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Wieland; Or, The Transformation: An American Tale

by Charles Brockden Brown · English · Gutenberg #792 · 492,757 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Wieland; Or, The Transformation: An American Tale

Author: Charles Brockden Brown


        
Release date: January 1, 1997 [eBook #792]
                Most recently updated: July 3, 2026

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WIELAND; OR, THE TRANSFORMATION: AN AMERICAN TALE ***



WIELAND; OR THE TRANSFORMATION

An American Tale

by Charles Brockden Brown




          From Virtue's blissful paths away
          The double-tongued are sure to stray;
          Good is a forth-right journey still,
          And mazy paths but lead to ill.


Advertisement.

The following Work is delivered to the world as the first of a series
of performances, which the favorable reception of this will induce the
Writer to publish. His purpose is neither selfish nor temporary,
but aims at the illustration of some important branches of the moral
constitution of man. Whether this tale will be classed with the ordinary
or frivolous sources of amusement, or be ranked with the few productions
whose usefulness secures to them a lasting reputation, the reader must
be permitted to decide.

The incidents related are extraordinary and rare. Some of them, perhaps,
approach as nearly to the nature of miracles as can be done by that
which is not truly miraculous. It is hoped that intelligent readers will
not disapprove of the manner in which appearances are solved, but that
the solution will be found to correspond with the known principles of
human nature. The power which the principal person is said to possess
can scarcely be denied to be real. It must be acknowledged to be
extremely rare; but no fact, equally uncommon, is supported by the same
strength of historical evidence.

Some readers may think the conduct of the younger Wieland impossible. In
support of its possibility the Writer must appeal to Physicians and to
men conversant with the latent springs and occasional perversions of
the human mind. It will not be objected that the instances of similar
delusion are rare, because it is the business of moral painters to
exhibit their subject in its most instructive and memorable forms. If
history furnishes one parallel fact, it is a sufficient vindication of
the Writer; but most readers will probably recollect an authentic case,
remarkably similar to that of Wieland.

It will be necessary to add, that this narrative is addressed, in an
epistolary form, by the Lady whose story it contains, to a small
number of friends, whose curiosity, with regard to it, had been greatly
awakened. It may likewise be mentioned, that these events took
place between the conclusion of the French and the beginning of the
revolutionary war. The memoirs of Carwin, alluded to at the conclusion
of the work, will be published or suppressed according to the reception
which is given to the present attempt.

C. B. B.

_September 3, 1798_.



Chapter I


I feel little reluctance in complying with your request. You know not
fully the cause of my sorrows. You are a stranger to the depth of my
distresses. Hence your efforts at consolation must necessarily fail. Yet
the tale that I am going to tell is not intended as a claim upon your
sympathy. In the midst of my despair, I do not disdain to contribute
what little I can to the benefit of mankind. I acknowledge your right to
be informed of the events that have lately happened in my family. Make
what use of the tale you shall think proper. If it be communicated
to the world, it will inculcate the duty of avoiding deceit. It will
exemplify the force of early impressions, and show the immeasurable
evils that flow from an erroneous or imperfect discipline.

My state is not destitute of tranquillity. The sentiment that dictates
my feelings is not hope. Futurity has no power over my thoughts. To all
that is to come I am perfectly indifferent. With regard to myself, I
have nothing more to fear. Fate has done its worst. Henceforth, I am
callous to misfortune.

I address no supplication to the Deity. The power that governs the
course of human affairs has chosen his path. The decree that ascertained
the condition of my life, admits of no recal. No doubt it squares with
the maxims of eternal equity. That is neither to be questioned nor
denied by me. It suffices that the past is exempt from mutation. The
storm that tore up our happiness, and changed into dreariness and desert
the blooming scene of our existence, is lulled into grim repose; but
not until the victim was transfixed and mangled; till every obstacle was
dissipated by its rage; till every remnant of good was wrested from our
grasp and exterminated.

