions. He therefore, in his pamphlet on ‘Commercial Restrictions,” endeavored, and we think successfully, to demonstrate their injustice and inutility. The course pursued since by some of the principal maritime states of Europe seems to confirm the justness of his conclusions, and the enlightened views of political economy still prevalent lead to the same result. A_ considerable portion of his countrymen maintain the same doctrines which he so forcibly and ably supported, and a still larger one, perhaps, reject them. Many may deride the impartiality which weighed the merits of France and Eng- land in the same scales. Some surely will applaud it. Time will add to the number of the latter, and every American bosom must swell with exultation at the grand picture of _ “the progress to greatness,” so eloquently sketched by the _ author as that which his country is destined to realize in no distant futurity. Bat political speculations did not detain him long. Litera- 18 MEMOIR OF ture had long been his passion, and was now to be his sup- port. He made an advantageous engagement with an eminent bookseller of Philadelphia, who undertook the publication at his own risk ; and the first number of a new periodical work was issued on the Ist of October, 1803, under the title of The Literary Magazine and American Register. The follow- ing passage from the excellent address which accompanied the first number of this work exhibits at once Mr. Brown’s modesty, his candor, and his sensibility to fame : ‘“‘T am far, however, from wishing that my readers should judge of my exertions by my former ones. I have written much, but take much blame to myself for something which I have written, and take no praise for any thing. I should enjoy a larger share of my own respect at the present moment if nothing had ever flowed from my pen the production of which could be traced to me. A variety of causes induce me to form such a wish; but Lam principally influenced by the consideration that time can scarcely fail of enlarging and refining the powers of a man, while the world is sure to judge of his capacities and principles at fifty from what he has written at fifteen.” The following illustrates an important change in his opinions:—‘‘In an age like this, when the foundations of religion and morality have been so boldly attacked, it seems necessary, In announcing a work of this nature, to be particularly explicit as to the path which the editor means to pursue. He therefore avows himself to be, without equivocation or reserve, the ardent friend and the willing champion of the Christian religion. Christian piety he reveres as the highest excellence of human beings, and the amplest reward he can seek for his labor is the con- sciousness of having in some degree, however inconsider- t Ate ates OA oi Sie Ee Gs SPN TRAY emt", rots we ADT ea Sapte we phone ME ty see MN pO eee a a8 at bh i ays tak RUE ioraate sce fins TN eal eSB Me a ag oe eae 4 ON i So a er del Sea an ms ae - ~ T= ln ad , : : ae er Swe 3 Ay * “ ee he . a“ re! “ ¥ &

ae f bas THB TRANSFORMATION. 35 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 labor, and direct attention to his own concerns. He enjoyed leisure, and was visited afresh by devotional con- templation. The reading of the Seriptures, and other relig- ious 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 pur- suit 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 prog- ress. His courage did not forsake him till there appeared no reasonable eround 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 perform- ance of domestic duties. He allied. himself with no sect, be- cause he perfectly agreed with none. Social worship is that by which they are all distinguished ; but this artifice 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. 86 WIELAND; OR, At the distance of three hundred yards from his house, on the top of a rock whose sides were steep, rugged, and en- cumbered with dwarf cedars and stony asperities, he built what to a common eye would have seemed a summer-house. 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 or- chards. 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 lev- elled, 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 com- plete 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 twenty-four hours he repaired hither, unaccompanied by any human be- ing. 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 sin- cere in their faith, were as sparing in their censures and re- strictions, 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 her 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. My father refused to interfere in her arrangements. His own system was embraced not, accurately speaking, because it was the best, 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 fee and mildness. A sadness perpetually overspread his features, but was un- THE TRANSFORMATION. | 37 * mingled with sternness or discontent. The tones of his voice, his gestures, his steps, were all in tranquil uniform. His conduct was characterized by a certain forbearance and hu- mility, 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 in- vincible candor and invariable integrity. -His own belief of rectitude was the foundation of his happiness. This, how- ever, was destined to find an end. Suddenly the sadness that constantly attended him was deepened. Sighs, and even tears, sometimes escaped him. To the expostulations of his wife he seldom answered any- thing. When he designed. to be communicative he hinted that his peace of mind was 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 en- dure the penalty. He did not describe this penalty. It appeared to be noth- ing more for some time than a sense of wrong. This was sufficiently acute, and was ageravated by the belief that his offence was incapable of expiation. No one could contem- plate the agonies which he seemed to suffer without the deep- est compassion. Time, instead of lightening the burden, appeared to add to it. At length he hinted to his wife that his end was near. His imagination did not prefigure the mode or the time of his decease, but was fraught with an in- curable persuasion that his death was at hand. He was like- svyise haunted by the belief that the kind of death that await- ed 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. bY —s ARES ot iT er saa ee a 4 yee: * ‘Blargts Ne ert CHAPTER II. Earty in the morning of a sultry day in August he left Met- “ingen to go to the city. He had seldom passed a day from home since his return from the shores of the Ohio. Some ardent engagements at this time existed, which would not ad- mit of further delay. He returned in the evening, but ap- peared to be greatly oppressed with fatigue. His silence and dejection were likewise in more than ordinary deeree con-- Spicuous. My mother’s brother, whose profession was that of a surgeon, chanced to spend this night at our house. Tt 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 con- versation. He appeared fully engrossed by his. own reflec- tions. 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 inter- rupt his reverie. On recovering from these fits he expressed ~ no surprise, 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. $e My uncle perceived by his pulse that he was indisposed, — i but in no alarming degree, and ascribed appearances chiefly ss to the workings of his mind. He exhorted him to recollee- tion and composure, but in vain. At the hour of repose he readily retired to his chamber. At the persuasion of my a * mother he was undressed and went to bed. Nothing could oi abate his restlessness.. He checked her tender expostulations : . with some sternness. ‘Be silent,” said he ; “for that which a sin ae aie By ea arava ts hae Rey feotisas re eaten Pe 8 TRiahht Ae Mes ei Aspe “THE TRANSFORMATION. | 39 > I feel there is but one cure, and that will shortly come. You can help me nothing. Look to your own conditions, and pray to God to strengthen you under the calamities that await you.” “What am I to fear?” she answered. ‘‘ What terri- ble disaster is it that you think of ?” ‘Peace !—as yet I know it not myself, but come it will, and shortly.” She re- peated her inquiries and doubts ; but he suddenly put an end to the discourse by 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 approachine 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 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 feat- ures 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 as- PES key ee sone Pee ee * aN 40 WIELAND; OR, tonishment 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 suggested itself. He was going to a place whither no power on earth could induce him to suffer an at- tendant. The window of her chamber looked toward the rock. The atinosphere 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 differ- ent 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. When were they | to come? Was this night, or this hour, to witness the ac- complishment ? She was tortured with impatience and un- certainty. 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. A half hour passed away in this state of suspense. Her eyes were fixed upon the rock ; suddenly it was Uluminated. 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 sur- prise. They were piercing shrieks, and uttered without inter- mission. The gleams which had diffused themselves far and wide, were in a moment withdrawn; but the interior of the edifice was filled with rays. 2 ONE "wets DRT 9 2a es mE IE aires Ame SSNs Mlle ai Mi ye Co! es ie Si RS Ace al eM aa ae ale AM i Wile py eaaeres eh Pe ae peek : ; be aa *y THE TRANSVORMATION. — 41 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 succor. The in- cident 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 conjur- ing him to come forth. He obeyed the summons with all the speed in his power. He stopped not to question her, but hurried down-stairs and across the meadow which lay between the house and the rock. The shrieks were no longer to be heard; but a blazing light was clearly discernible 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 strenoth 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 de- scribe 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 ap- proached 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 won- der rendered him powerless. An occurrence like this, in a 4 WIELAND; OR, place assigned to devotion, was adapted to intiniidate 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 lantern and enabled my uncle to examine more closely this scene. My 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. His right arm exhibited marks as of having been struck by some 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 un- touched. He was removed to his chamber, and the requisite atten- tion paid to his wounds, which gradually became more pain- ful. A mortification speedily showed 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. NE aa igs fe Mr The RL Re GY: tues Oa hte poe ees Po * ai ~ aa, ee On). Oy. ot ae ee CPE eR et LE ka lA Taegan Bae! @ Ce? gr TS oe “J As a od Bay 3 ee eR RN Eta eo het te MRS TE eae 6 ig eke eae my 5G PES ae ee Te NOE PR ee MRI Ce a eh Papas NS by Rae x irs Sth LORE emthas sees at ae ‘ie Ry : ‘ KA po Seed 9 , . ES, Ly Sart) 56 BLAND OR Dene ee from Major Stuart. He immediately returned to get it in our company. : Besides affectionate compliments to us and warecnal bene: dictions on Louisa, his letter contained a description of a waterfall onthe Monongahela. A sudden gust of rain falling, we were compelled to remove to. the house. The storm passed away, and a radiant moonlight succeeded. ‘There was no motion to resume our seats.in the temple. We therefore remained where we were, and engaged in sprightly conversa- tion. The letter lately received naturally suggested - the topic. A parallel was drawn between _the cataract there de- scribed 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 re- course to the ‘letter. My brother searched for it in his pocket. It was nowhere to be found. At length he remem- bered to have left it in the temple, and he determined to go in search for it. His wife, Pleyel, Louisa, and myself, re- mained where we were. In a few minutes he returned. I was somewhat erste’ in the dispute, and was therefore impatient for his return ; yet, as Iheard him ascending the stairs, I could not but re- mark that he had executed -his intention with remarkable de- spatch. My eyes were fixed upon him on his entrance. Me- thought he brought with him looks 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 atonuion was chiefly engrossed. The moment he saw her his perplexity San increased. — He quietly seated himself, and, fixing his eyes on the floor, appeared to be absorbed in meditation. These singularities _ Po THE TRANSFORMATION. erik) suspended the inquiry which I was preparing to make re- specting the letter. Ina 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 unin- terrupted 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, answer- ed, in a tone of surprise, “No. Why do you ask that ques- tion?” 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 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 behavior. He listened to his friend with calmness, but without any relaxation of features. “One thing,” said he, with emphasis, ‘is true: either I heard my wife’s voice at the bottom of the hill or I do not hear your voice at present.” “Truly,” returned Pleyel, “itis 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, ifI — vo 58 WIELAND; OR, 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 acloud. 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 shrouded. I looked again but saw nothing. I never visit this building alone, or at night, with- out being reminded of the fate of my father. There was noth- ine wonderful in this appearance; yet it suggested some- thing more than mere solitude and darkness in the same place would have done, “JT kept on my way. The images that haunted me were solemn ; and I entertained an imperfect curiosity, but no fear, as to the nature of this object. I had 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 fully believed, by my wife. Her voice is not commonly so loud. She has seldom oceasion to exert it; but, neverthe- less, I have sometimes heard her call with force and eager- ness. 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 persua- sion that it was my wife who spoke, were enough to discon- cert and make me pause. I turned, and listened to assure myself that I was not mistaken. .The deepest silence suc- ceeded. At length I spoke inmy turn :—‘ Who calls? Is it ‘you, Catharine?’ -I stopped, and presently received an an- J 3 a swer; ‘Yes, it is I; go not up; return instantly; you are THE TRANSFORMATION. mee” BO wanted at the house.’ Still the voice was Catharine’s, and still it proceeded from the foot of the stairs. “What could Ido? The warning was mysterious. To be uttered by Catharine at a place and on an occasion like this enhanced the mystery. I couid do nothing but obey. Ac- cordingly, I trod back my steps, expecting that she waited for me at the bottom of the hill. When I reached the bot- tom no one was visible. The moonlight was once more uni- versal and brilliant, and yet, as far as I could see, no human or moying 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 answer was returned. | ‘“‘ Ruminating on these incidents, I returned hither. There was no room to doubt that I had heard my wife’s voice ; at- tending 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 erave discussion, but more frequently treated it with ridicule. He did not believe that sober reasoning would convince his friend ; and gayety, he thought, was useful to take away the solemnities which, in a mind like 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 hishand. 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 Be rm : oo ni 3 4 X! ¥ pe iiss 60 sense; but her mind was accessible, on this quarter, to won- der and panic. That her voice should be thus inexplicably and unwarrantably assumed was a source of no small disquie- tude. She admitted the plausibility of the arguments by which Pleyel endeavored 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 per- ceived that Pleyel’s logic was far from having produced the same effect upon him. 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 a certaiiity, 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 won- der was unmixed with sorrow or fear. It begat in mea 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 re- garded 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 delu- sion. 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 fash- ion its conclusions on the notices of sense. If the senses be depraved, it is impossible to calculate the evils that may flow from the consequent deductions of the understand- Ping. 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 im- ws met a 4 movable hold upon his mind. The conclusions which long habit have rendered familiar and, in some sort, palpable to his intellect, are drawn from the deepest sources. All his actions and practical sentiments are linked with long and abstruse de- ductions 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 argu- ments and subtleties. | His father’s death was. always regarded by him as flowing from a direct and supernatural decree. It visited his medita- tions 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 lis 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 nowise 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 fervor; “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 sig- nificantly. ‘“ 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 con- sidered the late extraordinary incident.” ‘There is no de- terminate way in which the subject can be viewed. Here isan effect ; but the cause is utterly inscrutable. To suppose a de- ception will not do. Such is possible, but there are twenty _ other suppositions more probable. They must all be set aside THE TRANSFORMATION. eG] 2 ae we oe that point.” | “What a are Bene: twenty ie fe, oe "2 STb is. needless. to” mention them. — ‘They - Eo fie sho certainty. Till ites! iti is s useless to expatinte on them,” | ” We Po ate’ ie > a on 4 ‘ CHAPTER V. Some time had elapsed when there happened another occur- rence, still more remarkable. Pleyel, on his return from Kurope, brought information of considerable importance to my brother. My ancestors were noble Saxons, and possessed Jarge domains in Lusatia. The Prussian wars had destroyed those persons whose right to these estates precluded my brother’s. Pleyel had been exact in his inquiries, and had discovered that, by the law of male-primogeniture, my broth- er’s claims were superior to those of any other person now living. Nothing was wanting but his presence in that coun- try and a legal application to establish his claim. Pleyel strenuously recommended this measure. The ad- vantages 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 reluc- tance ; 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 Wie- land's consent. For this end he employed every argument that his invention could suggest. He painted in attractive colors the state of manners and government in that country, _ the security of civil rights, and the freedom of religious sen- fiments. 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 ~ Che cere “WIRLAND ; “OR, ee meeporiiened to the good that oud arise fram the eae F use of it. Hence, Wieland, in forbearing to claim his: own, Se withheld all the positive felicity that would accrue to his vas-__ sals from his success, and hazarded all the misery that would redound from a less enlightened proprietor. _ It was easy for my brother to repel these arguments, and to show that no spot on the globe enjoyed equal security and . liberty to that which he at present inhabited—that, if the a Saxons had nothing to fear from miscovernment, the external a causes of havoc and alarm were numerous and manifest. er The recent devastations committed by the Prussians furnish-_ oct ed 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 Soe suspected was at no great distance. But, setting these con- — a siderations aside, was it laudable to grasp at wealth and Re: power even when they were within our reach? Were not ; - these the two great sources of depravity? What security “ig had he that in this change of place and condition he should ae not degenerate into a tyrant and voluptuary ? Power and | s riches were chiefly to be dreaded on account of their ten-.. (as deney 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 compara- 2 a7 tive ; and was he not rich already? He lived at present in. ~~ the bosom of security and luxury. All the imstruments of +4 pleasure on which his reason or imagination set any value 2 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 pres- ent certainties for what was distant and contingent ; for who knows not that the law is a system of expense, delay, and | uneertainty? If he should embrace this scheme, it would lay him under the necessity of making a voyage to Europe, pa remaning for a certain Race separate from his family: a - 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 children of a father and instructor—and all for what? For the ambiguous ad- vantages which overgrown wealth and flagitious tyranny have to bestow? For a precarious possession in a land of turbu- lence and war? Advantages which will not certainly be gained, and of which the acquisition, if it were sure, is necessarily distant. Pleyel was enamored of his scheme on account of its in- trinsic benefits, but likewise for other reasons. His abode at Leipsic made that country appear to him like home. He was connected with this place by many social ties. 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 the change than his own. Hence he was importunate and inde- fatigable.in his arguments 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 con- cealed from us his purpose. If Wieland were previously en- listed in his cause, he would find it a less difficult task to overcome our aversion. My brother was silent on this sub- ject, because he believed himself in no danger of changing his opinion, and he was willing to save us from any uneasi- — ness. The mere mention of such a scheme, and the possibil- ity of his embracing it, he knew, would considerably impair our tranquillity. © * THE TRANSFORMATION. ~~ = 65. oat e ee pots He aes. ae 66 acc WIELAND ; OR, One day, about three weeks subsequent to the mysterious eall, it was agreed that the family should be my guests. Sel- dom 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 Ham- bure, 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 lis 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 sick- ness, or absence, or death, would have increased the certainty of someone’s having written. No supposition could be formed but that his mistress had grown indifferent, or that she had transferred her affections to another. ‘The miscar- riage of a letter was hardly within the reach of possibility. From Leipsic to Hamburg and from Hamburg hither the conveyance was exposed to no hazard. He had been so long detained in America chiefly in conse- quence of Wieland’s aversion to the scheme which he pro- posed. 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 sensa- tions 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 gale a new attempt to shake the resolution of Wieland. The evening was somewhat ad- vanced when he invited the latter to walk abroad with him. The invitation was accepted, and they left Catharine, Louisa, a A P es ee a ee Ce ene a we NR I ee ey RL Ee ee ne Na : hea a7 ean cr fe see BOs na Sie ome a Sean eee ft oe Pilati. te Gt hoe eres t aang at Nae Nae . a ’ se phe ety” Fite J - : ‘ OY Boe ne hoe Leo. yu © Re ¥ i y ; Pa Sidi - by ; Jj 7 ae . > ee . . 7 . rs THE TRANSFORMATION. 67 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 re-urged all-his former arguments and placed them in more forcible lights. They promised to return sbortly ; but hour after hour passed, and they made not their appearance. Hngaged 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 surprise and curiosity at the leneth of thei walk. As they listened to her, I remarked that their surprise was not less than ours. They gazed in silence on each other and on her. I watched their looks, but could not understand the emotions that were written in them. Le 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 indiffer- ence, framed some trifling excuse, at the same time darting sienificant 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 as- sumed 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. S : é - pop bis ee Oy =e . 7 = 4 x Re = a : ‘ deh LS . : er F pis iy a, ete be «“ a ie | ? ti = eo +3 rail saa aot Sop yes) 2 te PE Ge Sebati ae WIELAND; OR, — 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 men- - tioned the apprehensions which their unusual absence had oc- -casioned, and which were increased by their behavior 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 faltered through the- vehemence of his emotions, ‘‘ How were you employed during our absence?” “In turning over the Della Crusca diction- - ary and talking on different subjects ; but just before your * entrance we were tormenting ourselves with omens and prog- | nostics 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, ‘ “‘T have news to tell you. The Baroness de Stolberg is dead !” This was her whom he loved. I was not surprised at the agitation which he betrayed. ‘But how was the information _ procured? How was the truth of this news connected with ag the circumstance of Catharine’s remaining in our company?” ? _ He was for some time inattentive to my questions. - When he oe -. . spoke it seemed merely a continuation of the reverie into : ZI ~ which he had been plunged. | Ba “And yet it might be a mere deception.. But could both oa of us in that case have been deceived? A rare and prodig- ae ious 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 atone half broken = e Sato 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. ) | | (HW TRANSFORMATION. —C«SD “Clara, forgive me; to you this behavior is mysterious. I will explain as well as I am able. But say not a word to Catharine. Her streneth of mind is inferior to yours. She will, besides, have more-reason to be startled. She is Wie- land's angél.” 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 endeavored to con- fute them. He mentioned the effect upon his resolutions produced by 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 sacred- ness 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 cir- cuitous 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 our- selves a while. If you are not weary of this argument we. will resume it there.’ “T tacitly consented. We mounted the stairs, and, draw- ing 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. Ividiculed his dread of the sea, and his attach- ment to home. Ikept 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 areument has not convinced, should yield to ridicule, and should agree that your scheme is eligible: what will you have gained? Nothing. You have other enemies besides myself to en- PSE by i ee Se LETS LL Wel hee ae Stee oe Tee = wor ies 2 me pes ree “hee % reg ts Ral i et re) UR bie accra MORE Larter SD Siem ct ake eee RY ae aS Geert, 4 Sey eager tie > ibe ; * be SER ay es 10.2 WINEANDS “OR ‘ % counter. 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 them- selves 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 re- maining 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 par- ticulars 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 TI, “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.’ “<* Yes,’ said. I, ‘this; ityis plain, is no fiction of the fancy.’ _ We again sunk into mutual and thoughtful silence. A recol- lection 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 THE TRANSFORMATION. 71 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 yessel ; I will fly to her pres- ence and demand the reason of this extraordinary silence.’ “I had scarcely finished the sentence when the same mys- terious 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 satis- fied, She is dead.’ You may justly be surprised that, in the circumstances in which I heard the tidings, and notwith- standing 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 in- quired, 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 ereater distance, and the deepest silence was all the return made to my subsequent interrogatories. “Tt was my sister’s voice; but it could not be uttered by her ; and yet, if not by her = whom was it uttered? 