How will your wonder, and that of your companions, be excited by my
story! Every sentiment will yield to your amazement. If my testimony
were without corroborations, you would reject it as incredible. The
experience of no human being can furnish a parallel: That I, beyond the
rest of mankind, should be reserved for a destiny without alleviation,
and without example! Listen to my narrative, and then say what it is
that has made me deserve to be placed on this dreadful eminence, if,
indeed, every faculty be not suspended in wonder that I am still alive,
and am able to relate it. My father's ancestry was noble on the paternal
side; but his mother was the daughter of a merchant. My grand-father was
a younger brother, and a native of Saxony. He was placed, when he had
reached the suitable age, at a German college. During the vacations,
he employed himself in traversing the neighbouring territory. On one
occasion it was his fortune to visit Hamburg. He formed an acquaintance
with Leonard Weise, a merchant of that city, and was a frequent guest
at his house. The merchant had an only daughter, for whom his guest
speedily contracted an affection; and, in spite of parental menaces and
prohibitions, he, in due season, became her husband.

By this act he mortally offended his relations. Thenceforward he was
entirely disowned and rejected by them. They refused to contribute any
thing to his support. All intercourse ceased, and he received from them
merely that treatment to which an absolute stranger, or detested enemy,
would be entitled.

He found an asylum in the house of his new father, whose temper was
kind, and whose pride was flattered by this alliance. The nobility of
his birth was put in the balance against his poverty. Weise conceived
himself, on the whole, to have acted with the highest discretion, in
thus disposing of his child. My grand-father found it incumbent on him
to search out some mode of independent subsistence. His youth had
been eagerly devoted to literature and music. These had hitherto been
cultivated merely as sources of amusement. They were now converted into
the means of gain. At this period there were few works of taste in
the Saxon dialect. My ancestor may be considered as the founder of the
German Theatre. The modern poet of the same name is sprung from the same
family, and, perhaps, surpasses but little, in the fruitfulness of his
invention, or the soundness of his taste, the elder Wieland. His life
was spent in the composition of sonatas and dramatic pieces. They were
not unpopular, but merely afforded him a scanty subsistence. He died
in the bloom of his life, and was quickly followed to the grave by his
wife. Their only child was taken under the protection of the merchant.
At an early age he was apprenticed to a London trader, and passed seven
years of mercantile servitude.

My father was not fortunate in the character of him under whose care
he was now placed. He was treated with rigor, and full employment was
provided for every hour of his time. His duties were laborious and
mechanical. He had been educated with a view to this profession, and,
therefore, was not tormented with unsatisfied desires. He did not hold
his present occupations in abhorrence, because they withheld him from
paths more flowery and more smooth, but he found in unintermitted
labour, and in the sternness of his master, sufficient occasions for
discontent. No opportunities of recreation were allowed him. He spent
all his time pent up in a gloomy apartment, or traversing narrow and
crowded streets. His food was coarse, and his lodging humble. His heart
gradually contracted a habit of morose and gloomy reflection. He could
not accurately define what was wanting to his happiness. He was not
tortured by comparisons drawn between his own situation and that
of others. His state was such as suited his age and his views as to
fortune. He did not imagine himself treated with extraordinary or
unjustifiable rigor. In this respect he supposed the condition of
others, bound like himself to mercantile service, to resemble his own;
yet every engagement was irksome, and every hour tedious in its lapse.

In this state of mind he chanced to light upon a book written by one of
the teachers of the Albigenses, or French Protestants. He entertained no
relish for books, and was wholly unconscious of any power they possessed
to delight or instruct. This volume had lain for years in a corner of
his garret, half buried in dust and rubbish. He had marked it as it lay;
had thrown it, as his occasions required, from one spot to another; but
had felt no inclination to examine its contents, or even to inquire what
was the subject of which it treated.

One Sunday afternoon, being induced to retire for a few minutes to his
garret, his eye was attracted by a page of this book, which, by some
accident, had been opened and placed full in his view. He was seated on
the edge of his bed, and was employed in repairing a rent in some part
of his clothes. His eyes were not confined to his work, but occasionally
wandering, lighted at length upon the page. The words "Seek and ye
shall find," were those that first offered themselves to his notice.
His curiosity was roused by these so far as to prompt him to proceed.
As soon as he finished his work, he took up the book and turned to
the first page. The further he read, the more inducement he found to
continue, and he regretted the decline of the light which obliged him
for the present to close it.

The book contained an exposition of the doctrine of the sect of
Camissards, and an historical account of its origin. His mind was in a
state peculiarly fitted for the reception of devotional sentiments. The
craving which had haunted him was now supplied with an object. His mind
was at no loss for a theme of meditation. On days of business, he rose
at the dawn, and retired to his chamber not till late at night. He now
supplied himself with candles, and employed his nocturnal and Sunday
hours in studying this book. It, of course, abounded with allusions to
the Bible. All its conclusions were deduced from the sacred text. This
was the fountain, beyond which it was unnecessary to trace the stream of
religious truth; but it was his duty to trace it thus far.

A Bible was easily procured, and he ardently entered on the study of it.
His understanding had received a particular direction. All his reveries
were fashioned in the same mould. His progress towards the formation of
his creed was rapid. Every fact and sentiment in this book were viewed
through a medium which the writings of the Camissard apostle had
suggested. His constructions of the text were hasty, and formed on a
narrow scale. Every thing was viewed in a disconnected position. One
action and one precept were not employed to illustrate and restrict
the meaning of another. Hence arose a thousand scruples to which he had
hitherto been a stranger. He was alternately agitated by fear and by
ecstacy. He imagined himself beset by the snares of a spiritual foe, and
that his security lay in ceaseless watchfulness and prayer.

His morals, which had never been loose, were now modelled by a stricter
standard. The empire of religious duty extended itself to his looks,
gestures, and phrases. All levities of speech, and negligences of
behaviour, were proscribed. His air was mournful and contemplative.
He laboured to keep alive a sentiment of fear, and a belief of
the awe-creating presence of the Deity. Ideas foreign to this were
sedulously excluded. To suffer their intrusion was a crime against the
Divine Majesty inexpiable but by days and weeks of the keenest agonies.

No material variation had occurred in the lapse of two years. Every day
confirmed him in his present modes of thinking and acting. It was to
be expected that the tide of his emotions would sometimes recede, that
intervals of despondency and doubt would occur; but these gradually were
more rare, and of shorter duration; and he, at last, arrived at a state
considerably uniform in this respect.

His apprenticeship was now almost expired. On his arrival of age he
became entitled, by the will of my grand-father, to a small sum. This
sum would hardly suffice to set him afloat as a trader in his present
situation, and he had nothing to expect from the generosity of his
master. Residence in England had, besides, become almost impossible,
on account of his religious tenets. In addition to these motives for
seeking a new habitation, there was another of the most imperious and
irresistable necessity. He had imbibed an opinion that it was his duty
to disseminate the truths of the gospel among the unbelieving nations.
He was terrified at first by the perils and hardships to which the life
of a missionary is exposed. This cowardice made him diligent in the
invention of objections and excuses; but he found it impossible wholly
to shake off the belief that such was the injunction of his duty.
The belief, after every new conflict with his passions, acquired new
strength; and, at length, he formed a resolution of complying with what
he deemed the will of heaven.

The North-American Indians naturally presented themselves as the first
objects for this species of benevolence. As soon as his servitude
expired, he converted his little fortune into money, and embarked for
Philadelphia. Here his fears were revived, and a nearer survey of savage
manners once more shook his resolution. For a while he relinquished his
purpose, and purchasing a farm on Schuylkill, within a few miles of the
city, set himself down to the cultivation of it. The cheapness of land,
and the service of African slaves, which were then in general use,
gave him who was poor in Europe all the advantages of wealth. He passed
fourteen years in a thrifty and laborious manner. In this time new
objects, new employments, and new associates appeared to have nearly
obliterated the devout impressions of his youth. He now became
acquainted with a woman of a meek and quiet disposition, and of slender
acquirements like himself. He proffered his hand and was accepted.

His previous industry had now enabled him to dispense with personal
labour, and direct attention to his own concerns. He enjoyed leisure,
and was visited afresh by devotional contemplation. The reading of the
scriptures, and other religious books, became once more his favorite
employment. His ancient belief relative to the conversion of the savage
tribes, was revived with uncommon energy. To the former obstacles were
now added the pleadings of parental and conjugal love. The struggle
was long and vehement; but his sense of duty would not be stifled or
enfeebled, and finally triumphed over every impediment.

His efforts were attended with no permanent success. His exhortations
had sometimes a temporary power, but more frequently were repelled with
insult and derision. In pursuit of this object he encountered the most
imminent perils, and underwent incredible fatigues, hunger, sickness,
and solitude. The licence of savage passion, and the artifices of his
depraved countrymen, all opposed themselves to his progress. His courage
did not forsake him till there appeared no reasonable ground to hope for
success. He desisted not till his heart was relieved from the supposed
obligation to persevere. With his constitution somewhat decayed, he at
length returned to his family. An interval of tranquillity succeeded. He
was frugal, regular, and strict in the performance of domestic duties.
He allied himself with no sect, because he perfectly agreed with none.
Social worship is that by which they are all distinguished; but this
article found no place in his creed. He rigidly interpreted that precept
which enjoins us, when we worship, to retire into solitude, and shut
out every species of society. According to him devotion was not only a
silent office, but must be performed alone. An hour at noon, and an hour
at midnight were thus appropriated.