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 attend- ing the imparting of this news proof that the tidings are true? God forbid that they should be true!” Here Pleyel sank into anxious silence, and gave me leisure to ruminate on this inexplicable event. Iam ata loss to de- scribe the sensations that affected me. Iam not fearful of shadows. ‘The tales of apparitions and enchantments did not WIELAND ; 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 “unquestion- ably superhuman. _ That there are conscious beings besides ourselves .in existence, whose modes of activity and information sur- pass our own, can scarcely be denied. Is there a elimpse 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 in- agination can conceive, pervaded my whole frame. It for-. sook me not when I parted from Pleyel and retired to my _ chamber. An impulse was given to my spirits utterly incom- patible 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 ev il rather than to good purposes. On the contrary, the idea of supe- rior virtue had always been 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. Pieyel had been rescued from tormenting uncertainty, ane from the hazards and fatigues of a fruitless voyage, by the game interposition. It had assured him of the death of his Theresa. This woman was, then, dead. A sonnvnitign of the tid- ings, if true, would speedily arrive. Was this confirmation — to be deprecated or desired? By her death the tie that ate THE TRANSFORMATION. "3% tached 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 ac-- company his hopeless absence from us. -Propitious was the spirit that imparted these tidings. Propitious he would per- haps have been, if he had been instrumental in producing as well as in communicating the tidings of her death. Propi- tious 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 es- tranged 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. This bank is an arti- ficial one. Seeds 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 Jess 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 _ inter- sected are mantled with stagnatine green, and emit the most “noxious exhalations. Healtl: is no less a stranger to those seats than pleasure. Spring and autumn are sure to be ac- companied 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 reflect- ‘ing on its surface banks of all varieties of height and de- grees of declivity. These banks were checkered by patches \ of dark verdure and shapeless masses of white marble, and . te are Oil 7 ee Pr” oe) eS fale eeltigs aan ev ee eee Raa ats tea ale a Oi Pro ; A 1 ES ES Nay ee a dei bo3 RON he y eed 74 WIELAND ; OR, crowned by copses of cedar, or by the regular magnificence of orchards, which at this season were in blossom and were prodigal of odors. The ground which receded from the viver was scooped into valleys and dales. Its beauties were enhanced by the horticultural skill of my brother, who be- decked 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 resi- dence, it had been proposed to Pleyel to spend the months of spring with us. He had apparently acquiesced in this pro- posal ; but the late event induced him to change his purpose. . He was only to be seen by visiting him in lis retirements. His egayety had flown, and every passion was absorbed in eagerness to procure tidings from Saxony. I have men- tioned 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 pas- seneers, who had till lately been a resident of Leipsic. This person put anend 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 uncommunicative 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 * : ane was easy td perceive that most of his rrodiiatrons were ietired from this source. To this was to be ascribed a design in which his pen was at this period engaged, of col- noe: -lecting and investigating the facts which relate to that mys- o.. terious personage, the Deemon of Socrates. ss My brother’s skill in Greek and Roman learning Was ex- e S beited by that of few, and no doubt the world would have ac- _ . _ cepted 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. the most turbulent sensations are connecfed. % ‘It is with a delineation of thy character? How shall I detail the means / — which rendered the secrecy of thy purposes unfathomable? — CHAPTER VI. I now come to the mention of a person with gvhose name shuddering reluctance 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 A 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 con- — quered. I must desist for a little while. ~ T have taken a few turns in my chamber, and have aac strength enough to proceed. Yet have I not projected a task beyond my power to execute? Ifthus, on the very threshold — of the scene, my knees falter and I sink, how shall I support myself when I rush into the midst of horrors such as no heart has hitherto conceived or tongue related? Isicken 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. ; er And thou, most fatal and potent of mankind, in what terms shall I describe thee? What words are adequate to the just — but Iwill not anticipate. ‘Let me recover, if possible, a sober — strain. Let me keep down the flood of passion that would — render me precipitate or powerless. Let me alte the agonleae THE TRANSE FORMAT TION. og 1 beter e theeas a ee of no Naito ite ntes ~ 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 entranee on the stage. One sunny afternoon = 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 lin- veering one, and had none of that gracefulness and ease which distinguish & person with certain advantages of education from a clown. His gait was rustic and awkward. His form was ‘ungainly and disproportioned. Shoulders broad and square, chest 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 oray cloth, cut and wrought, as it seemed, by a country tailor, blue worsted stockings, and shoes fastened by thongs and deeply discolored by dust, which brush had never disturbed, consti- tuted his dress. ; There was nothing femesk able; in these appearances : they were frequently to be met with on the road and in the har- vest-field. I cannot tell why I gazed upon them on this oe- -easion 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 ae or the grandeur of the scenery. : He passed slowly along, frequently pausing, as if to examine the prospect more Hei beritaly, but never turning his eye toward’ the house, so as to allow me a view of his counte- nance, Presently he entered a copse at a small distance, and disappeared. My eye followed him while he remained in sieht, wee his image remained for any duration in my fancy after hig i departure, it was because no other object occured sufficient to Be expel it AF el a | - pf ge Te Pak la ok Ba Re he sp Re oe es eS - > 1 ee ap ad De ; PEST GE 4 His hnd tebtacs = ea ¥ a Se | AE ieee WIELAND; OR, : I continued in the same spot for half an hour, vaguely and by fits contemplating the image of this wanderer, and draw- ing from outward appearances those inferences, with respect to ; the intellectual history of this person, which experience affords eu us. I reflected on the alliance which commonly subsists be- tween ignorance and the practice of agriculture, and indulged myself in airy speculations as to the influence of progres- sive knowledge in dissolving the alliance and embodying the dreams of the poets. Iasked why the plow and the hoe might not become the trade of every human being, and how this trade might be made conducive to or at ihaet 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, “Pr’ythee, good girl, canst thou supply a thirsty man with a glass of buttermilk?” She answered that there was none in the house. “Ay, but there is some in the dairy yonder. Thou knowest as well as I, though Hermes never taught thee, that, though every dairy be a house, every house is not a dairy.” To this speech, though she understood only a part of it, she 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.” Lhe girl said she would go to the spring and fetch it. “Nay, give me the cup and suffer me to help myself. Neither .° manacled nor lame, I should merit burial in the 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 a by the person without affected me as somewhat singular ; & but what chiefly rendered them remarkable was the tone 2 that accompanied them. It was wholly new. My brother's THE TRANSFORMATION. 79 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 com- municate the impression that was made upon me by these accents, or to depict the degree in which force and sweet- ness 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 a heart of stone could -not fail of being moved by it. It imparted to me an emotion altogether involuntary and incontrollable. When he uttered the words, “for charity’s sweet sake,” I dropped the cloth that I held in my hand; my heart overflowed with 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 Oceasion was, to my own apprehension, a subject of astonish- ment. The tones were indeed such as I never heard before; but that they should in an instant, as it were, dissolve me in tears will not easily be believed by others and can scarcely be comprehended by myself. It will be readily supposed that I was somewhat inquisi- five as to the person and demeanor of our visitant. After a moment's pause I stepped to the door and looked after him. Judge my surprise when I beheld the self-same figure _ that had appeared a half-hour before upon the bank. My fancy had conjured up a very different image. A form and attitude and garb were instantly created worthy to accom- ‘pany 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 disap- pointment. Instead of returning to my employment, I threw _ myself in a chair that was iced opposite the door, and sank into a fit of musing. hr en P ee 1th ea 80 WIELAND; OR, My attention was in a few minutes recalled by the — stranger, who returned with the empty cup in his hand. a I had not thought of the circumstance, or should certainly have chosen a different seat. He no sooner showed himself, than a confused sense of impropriety, added to the sudden- ‘a ness of the interview, for which, not having foreseen it, T° had made no preparation, threw me into a state of most painful embarrassment. He brought with him a placid brow; but no sooner had he cast his eyes upon me than i his face was as glowinegly suffused as my own. He placed the cup upon the bench, stammered out thanks, and retired. fe It was some time before I could recover my wonted com- e. posure. I had snatched a view of the stranger's countenance. ; The impression that it made was vivid and indelible. His ay cheeks were pallid and lank, his eyes sunken, his forehead a overshadowed by coarse, strageling hairs, his teeth large and irregular, though sound and brilhantly white, and his chin i discolored by a tetter. . His skin was of coarse grain and sal- ; low hue. Every feature was wide of beauty, and the outline 2 of his face reminded you of an inverted cone. a And yet his forehead, so far as shaggy locks would allow it 2 to be seen, his eyes lustrously black, and possessing, in the a midst of hageardness, a radiance inexpressibly serene and po- b: es tent, and something in the rest of his features which 1b would be in vain to describe, but which served to betoken 3 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 2 moment, continued for hours to” occupy my fancy, to the exclusion of almost every other ’ image. I had proposed to spend the evening with my brother, but I could not resist the inclination of forming a sketch upon paper of this memorable visage. Whether my hand was aided by any peculiar inspiration, or I was deceived by my own fond conceptions, this portrait, though hastily exe- cuted, appeared unexceptionable to my own taste. - | THE TRANSFORMATION. 68 I placed it at all distances and in all lights; my eyes were riveted upon it. Half the night passed away in wakefulness and in contemplation of this picture. So flexible, and yet so stubborn, is the human mind! So obedient to impulses the most transient and brief, and yet so unalterably observant of the direction which is given toit! How little did I then fore- see the termination of that chain of which this may be re- garded 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 de- clivity. The inclemency of the air would not allow me to walk out. I had, indeed, no inclination to leave my apart- ment. I betook myself to the contemplation of this portrait, whose attractions time had 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 sineular 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 trom my narrative what conclu- sions 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 pre- ceded. _ I spent the darksome hours as I spent the day, con- templative 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? wR Pe es 89 WIELAND; OR, Was the tempest that had just passed 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 in- creased 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 withanguish. Something whispered that the happiness we at present enjoyed was set on mutable foundations. Death must happen to all. Whether our felicity was to be sub- verted by it to-morrow, or 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. Ieither 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. Isaid to myself, We must die. Sooner or later we must disappear forever from the face of the earth. Whatever be the links that hold us to life they must be broken. This scene of existence is, in all its parts, calamitous. The greater number is oppressed with immediate evils, 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 endeavored to dissipate it with music. I had all my erandfather’s melo- dy 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 car- nage which were here wildly but forcibly portrayed only sug- gested 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 wt THE TRANSFORMATION, cen ae 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 it being his workmanship, was regarded by every one of our family with veneration. It had fallen to me in the division of his proper- ty, 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, ap- peared 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, how- ever, I recovered from ‘my trepidation. I was habitually in- different 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 bedside. The first idea that suggested it- self 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 anything the matter with you?” No answer was returned. I repeated my in- quiry, but equally in vain. Cloudy as was the atmosphere, and curtained as my bed was, nothing was visible. I with- drew 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. a 84 : WIELAND; OR, My habitation was a wooden edifice, consisting of two stories. In each story were two rooms, separated by an en- try, or middle passage, with which they communicated by opposite doors. The passage on the lower story had doors at the two ends, and a staircase. Windows answered to the doors on the upper story. Annexed to this, on the eastern side, were wines, 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 parlor 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 my- self 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 mis- taken the sounds, and that my imagination had transformed - some casual noise into the voice of a human creature. Satis- fied 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 atten- tion, however, clearly showed me that the sounds issued from within the closet, the door of which was not more than eight inches from my pillow. | THE TRANSFORMATION. ay ’ This second interruption occasioned a shock less vehement than the former. I started, but gave no audible token of alarm. J was so much mistress of my feelings as to continue listening to what should be said. The whisper was distinct, hoarse, and uttered so as to show that the speaker was de- sirous of being. heard by some one near, but, at. the same time, studious to avoid being overheard by any other :— “Stop ! stop, I say, madman as you are! there are better means than that. Curse upon your rashness! ‘There is no need to shoot,” | Such were the words uttered, in a tone of eagerness and anger, within so small a distance of my pillow. What con- struction could I put upon them? My heart began to palpi- tate with dread of some unknown danger. Presently, an- other 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 doit. 