At the distance of three hundred yards from his house, on the top of a
rock whose sides were steep, rugged, and encumbered 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 cornfields and orchards. The edifice was
slight and airy. It was no more than a circular area, twelve feet in
diameter, whose flooring was the rock, cleared of moss and shrubs, and
exactly levelled, edged by twelve Tuscan columns, and covered by an
undulating dome. My father furnished the dimensions and outlines, but
allowed the artist whom he employed to complete the structure on his own
plan. It was without seat, table, or ornament of any kind.

This was the temple of his Deity. Twice in twenty-four hours he repaired
hither, unaccompanied by any human being. Nothing but physical inability
to move was allowed to obstruct or postpone this visit. He did not exact
from his family compliance with his example. Few men, equally sincere
in their faith, were as sparing in their censures and restrictions,
with respect to the conduct of others, as my father. The character of
my mother was no less devout; but her education had habituated her to
a different mode of worship. The loneliness of their dwelling prevented
her from joining any established congregation; but she was punctual in
the offices of prayer, and in the performance of hymns to her Saviour,
after the manner of the disciples of Zinzendorf. 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 practised by other persons,
might be equally acceptable.

His deportment to others was full of charity and mildness. A sadness
perpetually overspread his features, but was unmingled with sternness or
discontent. The tones of his voice, his gestures, his steps were all in
tranquil unison. His conduct was characterised by a certain forbearance
and humility, which secured the esteem of those to whom his tenets were
most obnoxious. They might call him a fanatic and a dreamer, but they
could not deny their veneration to his invincible candour and invariable
integrity. His own belief of rectitude was the foundation of his
happiness. This, however, was destined to find an end.

Suddenly the sadness that constantly attended him was deepened. Sighs,
and even tears, sometimes escaped him. To the expostulations of his wife
he seldom answered 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 endure the penalty.

He did not describe this penalty. It appeared to be nothing more for
some time than a sense of wrong. This was sufficiently acute, and was
aggravated by the belief that his offence was incapable of expiation. No
one could contemplate the agonies which he seemed to suffer without the
deepest compassion. Time, instead of lightening the burthen, appeared to
add to it. At length he hinted to his wife, that his end was near. His
imagination did not prefigure the mode or the time of his decease, but
was fraught with an incurable persuasion that his death was at hand. He
was likewise haunted by the belief that the kind of death that awaited
him was strange and terrible. His anticipations were thus far vague and
indefinite; but they sufficed to poison every moment of his being, and
devote him to ceaseless anguish.



Chapter II


Early in the morning of a sultry day in August, he left Mettingen, to go
to the city. He had seldom passed a day from home since his return from
the shores of the Ohio. Some urgent engagements at this time existed,
which would not admit of further delay. He returned in the evening, but
appeared to be greatly oppressed with fatigue. His silence and dejection
were likewise in a more than ordinary degree conspicuous. My mother's
brother, whose profession was that of a surgeon, chanced to spend this
night at our house. It was from him that I have frequently received an
exact account of the mournful catastrophe that followed.

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

My uncle perceived, by his pulse, that he was indisposed, but in no
alarming degree, and ascribed appearances chiefly to the workings of his
mind. He exhorted him to recollection and composure, but in vain. At the
hour of repose he readily retired to his chamber. At the persuasion of
my mother he even undressed and went to bed. Nothing could abate his
restlessness. He checked her tender expostulations with some sternness.
"Be silent," said he, "for that which I feel there is but one cure,
and that will shortly come. You can help me nothing. Look to your own
condition, and pray to God to strengthen you under the calamities that
await you." "What am I to fear?" she answered. "What terrible disaster
is it that you think of?" "Peace--as yet I know it not myself, but come
it will, and shortly." She repeated her inquiries and doubts; but he
suddenly put an end to the discourse, by a stern command to be silent.

She had never before known him in this mood. Hitherto all was benign in
his deportment. Her heart was pierced with sorrow at the contemplation
of this change. She was utterly unable to account for it, or to figure
to herself the species of disaster that was menaced.