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 it- - self 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 robed as I was, rushed out of the chamber, down stairs, 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 im- pulse. 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 sank down in a fit. . How long I remained in this situation [know not. When 86 | WIELAND; OR, ae) We: 8 I CO TO Ne, 9s te ae et See Lat eed. te Cte ak ON Rh ee 0 ony eee Rt ee Ww Be er aa ee ae SRE SO aye guy Ret Seana AVA Se NET Be Malin g eae ied VO NEST geen calf EI ; . pA R25 ‘ , 7 A Macrae Se ah , © . L + REL pi ite, Tay, aes * , ae away, é T 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 cham- ber 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 in- credible ; 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 occurred. My senses assured me of the truth of them ; and yet their ab- ruptness and improbability made me, in my turn, somewhat in- eredulous. 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 [resolved to resume the possession of my own dwelling. There was another circumstance that enhanced the mysteri- ousness 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 a ‘THE TRANSFORMATION. that, while this was transacting in my chamber, he himself was awake, in consequence of. some sheht indisposition, and lay, according to his custom, musing on some favorite topic. Sud- denly 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!” if exclaimed ; “ hasten to succor 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, ehastly, 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 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 shght traces of them remained ; but, as it was wholly indifferent to him whether his nights were passed at my hoxvse or at my brother's, this arrangement gave general satisfaction. Re Pie CHAPTER. VII. I wiz enumerate the various inquiries and conjectures which thege incidents occasioned. After all our efforts, we came no nearer to dispelling the mist in which they were in- volved ; and time, instead of facilitating a solution, only ac- cumulated our doubts, In the midst of thoughts excited by these events I was not unmindful of my interview with the stranger. I related the particulars and showed the portrait to my friends. Pleyel recollected to have met with a figure resembling my deserip- tion in the city ; but neither his face nor garb made the same impression upon him that it made upon me. It wasa hint to_ rally me upon my 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 im- pressions. His conversation was occasionally visited by eleams of his ancient vivacity ; but, though his 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 con- siderable space upward, so rugged and steep as not to be easily descended. In a recess of this declivity, near the Naw “‘ THA TRANSFORMATION. 89 southern verse of my little demesne, was placed a slight build- ing, 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 odors of the cedars which embowered it, and of the honeysuckle 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 ut- most supineness. The lulling sounds of the waterfall, the fragrance, and the dusk, combined to becalm my spirits, and, in a short time, to sink me into sleep. Hither the uneasiness of my posture, or some slight indisposition, molested my re- pose with dreams of no cheerful hue. After various inco- herences had taken their turn to occupy my fancy, I at length imagined myself walking, in the evening twilight, to my brother’s habitation. A pit, methought, had been dug in the _ path I had taken, of which I was not aware. As I carelessly pursued my walk I thought I saw my brother standing at | some distance before me, beckoning and calling me to make haste. He stood on the opposite edge of the gulf. I mended my pace, and one step more would have plunged me into this abyss, had not some one from behind caught suddenly my arm, and exclaimed, in a voice of eagerness and terror, | “Hold! hold!” : The sound broke my sleep, and I found myself, at the next moment, standing on my feet, and surrounded by the deepest darkness. Images so terrific and forcible disabled me for a time from distinguishing between sleep and wakefulness, and withheld from me the knowledge of my actual condition. My first panic was succeeded by the perturbations of surprise to find myself alone in the open air and immersed in so deep a - gloom. I slowly recollected the incidents of the afternoon, 90 WIELAND ; OR, 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 reflect upon my situ- ation. 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 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. Ifa 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 dis- may. {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 starlight 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 ies across the s ~ PER TRANSFORMATION. ~ %.. 94 eloom 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 con- tinued to succeed gleam for a 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 whichI had lately heard had warned me to retire, and: had menaced me with the fate of my father if Irefused. I was desirous but unable to obey ; these gleams were such as pre- luded 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 lantern which he bore, as- cended the hill. | Pale and breathless, 1t 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 brothier’s at a late hour, and wasinformed by Judith that I had walked out before sunset and had not yet re- turned. 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 neighborhood: 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 con- ceived 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, that OE ae eas OR sleep had overtaken me as I sat, and that I had awakened a | few minutes before his arrival. Icould tell himno more. In | the present impetuosity of my thoughts I was almost dubious whether the pit into which my brother had endeavored to entice me and the voice that talked through the lattice, were 3 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 rea- son, and that Lam amusing you with the chimeras of my brain instead of facts that have really happened. I shall not be surprised or offended if these be your 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 subse- quent events that I was fully and incontestably assured of the veracity of my senses. Meanwhile, what was I to think? JI had been assured that a design had been formed against my life. The ruffians had leagued to murderme. Whom had I offended? Who was there, with whom I had ever maintained intercourse, who was fi capable of harboring such atrocious purposes ? ea My temper was the reverse of cruel and imperious. My heart was touched with sympathy for the children of misfort- % une. 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 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 im- | -precations in my hearing. On the contrary, there was none, a over whose fate I had exerted any influence or to whom I was ERY Suc CR ada oy ‘ Pi IU Staak pun TRANSFORMATION. = =——S—«*SB 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 Tam not destitute of courage. I have shown myself delib- erative and calm in the midst of peril. I have hazarded my own life for the preservation of another, but now was I con- fused 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 shud- dered. 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 ef- fect inthis spot? I was everywhere 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, with- out the means of resistance or defence; yet I had not been at- tacked. 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, 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 like- wise 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, eS p> igt 7 =P ee yd 5, ee ae ee OR Lae ee > Poa et OS see) oe re 7 Py a he “abet \4) 3 ws an f as = , ‘ > Mi Bh eg Te et +9 ~ ef pia"? le dog ” 4 ae, 7 a re ia a ee PA Fy ae g Bea atest ie eae De Blefiee te ate. Gare as Ppa US AeA acter hy ties Baie f > be ¥ ~ — sc ‘ ™ r ™“ ay 7 WIELAND: OR, Sate gates ee 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 Ku- rope. 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 cheer- fully 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 excur- . sion from Valencia to Murviedro, with a view to inspect the remains of Roman magnificence scattered in the environs of that town. While traversing the site of the theatre of old Sacuntum, he alighted 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 atten- tion to the language, and a studious conformity with the cus- toms 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 TRANSFORMATION. es the Catholic religion, and adopted a Spanish name instead of his own, which was Carwin, and devoted himself to the lit- erature 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 at- tractions 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 ac- curate 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 gig eae coun- | tries. His character excited considerable curiosity in the observer. It was not easy to reconcile his conversion to the Romish faith with those proofs of knowledge and capacity that were exhibited by him on different occasions. A suspicion was sometimes admitted that his belief was counterfeited for some political purpose. The most careful observation, how- ever, 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 to France, and, since that period, had heard nothing concern- ing Carwin till his appearance at Mettingen. On this occasion Carwin had received Pleyel’s sreeting with a certain distance. and solemnity to which the latter had not been accustomed. He had waived 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 in- different topics, but was still, on every theme, as eloquent and judicious as formerly. Why he had assumed the garb of a "v; oS. cae » Sibes bie re ; eas ope Ape ae Yee ip x ; y > Ee 4, 96 WIELAND ; OR, 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 con- sequences of the utmost moment. Such was the sum of my friend’s information. I was not sorry to be left alone during the sreater 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 ? Carwin was an adherent to the Romish faith, yet was an Englishman by birth, and, perhaps, a Protestant by educa- tion. He had adopted Spain for his country, and had in- timated 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 ib true that his former conversion was deceitful, and that bis conduct had been swayed by motives which it was prudent to conceal ? Hours were consumed in revolving these ideas. My medita- tions were intense ; and, when the series was broken, I be- gan 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 dis- proportioned to each other. All unaware, and in a manner which I had no power to explain, I was pushed from my im- movable and lofty station and cast upon a sea of troubles. 5 hat 5 ict ee a Greg ee Ee TER RR ca: _. - PHE TRANSFORMATION. 97 T determined to be my brother’s visitant on this evening ; yet my resolves were not unattended with wavering and reluc- tance. 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 intro- duction to each other would 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 vexa- tion. 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 endeavor 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 dis¢overed by him my distress would have been unspeakably aggravated. CHAPTER VIIL As soon as evening arrived, I performed my visit. Carwin made one of the company into which I was ushered. Ap- pearances were the same as when I before beheld him. Hig 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 proper- ties. I could not’deny my homage to the intelligence ex- pressed 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 artic- ulation and force of emphasis of which I had entertained no conception previously to my knowledge of him. Notwith- standing the uncouthness of his garb his manners were not unpolished. All topics were handled by him with skill, and without pedantry or affectation. He uttered no sentiment calculated to produce a 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. Fach day in- troduced us to a more intimate acquaintance with his senti- ments, but left us wholly in the dark concerning that about which we were most inquisitive. He studiously avoided all ‘Wl 2D bP ben < ‘THE TRANSFORMATION. mention of his past or his present situation. Even the place of lis 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 ac- cent, that was not, in our private assemblies, discussed, and inferences deduced from it. It may well be thought that he modelled his behavior by an uncommon standard, when, with all our opportunities and accuracy of observation, we were able fora long time to gather no satisfactory information. He afforded us no ground on which to build even a plausible conjecture. There is a decree 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 they are prompted bya disinterested con- cern for our welfare ; and this solicitude is not only pardon- able butmay justly be demanded from those who choose 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 behavior. Pleyel, however, began at leneth to employ regular means for this end. He occasionally alluded to the circumstances in which they had formerly met, and remarked the incongru- ousness 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 elobe, 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 gen- erally made to these insinuations. Britons and Spaniards, WIELAND; OR, 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 re- semblances than differences; they were formerly provinces of the same civil and, till lately, of the same religious em- pire. 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. — He spoke as if desirous of showing that he was not aware of the tendency of Pleyel’s remarks; yet certain tokens were apparent that proved him by no means wanting in penetration. These tokens were to be read in his counte- nance, and not in his words. When anything was said in- dicating 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 re- flected on by him with regret; and that, since these inci- dents 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 want- ing ; but we considered that, if the disclosure were productive of pain or disgrace it was inhuman to extort it. Hi Ui ane Te Tey ey, & tae ll ieee aie & ty wn i + Amid the various topics that were discussed in his pres- ence, 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 experi- ence or reflections could throw any light upon it was en- titled to my gratitude. As this man was enlightened by reading and travel I listened with eagerness to the remarks which he should make. At first I entertained a kind of apprehension that the tale would be heard by him with incredulity and secret ridicule. I had formerly heard stories that resembled this in some of their mysterious circumstances; but they were commonly heard by me with contempt. I was doubtful whether the same impression would not now be made on the mind of our euest ; but I was mistaken in my fears. He heard them with seriousness, and without any marks either of surprise or incredulity. He pursued with visible pleasure that kind of disquisition which was naturally sug- gested 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 con- structed with so much skill, and rehearsed with so much energy, that all the effects of a dramatic exhibition were frequently produced by them. Those that were most co- herent and most minute, and, of consequence, least entitled — to credit, were yet rendered probable by the exquisite art of PIE TRANSFORMATION. TOE . Ever een ye Reg. eo Mie Bee te dR Re a ere RS tery SN Yoetas poe Deve ott Oe tthe ey y r ae Wea Lola! Vey Se. | as am Por oe wove this rhetorician. For every difficulty that was suecested 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 threugh a tube. IL could not but remark that his narratives, however complex or marvellous, contained no instanee sufficiently parallel to those that had befallen ourselves, and in wie the solution was applicable to our own ease. My brother was a much more sanguine reasoner than our guest. Kven in some of the facts which were related by Carwin, he maintained the probability of celestial interfer- ence, when the latter was disposed to deny it, and had found, as he imagined, footsteps of a 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 mold 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 a higher order he would believe only when his own ears were assailed in a manner which could not be other- wise accounted for. Civility forbade 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 mimicry was, very common. Catharine’s voice might easily be imitated 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 ‘ é vi" See s ie oe ve On rd + THE the conversation, who conjectured her death, and whose con- jecture happened to 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 a human ‘creature, who actually stood in the hall when he uttered it. It was of no moment, he said, that we could not explain by what motives he that made the signal was led hither. How imperfectly acquainted were we with the condition and de- siens 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 plausi- ble to the most sagacious minds; but it was insufficient to ‘impart conviction to us. As to the treason that was medi- tated 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 respect- ing his genuine character and views. Appearances were uni- form. No man possessed a larger store of knowledge, or a ereater degree of skill in the communication of it to others ; hence he\was regarded as an inestimable addition to our so- ciety. 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 with- out a visit from him ; hence he was regarded as a kind of in- mate of the house. He entered and departed without cere- mony. When he arrived he received an unaffected welcome, TRANSFORMATION. <<. 103 104 WIELAND. and when he chose to retire no importunities were used to induce him to remain. ! The temple was the principal scene of our social enjoyment ; “ yet the felicity that we tasted when assembled in this asylum was but the gleam ofa former sunshine. 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 pow- erfully 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, molded by the circumstances in which she happened to be placed. There was but one whose deport- ment 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 impor- tance to me not to make me a vigilant observer. His mirth was easily perceived to be the fruit of exertion. When his thorvvhts wandered from the company, an air of dissatisfaction and impatience stole across his features. Even the punctual- ity 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 happiness, indeed, depended for its value in my eyes on the cause that produced it. It did not arise from the death of the Saxon lady; it was not a contagious emanation from the countenances of Wieland or Carwin. There was but one ver source whence it. could flow. A nameless ecstasy thrilled ovgh my frame when any new proof occurred that the am- . 2uousness of my behavior 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 expecta- tions. 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 adven- ocae turous and lawless fancy. It was a chain of audacious acts a and unheard-of disasters. The moated fortress and the = =~ thicket, the ambush and the battle, and the conflict of headlong passions were portrayed in wild numbers and with terrific en- erey. An afternoon was set apart to rehearse this perform- ance. 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 f>my own situation. The sentiment which lived with chief energy in my heart was connected with the image of Pleyel. Inthe midst of my anguish [ had not been destitute of consolation. a His late deportment had given spring to my hopes. Was not | a the hour at hand which should render me the happiest of se human creatures? He suspected that I looked with favorable eyes upon Carwin. Hence arose disquietudes which he strugeled 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 tobe ef- fected? It can only be done by a change of ge ‘me ; but how must Ibemean myself for this purpose ? © I must not speak. Neither eyes nor lips must impart je 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 steadfast, and its promise of a bland and cloud- less evening maybe trusted. 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 eiven 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 wou!d 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 witha eenuine sympathy, are not words and looks superfluous? Are not motion and touch sufficient to impart feelings such as mine? Has he not eyed me at moments when the pressure of © his hand has thrown me into 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 yetI shudder at its near approach. An inter- view 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 roe to be thus explicit. Time was, when these emotions would be hidden with the immeas- urable solicitude from every human eye. Alas! these airy and _ THE TRANSFORMATION. 107 fleeting impulses of shame are gone. My scruples were pre- posterous 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 ig criminal to harbor. 3 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 excruciat- ing kind; I could taste no food, nor apply to any task, nor enjoy a2 moment’s repose ; when the hour arrived I hastened to my brother's. Pleyel wasnot there. He had not yet come. On ordinary occasions he was eminent for punctuality. He had testified ereat eagerness to share in the pleasures of this rehearsal. 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 ve- hemence of this drama. | What could detain him? Perhaps he lingered through 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 at- tractions, and that he stayed because his coming would afford him no gratification. But why should we expect him to ad- here to the minute ? ' A half-hour elapsed, but Pleyel was still at a distance. Perbaps he had misunderstood the hour which had been pro- posed. Perhaps he had conceived that to-morrow, and not to-day, had been selected for this purpose; but no. A re- view of preceding circumstances demonstrated that such mis- apprehension was impossible; for he had himself proposed this day, and this hour. This day his attention would not st otherwise be occupied ; but to-morrow an indispensable en- 24 Se Veer ea ae ae Sh ae pose Soe Saba id Ve ay * scary ‘ a8 * Se et a i | OT te ete Se oan ONT OD ON re | Bg OS a cn SS gt te ) ' pr A BEN * Rae 2 is ie Pas =p EN ielpes as 3 cites ie Se ne a Fo * - « ty 25 . ria 3 F Spit day jabor sgi ees ah Na cathe > x 2 <4 - + - me “44 108 WIELAND; OR, eagement was foreseen, by which all his time would be en- erossed. His detention, therefore, must be owing to some un- foreseen 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 suc- ceeded hour, and the sun, gradually declining, at length dis- appeared. 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. ay, It may be supposed that this disappointment affected me in a very different manner. I turned aside my head to con- ceal my tears. I fled into solitude, to give vent to my re- proaches 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 J 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 has 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. Livery ground on which I had built the persuasion that Pleyel was not unimpressed in my THE TRANSFORMATION. 109 fayor 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 con- trolled me were, in some ‘degree, removed. New dejection succeeded, but was now produced by contemplating my late behavior. Surely that passion is worthy to be abhorred which obscures our understanding and urges us to the com- mission of injustice. What right had I to expect his attend- ance? Had I not demeaned myself like one indifferent to his happiness, andas having bestowed my regards upon another ? His absence might be prompted by the love which I con- sidered his absence as a proof that he wanted. He came not because the sight of me, the spectacle of my coldness or aver- sion, 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 sugges- tion, I rose for the purpose of ordering a light, that I might instantly make this confession in a letter. A second thought showed me the rashness of this scheme, and I wondered by what infirmity of mind I could be betrayed into a momentary approbation of it. Isaw with the utmost clearness that a confession like that would be the most remediless and un- pardonable outrage upon the dignity of my sex, and utterly unworthy of that passion which controlled me. Iresumed my seat and my musing. To account for the absence of Pleyel became once more the scope of my con- jectures. . How many incidents might occur to raise an in- superable 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 WIELAND; OR, 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 New Jersey ? He had ~ pre-concerted to return to his own house to dinner ; but per- haps some disaster had befallen him. Experience had tage me the insecurity of a canoe, and that was the only kind of boat which Pleyel used ; I was, likewise, actuated by an her- editary dread of alee 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 micht have happened, and his family not be apprised of it. The first intelligence of lis fate may be communicated by the livid corpse which the tide may cast, many days hence, upon the shore. Thus was I distressed by opposite conjectures ; thus was I tormented by phantoms of my own creation. It was not al- ways 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 coneurrence of other evils to take away the attractions of existence and dig for me an | untimely erave. The state of my mind naturally introduced a train of re- flections upon the dangers and cares which inevitably beset a human being. By no violent transition was I led to ponder the turbulent life and mysterious end of my father: I cherished with the utmost veneration the memory of this man, and every relic connected with his fate was preserved a «0 Ret RONEN Cones ese! ea gs N se oe fe ERG, ~es THE TRANSFORMATION. 