Contrary to custom, the lamp, instead of being placed on the hearth, was
left upon the table. Over it against the wall there hung a small clock,
so contrived as to strike a very hard stroke at the end of every sixth
hour. That which was now approaching was the signal for retiring to the
fane at which he addressed his devotions. Long habit had occasioned him
to be always awake at this hour, and the toll was instantly obeyed.

Now frequent and anxious glances were cast at the clock. Not a single
movement of the index appeared to escape his notice. As the hour verged
towards twelve his anxiety visibly augmented. The trepidations of my
mother kept pace with those of her husband; but she was intimidated
into silence. All that was left to her was to watch every change of his
features, and give vent to her sympathy in tears.

At length the hour was spent, and the clock tolled. The sound appeared
to communicate a shock to every part of my father's frame. He rose
immediately, and threw over himself a loose gown. Even this office
was performed with difficulty, for his joints trembled, and his teeth
chattered with dismay. At this hour his duty called him to the rock, and
my mother naturally concluded that it was thither he intended to repair.
Yet these incidents were so uncommon, as to fill her with astonishment
and foreboding. She saw him leave the room, and heard his steps as they
hastily descended the stairs. She half resolved to rise and pursue him,
but the wildness of the scheme quickly suggested itself. He was going
to a place whither no power on earth could induce him to suffer an
attendant.

The window of her chamber looked toward the rock. The atmosphere was
clear and calm, but the edifice could not be discovered at that distance
through the dusk. My mother's anxiety would not allow her to remain
where she was. She rose, and seated herself at the window. She strained
her sight to get a view of the dome, and of the path that led to it. The
first painted itself with sufficient distinctness on her fancy, but
was undistinguishable by the eye from the rocky mass on which it was
erected. The second could be imperfectly seen; but her husband had
already passed, or had taken a different direction.

What was it that she feared? Some disaster impended over her husband or
herself. He had predicted evils, but professed himself ignorant of what
nature they were. When were they to come? Was this night, or this hour
to witness the accomplishment? She was tortured with impatience, and
uncertainty. All her fears were at present linked to his person, and she
gazed at the clock, with nearly as much eagerness as my father had done,
in expectation of the next hour.

An half hour passed away in this state of suspence. Her eyes were fixed
upon the rock; suddenly it was illuminated. A light proceeding from the
edifice, made every part of the scene visible. A gleam diffused itself
over the intermediate space, and instantly a loud report, like the
explosion of a mine, followed. She uttered an involuntary shriek, but
the new sounds that greeted her ear, quickly conquered her surprise.
They were piercing shrieks, and uttered without intermission. The gleams
which had diffused themselves far and wide were in a moment withdrawn,
but the interior of the edifice was filled with rays.

The first suggestion was that a pistol was discharged, and that the
structure was on fire. She did not allow herself time to meditate a
second thought, but rushed into the entry and knocked loudly at the door
of her brother's chamber. My uncle had been previously roused by the
noise, and instantly flew to the window. He also imagined what he saw
to be fire. The loud and vehement shrieks which succeeded the first
explosion, seemed to be an invocation of succour. The incident was
inexplicable; but he could not fail to perceive the propriety of
hastening to the spot. He was unbolting the door, when his sister's
voice was heard on the outside conjuring him to come forth.

He obeyed the summons with all the speed in his power. He stopped not
to question her, but hurried down stairs and across the meadow which lay
between the house and the rock. The shrieks were no longer to be heard;
but a blazing light was clearly discernible between the columns of the
temple. Irregular steps, hewn in the stone, led him to the summit. On
three sides, this edifice touched the very verge of the cliff. On the
fourth side, which might be regarded as the front, there was an area
of small extent, to which the rude staircase conducted you. My uncle
speedily gained this spot. His strength was for a moment exhausted
by his haste. He paused to rest himself. Meanwhile he bent the most
vigilant attention towards the object before him.

Within the columns he beheld what he could no better describe, than
by saying that it resembled a cloud impregnated with light. It had
the brightness of flame, but was without its upward motion. It did not
occupy the whole area, and rose but a few feet above the floor. No
part of the building was on fire. This appearance was astonishing. He
approached the temple. As he went forward the light retired, and, when
he put his feet within the apartment, utterly vanished. The suddenness
of this transition increased the darkness that succeeded in a tenfold
degree. Fear and wonder rendered him powerless. An occurrence like this,
in a place assigned to devotion, was adapted to intimidate the stoutest
heart.