111 with the most scrupulous care. Among these was to be num- bered 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 style had an unaffected and picturesque simplic- ity. The great variety and circumstantial display of the inci- dents, 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 incli- nation to sleep, I resolved to betake myself to the perusal of it, To do this, if was requisite to procure a light. The girl had long since retired to her chamber, 1¢ was therefore proper to wait upon myself. The lamp, and the means of lighting it, were only to be found in the kitchen. Thither I resolved forthwith to repair ; but the heht 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 pre- pared 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 | 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 de- fenceless. The wind was in that direction in which, unaided by the deathlike repose of nature, it brought to me the mur- mur of the waterfall. This was mingled with that solemn and enchanting sound which a breeze produces among the leaves of pines. Tle words of that mysterious dialogue, their fearful import, and the wild excess to which I was iransport- ed by my terrors, filled my imagination anew. My steps faltered, and I stood a moment to recover myself. I prevailed on myself at lenoth to move toward the closet. { touched the lock, but my fingers were powerless ; I was visited afresh by unconquerable apprehensions. A sort of be- _ lief darted into my mind that some being was concealed with- ey mq = ~ TTD ey, “WIELAND; OR, + — in whose purposes were evil. I began to contend with those — fears, when it occurred to me that I might, without 1 impro- priety, go for a lamp previously to opening the closet. I 16> sem ceded a few steps ; but before I reached the chamber door. my thoughts took a new direction. Motion seemed to pro- duce a mechanical influence upon me. Iwas 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. A hand invisible and of preternatural strength, lifted by human passions, and select- ing 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 to me. But had Inot been told, by some one in league with this enemy, that every place but the recess in the bank was exempt from danger ! T returned to the closet, and once more put my hand upon the lock. Oh, may my ears lose their sensibility ere they be a again assailed by a shriek so terrible! Not merely my under- a standing was subdued by the sound; it acted on my nerves ; like an edge of steel. It appeared to cut asunder the fibres oe of my brain and rack every joint with agony. | + The cry, loud and piercing as it was, was nevertheless hu- a man. No articulation was ever more distinct. The breath which accompanied it did not fan my hair, yet did every cir- eumstance combine to persuade me that the lips which uttered it touched my very shoulder. «Fold! hold!” were the words of this tremendous pro- ‘hibition, in whose tone the whole soul seemed to be wrapped up, and every enere ey converted into eagerness and terror. Shuddering, I dashed myself against the wall, and, by the same involuntary impulse, turned my face backward to ex- -amine the mysterious monitor. The moonlight streamed inte each window, and every corner of the room was conspicuous, and yet I beheld anaes I THE TRANSFORMATION. _ 113 The interval was too brief to be artificially measured, be- tween 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 be- ing 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. Surprise 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 over- whelming height and then gradually subsides, my confusion slowly gave place to order, and my tumults to a calm. Iwas able to deliberate and move. Jresumed my feet, and ad- vanced into the midst of the room. Upward, and behind, and on each side, I threw penetrating glances. I was not satisiied 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. I wasalone, and the walls were checkered 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 un- accompanied with sound. I failed not to snatch a look and to listen when this motion and this sound occurred. My be- lief 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 leneth permitted to revert to =t9 ; : “114 - WIELAND; OR, the past, the first idea that occurred was the Pee ane be- tween the words of the voice which I had just heard and those which had terminated my dream in the summer-house. Tiere are means by which we are able to distinguish a sub- stance from a shadow, a reality from the phantom ofa 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 Se : 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. From what evil was I now rescued? What minister or implement of ill was shut up in this recess? Who was it whose suffocating erasp I was to feel should I dare to enter it? What mon- strous conception is this? My brother? No; protection and not injury is his province. Strange and terrible chimera! Yet it would not be suddenly dis- missed. It was surely no vulgar agency that gave this form to my fears. He to whom all parts of time are equally pres- ent, 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 spontaneous sentiment to_ endear to me my being. Should I not shudder when my being was endangered? But what emotion should possess me when the arm lifted against me was Wieland’s? Ideas exist in our minds that can be accounted for by no Hea sete ute 2 ‘ er . iA na | VN CRS Ts age , | Ree ee ee ee eee ee yon Oe ke po ee ST Oe ee -t Pa ae YP) ee ne Fe tes Non. MEL AR ed ee al! EEL Nina eee MARES ens , Se Jf Ce ey Oa NE ean: ie a f ¢" a THE TRANSFORMATION. 145 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 be- tween these incidents and those of my dream. Surely it was frenzy 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 pro- duced. Had my mind been simply occupied with this thought at present, no doubt the same impulse would have been ex- perienced ; but now it was my brother whom I was irresist- ibly persuaded to regard as the contriver of that ill of which I had been forewarned. This persuasion did not extenuate my fears or my danger. Why, then, did I again approach the closet and withdraw the bolt? My resolution was instantly conceived and executed without faltering. The door was formed of light materials. The lock, of sim- ple structure, easily forewent its hold. It opened into. the room, and.commonly moved upon its hinges, after being un- fastened, 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 eround of hesita- tion taken away. What could be supposed but that I de- serted the chamber and the house? that I at least endeavored no longer to withdraw the door ?— Have I not said that my actions were dictated by frenzy ? 116.- WIHDANDS “OB, 0 0 « My reason had forborne, for a time, to suggest or to sway my resolves. I reiterated my endeavors. 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 audacious- ness of this conduct. Whence, but from a habitual defiance of danger, could my perseverance arise? I have already assigned, as distinctly as I am able, the cause of it. The frantie conception that my brother was within, that the resist- | ance made to my design was exerted by him, 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 I had arrived at the crisis of my fate. ‘‘Oh, hinder not the door to open,’ I exclaimed, in a tone that had less of fear than of grief in it. ‘“I know you well. Come forth, but harm me not. I-beseech you, come forth.” I had taken my hand from the lock and romared to a eal 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 inter- ruption 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 fioure. 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. As- — sassins had lurked in this recess. Some divine voice warned / Se , TRANSFORMATION. — eae Byes DEEP, me of danger that at this moment awaited me. I had spurned the intimation and cliallenged my adversary. I recalled the mysterious countenance and dubious charac- ter 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 succor was remote. He had placed himself 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 demeanor. His looks were grave, but not without per- turbation. 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. Harnestness 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 has 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 knowl- edee that enabled him to tell you:who was in the closet was obtained by incomprehensible means. “You knew that Carwin was there. .Were you not apprised 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 succor 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 inter- position. But for him I should long ere now have borne away _ the spoils of your honor.” : : He looked at me with greater steadfastness than before. I WIELAND; OR,- / became every moment more anxious for my safety. It was with difficulty I stammered out an entreaty that he would in- _ Stantly depart or suffer me to do so. He paid no regard to my request, but proceeded in a more impassioned manner : “What isit 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. Lhe 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 reearded as a hopeless one. Iwas 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, when I reflected on the hour and the place, I was overpowered by horror and dejection. wat wel : 33 ” PTE TRANSFORMATION. 119° pee at 6 ae Pai Lani s Sons Seale iS aan He was silent, museful, and inattentive to my situation, yet made no motion to depart. I was silent in my turn. What couldI say? Iwas 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 resolu- tions. Yet was not this the man whom we had treated with un- wearied 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. Pres- ently, he resumed : “Fear me not: the space that severs us is small, and all visible succor 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. Fasier would it 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 ina moment if I were to harbor a thought hostile to your safety. “Thus are appearances at leneth solved. Little did I ex- pect that they originated henee. 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 lately pos- sessed his countenance gave way to anew expression. All now was trepidation and anxiety. “T must be gone,” said he, in a faltering accent. “ Why do I linger here? I will not ask your forgiveness. I see that i your { terrors: are Sable “Your pardon: fear, and not dictated by compassion. _ ag must. fly | none you i forever. He that could plot against your honor. must. ex-. pect from you and your friends persecution and death. I must doom myself to endless exile.” =~ ~ | ' Saying this, he hastily left the room. I teranoe aehils fe descended the stairs, and, unbolting the outer door, went forth. I did not follow him with my eyes, as the moonlight 2 — would have enabled me to do. — “Relieved by his absence, and a 3 _ exhausted by the conflict of my fears, 1 threw myself on “ae a chair, and resigned myself to those bewildering ideas which incidents like these could not fail to pe oduce. ; : | CHAPTER X. Orver could not readily be introduced into my thoughts. The voice still rang in my ears. Every accent that was ut- tered by Carwin was fresh in my remembrance. His unwel- come, approach, the recognition of his person, Ins hasty de- parture, 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 ar-. range or utter my conceptions. Thad remained for hours, asI believed, in absolute soli- tude. No thought of personal danger had molested my tranquillity. I had made no preparation for defence. What was it that suggested the design of perusing my father’s manuscript? If, instead of this, I had retired to bed and to sleep, to what fate might I not have been reserved. The ruf- fian, who must almost have suppressed his breathing to sereen 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 con- set versed with him. Nothing could be discerned through the impenetrable veil of his duplicity. When busied in con- ___jectures as to the author of the evil that. was threatened, my 129755 | WIHLAND : OR mind did not light for a moment upon his image. Yet hag 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? AmI 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 ina 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 itis? He has set himself to counterwork the machinations of this man, who had menaced destruction to all that is dear to me, and whose coming 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. T had robbed him of the power to repent and forbear. Had I been apprised of the danger I should have regarded my conduct as the means of rendering my escape from it impos- sible. Such, likewise, seem to have been the fears of my in- visible 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 behavior to my knowledge. He con- ceived 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 apprised 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 rec-_ eee ee Pea Pita ots my a Og <3 Pe: +1 Wee tyt « ty E> Xe ee ¥ AE i u ve cs rae et Aware THE TRANSFORMATION. 123 oenize some one whom benefits imparted and received had prompted to love me? What were the limits and dura- tion of his guardianship? Was the genius of my birth in- trusted by divine benignity with this province? Are human faculties adequate to receive stronger proofs of the existence of unfettered and beneficent intelligences than 1 have re- ceived ? But who was this man’s coadjutor? The voice that ac- knowledged 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 deceit in his admonition? Was his compact really annulled? Some purpose was, per- haps, to be accomplished by preventing my future visits to that spot. Why was I enjoined silence to others on the sub- ject 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. Whatrecess 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 in- fantile days, and to blissful imaginations of the future? What a gloomy reverse had succeeded since the ominous ar- rival 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 tumultuous- ly revolved by me. I reviewed every conversation in which Carwin had borne a part. Istudied to discover the true in- ferences deducible from his deportment and words with re- gard to his former adventures and actual views. I pondered on the comments which he made on the relation which I had piven of the closet dialogue. No new ideas suggested them- selves in the course of this review. My expectation had, from the first, been disappointed on the small degree of sur- prise which this narrative excited in him. He never explicitly declared his opinion as to the nature of those voices, or de- cided whether they were real or visionary. He recommended no measures of caution or prevention. But what measures were now to be taken? Was the 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 reas- sume his purposes and swiftly return to the execution of 4 them ? This idea covered me once more with dismay. How ieee 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 oecur- red to me to summon my servant and make her spend the night in my chamber; but the ineflicacy 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 oceasion, and on the danger to which I might expose myself in the way thither. I began, likewise, to con- sider Carwin’s return to molest me as exceedingly improbable. He had relinquished, of his own accord, his design, and de- — parted 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 & ee stepping into the piazza in front of my house, My new-born | < - FAR TRANSFORMATION. confidence was extinguished ina moment. Carwin, I thought, had repented his departure, and was hastily returning. The possibility that his return was prompted by intentions con- sistent with my safety found no place in my mind. Images of violation and murder assailed me anew, and the terrors which succeeded almost incapacitated me 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, [threw myself ona 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 ? very step on the stairs which brought bim 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, 1 should be prone to adopt! You will suppose that delibera- tion 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, [should plunge it into the heart of my ravisher. ; T have lost all faith in the steadfastness of human resolves. It was thus that in periods of calm I had determined to act. ~- No cowardice had been held by me in greater abhorrence than that which prompted an injured female to destroy, not et ae eins Ogee ee a PP RAT ee ey MR, lglg uh hae nRe SOR att SS PSST mL Ss Sc est NY Oe WHE RM RHEE 2 eS eco ae I Ne 126 - WIELAND; OR, 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 foot-— fall accelerated the completion without augmenting the cer- tainty 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 toward 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 de- struction ; 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 surprise? Yet, if so, why did he allow so many noisy signals to betray his ap- proach? Presently the steps were heard again to approach the door. A 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 re- quired. I no sooner perceived this than I moved swiftly toward the window. Carwin’s frame might be said to be all muscle. His strength and activity had appeared, 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 ex- Bs, pectation that the assault would be made, The pause con- tinued. 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, in- deed, the least probable of all conclusions. In this persua- sion 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 be- lief, and he would once more depart. very 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 passed to the door of the opposite chamber, opened if, 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 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 eatch the sound of the door when - it should again be opened. There was no other avenue “by which he couid escape, but a door which led into the girl's = _ chamber. Would any evil from this quarter befall the girl? — | “THE TRANSFORMATION. 127 198 5 ED OR, Hence arose a new train of apprehensions. They merely added to the turbulence and agony of my reflections. What- ever evil impended over her, I had no power to avert it. Se- , clusion and silence were the only means of saving myselffrom 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, would 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 enterprise like this ; and yet, as if by that means I were capable of gaining any in- | formation on that head I cast anxious looks from the window. The object that first attracted my attention was a human figure standing on the edge of the bank. Perhaps my pene- tration was assisted by my hopes. Be that as it will, the figure of Carwin was clearly distinguishable. 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 in-— credible 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 strugele successfully with my fears. YetIopened — i ae ~ ry = 2 THE TRANSFORMATION. | ~~ 129 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 ajar. 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 parlor, but was surprised 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 appre- hension. I returned once more to my chamber, the door of which I was careful to lock. It was no time to think of repose. The moonlight began already to fade before the licht of the day. The approach of morning was betokened by the usual signals. I mused upon the events of this night, and determined to take up my abode henceforth at my brother’s. Whether I should inform him of what had hap- pened was a question which seemed to demand some con- sideration. 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. JI 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 endeavored 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 ae MS Shs 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. 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. “TItisI. Have yourisen? If you have not, make haste; _. I want three minutes’ conversation with you in the parlor. 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 examined 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 intima- tion by which so many racking fears would have been pre- cluded. 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? “THE TRANSFORMATION. Some tidings he, perhaps, bears of mysterious and unwelc 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 asif in meditation, and arms folded on his breast. Every line in his countenance was preg- nant 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. Iwas startled at the change. The first impulse was to question him as to the cause. This im- pulse was supplanted by some degree of confusion, flowing from a consciousness that love had too large, and, as it might prové, a perceptible share in creating tluis impulse. J was silent. os Presently he raised his eyes and fixed them upon me. I read confusion in them, an anguish altogether ineffable. Never had I witnessed a like demeanor in Pleyel. Never, in- deed, had I observed a human countenance in which erief was more legibly inscribed. He seemed struggling for utterance 5 but his struggles were fruitless, he shook lis 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 1s the matter ?” : He started at the sound of my voice. His looks, for a mo- ment, became convulsed with an emotion very different from erief. His accents were broken with rage : «The matter! O wretch!—thus exquisitely fashioned— — on 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 un- heard-of !” ene nS His words were again choked with emotion. Grief and “+. pity were again mingled in his features. He resumed, in Be tone half suffocated by sobs: , “But why should I upbraid thee? Could I restore to thee sl aces i RN aap ae Se NA Rens St pt teeny. AR WIELAND; OR, mt thou hast lost, efface this cursed stain, snatch thee from rhe jaws of this fiend, I would do it. Yet what avail my efforts? I have not arms with which to contend with so con- summate, so frightful a depravity. ‘“‘ Bvidence less than this would only have excited resent- ment 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. That my eyes, that my ears should bear witness to thy fall! By no other way could detestable conviction be imparted. ‘Why do I summon thee to this conference? Why ex- pose myself to thy derision? Here admonition and entreaty are vain. Thou knowest him already for a murderer and thief. I had thoueht to have been the first to disclose to thee his infamy ; to have warned thee of a pit to which thou art hastening; but thy eyes are open in vain. Oh, foul and insupportable disgrace ! “There is but one path. I know you will disappear to-- gether. In thy ruin, how will the felicity and honor of mul- titudes 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 pol- luted by a midnight assignation. Inform him of his dangers ; tell him that his crimes are known; let him fly far and in- : stantly 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, oh, think—think ere it be too late—on the distresses which thy flight will entail upon us ; on the base, grovelling, - and atrocious character of the wretch to whom thou hast sold thy honor. But what is this? Is not thy effrontery impene- [HR TRANSFORMATION. trable and thy heart thoroughly cankered? Oh, most spe- cious and most profligate of women ! ” Saying this, he rushed out of the house. I saw him in a few minutes hurrying along the path which led to my brother’s. I had no power to prevent his going or to 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 moyed, 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 frenzy, or it was built upon some fatal, some incomprehensible mistake. After the horrors of the night, after undergoing perils so im-_ minent 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 Dynes so foul? Was it not more rational to infer that — Carwin’s designs had been illicit ? that my life had been en- dangered 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 138 Te - WIRLAND; OR, dubious appearances conclusions the most improbable and un- just. 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. Ifit 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 frenzy ; appearances had led him into palpable errors. Whence could his sagacity have contracted this blindness? Was it not love? Previously as- sured of my affection for Carwin, distracted with grief and jealousy, and impelled hither at that late hour by some un- known 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. Vor a long time they would allow admission to no other thoughts. Surprise is an emotion that enfeebles, not invigo- rates. All my meditations were accompanied with wonder. LI rambled with vagueness, or clung to one image with an ob- stinacy 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 in- justice and hasten to atone for it? Did it not become my character to testify resentment for laneuage and treatment so opprobrious? Wrapt up in the consciousness of innocence, and confiding in the influence of time and reflection to con- fute 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 obvions. I eee CHE TRANSFORMA ¢ 4 a a %, TION. yesolved to tell the tale to my brother and reculate myself by his advice. For this end, when the morning was somewhat advanced, I took the way to lis house. My sister was en- gaged in her customary occupations, As soon as | 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 clisastrous 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. Searcely had we risen when Pleyel dropped among us. What. could have © prompted him to make us so early and so unseasonable a visit -Leannot 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 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 plausi- ble 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. 4 WIELAND; OR, might induce him likewise to believe that I entertained an in- discreet 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 in- -terview 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 expe-— dient for eluding her importunities occurred to me but that of returning to my own house. I recollected my determina- tion 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 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 yaherieee : emotions with which Pleyel had been agitated. JI drew a favorable omen from this circumstance. Without delay I began the conversation. a “JT 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 aan by no means chargeable. I believe him to have taken ob ah P ° we) ° , ° dice and passion, they supplied a pretence for his conduct, ene —sSPR TRANSFORMATION. «187 = his opinions on very insufficient erounds. His behavior was in the highest degree precipitate and unjust, and, until I re- ceive some atonement, I shall treat him, in my turn, with that contempt which he justly merits ; meanwhile, I am fear-_ ful that he has prejudiced my brother against me. That 1s ‘an evil which I most anxiously deprecate, and which I shall indeed exert myself to remove. Has he made me the sub- ject of this morning’s conversation ? ” My brother’s countenance testified no surprise at my ad- dress. The benignity of his looks was nowise diminished. “Tt ig true,” said he, “ your conduct was the subject of our discourse. Iam 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.” , 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 harbor 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 be- fore 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 evrounds of your belief. Pleyel loaded me with indecent and virulent invectives, but he withheld from me the facts that generated his suspicions. Hvents took place last night of which some of the cireumstances were of an ambiguous nat-— : ure. 1 conceived that these might possibly have fallen under his cognizance, and that, viewed through the mists of preju- WIBDAND; OR, 0 6 but believed that your more unbiassed judgment would es- timate them at their just value. Perhaps his talehas been ; different from what I suspect it to be. Listen, then, tomy ae narrative. If there be anything in his story inconsistent : with mine, his story is false.” I then proceeded to a circumstantial relation of the inci- dents of the last night. Wieland listened with deep atten- tion. Having finished, “ This,” continued I, “is the truth. 2 You see in what circumstances an interview took place be- tween Carwin and me. He remained for hours in my closet, and for some minutes in my chamber. He departed with- out haste or interruption. If Pleyel marked him as he left the house (and it is not impossible that he did), inferences injurious to my character might suggest themselves fo him, . In adinitting them he gave proofs of less discernment and = less candor than I onee ascribed to him.” me ‘His proofs,” said Wieland, after a considerable pause, ‘‘are different. That he should be deceived is not possi- ble. That he himself is not the deceiver could not be be- 2 lieved, if his testimony were not inconsistent with yours ; ve but the doubts which I entertained are now removed. Your i tale, some parts of it, is marvellous; the voice which ex- ee SDs! halt ain Je | 24 giv oe claimed against your rashness in approaching the closet, your persisting, notwithstanding that prohibition, your be- = lief that I was the ruffian, and your subsequent conduct, “> are believed by me, because I have known you from child- : hood, because a thousand instances have attested your ve- racity, and because nothing less than my own hearing and vision would convince me, in opposition to her own asser- a tions, that my sister had fallen into wickedness like this.” a ae I threw my arms around him and bathed his cheek with : my tears. “That,” said I, “is spoken like my brother. _But 2 what are the proofs?” . ~ He replied, ‘Pleyel informed me that, in going to your ae house, his attention was attracted by two voices. The per- | sons speaking sat beneath the bank, out of sight. These — 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. ‘Hewes 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 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 happi- ness at his mercy. How shall I counterwork his plots or de- tect his coadjutor? He has taught some vile and abandoned female tomimic 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 at- tempting to open the door of my chamber accounted for. He supposed me absent, and meant, perhaps, had my apart- ment been accessible, to leave in it some accusing memo- rial. aay Pleyel was no longer equally culpable. The sincerity of his anguish, 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 outweigh the testimony of lis senses ? os Thad no witnesses to prove my existence in another place. The real events of that night are marvellous. Few to whom 3 they should be related would seruple to discredit them. 2 Pleyel ; is skeptical i in a transcendent degree. T cannot sum- persons, judging 2 their voices, were Chrivin and you. Twill. _ Tim TRawsvormartoy. ——-—-189- WIELAND; OR, mon Carwin to my bar, and make him the attester of my inno- cence and the accuser of himself. My brother saw and comprehended my distress. 