His wandering thoughts were recalled by the groans of one near him.
His sight gradually recovered its power, and he was able to discern my
father stretched on the floor. At that moment, my mother and servants
arrived with a lanthorn, and enabled my uncle to examine more closely
this scene. 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 untouched.

He was removed to his chamber, and the requisite attention paid to his
wounds, which gradually became more painful. A mortification speedily
shewed itself in the arm, which had been most hurt. Soon after, the
other wounded parts exhibited the like appearance.

Immediately subsequent to this disaster, my father seemed nearly in
a state of insensibility. He was passive under every operation. He
scarcely opened his eyes, and was with difficulty prevailed upon to
answer the questions that were put to him. By his imperfect account, it
appeared, that while engaged in silent orisons, with thoughts full
of confusion and anxiety, a faint gleam suddenly shot athwart the
apartment. His fancy immediately pictured to itself, a person bearing
a lamp. It seemed to come from behind. He was in the act of turning to
examine the visitant, when his right arm received a blow from a heavy
club. At the same instant, a very bright spark was seen to light upon
his clothes. In a moment, the whole was reduced to ashes. This was the
sum of the information which he chose to give. There was somewhat in
his manner that indicated an imperfect tale. My uncle was inclined to
believe that half the truth had been suppressed.

Meanwhile, the disease thus wonderfully generated, betrayed more
terrible symptoms. Fever and delirium terminated in lethargic slumber,
which, in the course of two hours, gave place to death. Yet not till
insupportable exhalations and crawling putrefaction had driven from his
chamber and the house every one whom their duty did not detain.

Such was the end of my father. None surely was ever more mysterious.
When we recollect his gloomy anticipations and unconquerable anxiety;
the security from human malice which his character, the place, and the
condition of the times, might be supposed to confer; the purity and
cloudlessness of the atmosphere, which rendered it impossible that
lightning was the cause; what are the conclusions that we must form?

The prelusive gleam, the blow upon his arm, the fatal spark, the
explosion heard so far, the fiery cloud that environed him, without
detriment to the structure, though composed of combustible materials,
the sudden vanishing of this cloud at my uncle's approach--what is the
inference to be drawn from these facts? Their truth cannot be doubted.
My uncle's testimony is peculiarly worthy of credit, because no man's
temper is more sceptical, and his belief is unalterably attached to
natural causes.

I was at this time a child of six years of age. The impressions that
were then made upon me, can never be effaced. I was ill qualified to
judge respecting what was then passing; but as I advanced in age, and
became more fully acquainted with these facts, they oftener became the
subject of my thoughts. Their resemblance to recent events revived them
with new force in my memory, and made me more anxious to explain them.
Was this the penalty of disobedience? this the stroke of a vindictive
and invisible hand? Is it a fresh proof that the Divine Ruler interferes
in human affairs, meditates an end, selects, and commissions his agents,
and enforces, by unequivocal sanctions, submission to his will? Or, was
it merely the irregular expansion of the fluid that imparts warmth to
our heart and our blood, caused by the fatigue of the preceding day, or
flowing, by established laws, from the condition of his thoughts? [*]


     * A case, in its symptoms exactly parallel to this, is
     published in one of the Journals of Florence. See, likewise,
     similar cases reported by Messrs. Merille and Muraire, in
     the "Journal de Medicine," for February and May, 1783. The
     researches of Maffei and Fontana have thrown some light upon
     this subject.



Chapter III


The shock which this disastrous occurrence occasioned to my mother, was
the foundation of a disease which carried her, in a few months, to the
grave. My brother and myself were children at this time, and were now
reduced to the condition of orphans. The property which our parents left
was by no means inconsiderable. It was entrusted to faithful hands,
till we should arrive at a suitable age. Meanwhile, our education was
assigned to a maiden aunt who resided in the city, and whose tenderness
made us in a short time cease to regret that we had lost a mother.

The years that succeeded were tranquil and happy. Our lives were
molested by few of those cares that are incident to childhood. By
accident more than design, the indulgence and yielding temper of our
aunt was mingled with resolution and stedfastness. She seldom deviated
into either extreme of rigour or lenity. Our social pleasures were
subject to no unreasonable restraints. We were instructed in most
branches of useful knowledge, and were saved from the corruption and
tyranny of colleges and boarding-schools.