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 endeavored to console me. Some new event, he said, would occur to disentangle the maze. Hedid — 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 arbitary verdict ? 3 “Tf you choose to seek an interview,” continued Wieland, “you must make haste; for Pleyel informed me of his inten- tion 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 ?” “T cannot say whither. It is a sudden resolution, I be- lieve. I did not hear of it till this morning. He promises to write to me as soon as he is settled.” Ineeded 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 distraction. That Pleyel should abandon me for- eyer, because I was blind to his excellence, because I coveted as T sieved that this evil was still preventable ; : that this : 4 | fatal journey it was still 3 in my power to procrastinate, or, ‘ae | _ perhaps, to occasion it tobe laid aside. There were no im- = -pediments to a visit; ly dreaded lest the interview should — be too long delayed. ic ther befriended my impatience, and readily consented to furnish me with a chaise and servant Z to attend me. My purpose was to go immediately to Pleyel’s "farm, where his engagements usually detained him during CHAPTER XII. ul My way lay through the city. 1 Livery object grew dim and swam before my sight. It was with difficulty that 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 in- vigorate and refresh me. My distracted thoughts would al- low me but little rest. Growing somewhat better in the — afternoon, | resumed my journey. My contemplations were limited to a few objects. I re- earded 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 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 im- ‘possible 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 para-- mour of a thief ! : chad scarcely entered it — when I- was seized with a genéral sensation of sickness. » » Fite : NA okt : Dirge on re na: as a kL $595, te Ce, pan a ee oe cm, al “ re st - a Nees HS 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 ef 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, O man of mischief, is the tendency of thy thoughts? Frustrated in thy first desion, thou will not fore- go the immolation of thy victim. To exterminate my repu- tation 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 in- numerable avenues to the accomplishment of thy malignant purpose. Why should I enter the lists against thee? Would to heaven I could disarm thy vengenance by my deprecations! When I think of all the resources with which nature and education have supplied thee—that thy form is acombination of steely fibres and organs of exquisite ductility and bound- less compass, actuated by an intelligence gifted with infinite endownments and comprehending all knowledge--I perceive that my doom is fixed. What obstacle will be able to di- _ vert thy zeal or repel thy efforts? That being who has hither- to protected me has born testimony to the formidableness of _ thy attempts, since nothing less than supernatural interfer- ence could check thy career. Musing on these thoughts, I arrived, toward the close of the day, at Pleyel’s house. sm but which was reconcilable with those already known. pa: “T was not suffered to remain long in this suspense. One: > | evening, you may recollect, I came to your house, where if 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 fel- - low-lodger, I thought Thad a right to be familiar, You were — aks a Se es ¢ ns er see Sere Ga THE TRANSFORMATION. in your chamber ; but your employment and the time were such as to make if no infraction of decorum to follow you thither. The spirit of mischievous gayety possessed me. I proceeded on tiptoe. You did not perceive my entrance ; ‘and I advanced softly till Twas able to overlook your shoul- der. “JT 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 crimi- nal; but I reflected that no sentiment of yours was of anature which made it your interest to conceal it. You wrote much more than you permitted your friends to peruse. My curi- osity was strong, and I had only to throw a glance upon the paper to secure its gratification. I should never have delib- erately committed an act like this. The slightest obstacle would have repelled me; but my eye glanced almost spon- taneously 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 swmmer- house, midnight, and made out a passage which spoke of the propriety and of the effects to be expected from another in- terview. All this passed in less than a moment. I then checked myself, and made myself known to you by a tap upon your shoulder. ‘ “T 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, I asked, did you allude ? Your disappearance on a former evening, my tracing you to the recess in the bank, your silence on my first and second eall, your vague answers and invincible embarrassment when : ‘4 you at length ascended the hill, I recollected with new sur- WIELAND; OR, — prise. Could this be the summer-house alluded to? trade and horror is the element of this man. ‘T'he 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 alliance with evil genii, the power and the malice of de- mons have been a thousand times exemplified in human beings. There are no devils but those which are begotten upou 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. “T took, as usual, the path through your brother’s ground, — I ranged with celerity and silence along the bank. I ap-— ‘proached the fence with divides Wieland’s estate from yours. The recess in the bank being near this line, it being neces- sary for me to pass near it, my mind being tainted with inveter- ate suspicions concerning you, suspicions which were indebted for their strength to incidents connected with this spot, what wonder that it seized upon my thoughts? “T leaped on the fence; but before I descended on the opposite side I paused to survey the scene. Leaves 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 A eld geo vee Svat | eee ee Seo stg a hice; & ow HS A RP AOS AOD ee eae Sager cack re SB ey ee a x 164 : WIELAND; OR, 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 ina louder key. It was laughter; and un- questionably produced by a female voice. That voice was familiar to my senses, It was yours. ; “Whence it came I was at a loss to conjecture ; but this uncertainty vanished when it was heard the third time. I threw back my eyes toward the recess. Livery 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 in- contestably 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 farther? Why should lreturn? Should I not hurry to a distance from a sound which, though former- ly so sweet and delectable, was now more hideous than the shrieks of owls ? “T had no time to yield to this impulse. The thought of approaching and listening occurred to me. Ihad no doubt of which I was conscious. Yet my certainty was capable of increase. I was likewise stimulated by a sentiment that par- took of rage. I was governed by a half-formed and tempest- uous resolution to break in upon your interview and strike you dead with my upbraiding. “T 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 TRANSFORMATION. 165 The steps in the rock are clear of bushy impediments, They allowed me to descend into a cavity beside the building .with- out being detected. Thus to lie in wait could only be justi- fied 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. TI 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 man- ner 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, be- cause I saw that all struggles would be fruitless. JI 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 Igo 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 ?” I bowed my head. ‘‘Go on,” said I. ‘I make not this request in the hope of undeceiving you. [ 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 satis- faction, and I will not part without it.” Why, on hearing these words, did Pleyel hesitate? Did some unlooked-for doubt insinuate itself into hismind? 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 afew — minutes the flame of resentment was again lighted up in “WIELAND; OR, — his bosom. He proceeded with his accustomed vehe- or mence : Me ‘TI hate myself for this folly. I can find no apology for this tale. Yet Iam irresistibly impelled to relate it. She that hears me is apprised of every particular. I have only to re- peat to her her own words. She will listen with a tran- quil 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 confes- sions of your tenderness, to former deeds of dishonor, to the circumstances of the first interview that took place between you. It wason that night when I traced you to this recess. Thither had he enticed you, and there had you ratified an un- hallowed compact by admitting him ae “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 occurred to you ; your resentment that my impertinent intrusion had put an end to that charming interview ; a disappointment for which you endeavored to compensate yourself by the fre- quency and duration of subsequent meetings. “Tn 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 ra 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 um- ~ brage the darkness was intense. Hearing wastheonlyavenue = to information which the circumstances allowed to be open, I was couched within three feet of you. Why should I ap- THE TRANSFORMATION, proach nearer ? ITcould 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 endeavored 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 de- spair? - Why should I repeat my vows of eternal implacability and persecution, and the speedy recantation of these vows? “T 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 I owe myself enable me to forget your existence! Ina 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 intiared He left the room, and my new emotions enabled me to witness his departure without any apparent loss of composure. As Isat alone I ruminated on these incidents. Nothing was more evident than that I had taken 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 pos- sessed me had no tendency to palsy my exertions and over- bear my strength. I noticed that the light was declining, and perceived the propriety of leaving the house. I placed myself again in the chaise, and returned slowly toward the city. CHAPTER XV. BeroreE 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 re- freshment. With this in view and in order.to pay my respects 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 Ciara WIELAND. What shall I say to extenuate the misconduct of last night? It is my duty to repair it to the utmost of my power; but the only way in which it can be repaired you will not, I 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. T cannot help it. My folly and rashness have left me no other resource. I will be at your door at that hour. If you choose to admit me to a conference, provided that conference has no witnesses, I will disclose to you particulars the knowl- edge of which is of the utmost importance to your happiness. Farewell, Carwin. What a letter is this! A man known to be an assassin and robber, one capable of plotting against my life and my fame, dotected lurking in my chamber and avowing designs the THE TRANSFORMATION. 169 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 com- -pliance? What had he seen in me that could justify him in admitting so wilda 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 produce, and of the man- ner 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 reluct- ance 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 sank 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 “WIELAND; OR, — 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 cireum- spection. He heard me not when I descended; but my re- turning steps 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 cred- ible. The balance was swayed from its equipoise by a hair. Had I even begun the conversation with an account of what befell me in my chamber my previous interview with Wieland would have taught him to suspect me of imposture; yet, if I were discoursing with this ruffian when Pleyel touched the lock of my chamber door, and when he shut his own door with so much violence, how, he might ask, should I be able to relate these incidents? Perhaps he-had withheld the knowl- edge 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 re- turn 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 _ THE TRANSFORMA TION Oo ATL 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, fora moment. I sudden- ly recoiled from it, confounded at that frenzy which could give even momentary harbor to such a scheme ; yet presently it returned. At length I even conceived it to deserve de- liberation. 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 sub- sided. The reasons why I should confide in that interposition which had hitherto defended me, in those tokens of com- punction 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 I was 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. Now, perhaps, my courage was the offspring of a no less WIELAND (OR. 2 ee Cee erring principle. Pleyel was forever 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 birthday of new hopes, and the re-exalta- tion 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 lim 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 convic- tion? 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. Hag 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 arriyal of the hour which had been prescribed by Carwin. Meanwhile, my meditations were tumultuously active. New impediments to the execution of the scheme were speedily suggested. I had apprised Catharine of my intention to spend this and many future nights with her. Her husband was informed of this arrangement, and had zealously approved