Our companions were chiefly selected from the children of our
neighbours. Between one of these and my brother, there quickly grew the
most affectionate intimacy. Her name was Catharine Pleyel. She was rich,
beautiful, and contrived to blend the most bewitching softness with
the most exuberant vivacity. The tie by which my brother and she were
united, seemed to add force to the love which I bore her, and which
was amply returned. Between her and myself there was every circumstance
tending to produce and foster friendship. Our sex and age were the same.
We lived within sight of each other's abode. Our tempers were remarkably
congenial, and the superintendants of our education not only prescribed
to us the same pursuits, but allowed us to cultivate them together.

Every day added strength to the triple bonds that united us. We
gradually withdrew ourselves from the society of others, and found every
moment irksome that was not devoted to each other. My brother's advance
in age made no change in our situation. It was determined that his
profession should be agriculture. His fortune exempted him from the
necessity of personal labour. The task to be performed by him was
nothing more than superintendance. The skill that was demanded by this
was merely theoretical, and was furnished by casual inspection, or
by closet study. The attention that was paid to this subject did not
seclude him for any long time from us, on whom time had no other effect
than to augment our impatience in the absence of each other and of
him. Our tasks, our walks, our music, were seldom performed but in each
other's company.

It was easy to see that Catharine and my brother were born for each
other. The passion which they mutually entertained quickly broke those
bounds which extreme youth had set to it; confessions were made or
extorted, and their union was postponed only till my brother had
passed his minority. The previous lapse of two years was constantly and
usefully employed.

O my brother! But the task I have set myself let me perform with
steadiness. The felicity of that period was marred by no gloomy
anticipations. The future, like the present, was serene. Time was
supposed to have only new delights in store. I mean not to dwell on
previous incidents longer than is necessary to illustrate or explain
the great events that have since happened. The nuptial day at length
arrived. My brother took possession of the house in which he was born,
and here the long protracted marriage was solemnized.

My father's property was equally divided between us. A neat dwelling,
situated on the bank of the river, three quarters of a mile from my
brother's, was now occupied by me. These domains were called, from the
name of the first possessor, Mettingen. I can scarcely account for my
refusing to take up my abode with him, unless it were from a disposition
to be an economist of pleasure. Self-denial, seasonably exercised, is
one means of enhancing our gratifications. I was, beside, desirous of
administering a fund, and regulating an household, of my own. The short
distance allowed us to exchange visits as often as we pleased. The
walk from one mansion to the other was no undelightful prelude to our
interviews. I was sometimes their visitant, and they, as frequently,
were my guests.

Our education had been modelled by no religious standard. We were left
to the guidance of our own understanding, and the casual impressions
which society might make upon us. My friend's temper, as well as my own,
exempted us from much anxiety on this account. It must not be supposed
that we were without religion, but with us it was the product of
lively feelings, excited by reflection on our own happiness, and by the
grandeur of external nature. We sought not a basis for our faith, in
the weighing of proofs, and the dissection of creeds. Our devotion was
a mixed and casual sentiment, seldom verbally expressed, or solicitously
sought, or carefully retained. In the midst of present enjoyment,
no thought was bestowed on the future. As a consolation in calamity
religion is dear. But calamity was yet at a distance, and its only
tendency was to heighten enjoyments which needed not this addition to
satisfy every craving.

My brother's situation was somewhat different. His deportment was grave,
considerate, and thoughtful. I will not say whether he was indebted to
sublimer views for this disposition. Human life, in his opinion, was
made up of changeable elements, and the principles of duty were not
easily unfolded. The future, either as anterior, or subsequent to death,
was a scene that required some preparation and provision to be made for
it. These positions we could not deny, but what distinguished him was a
propensity to ruminate on these truths. The images that visited us were
blithsome and gay, but those with which he was most familiar were of
an opposite hue. They did not generate affliction and fear, but they
diffused over his behaviour a certain air of forethought and sobriety.
The principal effect of this temper was visible in his features and
tones. These, in general, bespoke a sort of thrilling melancholy. I
scarcely ever knew him to laugh. He never accompanied the lawless mirth
of his companions with more than a smile, but his conduct was the same
as ours.

He partook of our occupations and amusements with a zeal not less than
ours, but of a different kind. The diversity in our temper was never
the parent of discord, and was scarcely a topic of regret. The scene
was variegated, but not tarnished or disordered by it. It hindered the
element in which we moved from stagnating. Some agitation and concussion
is requisite to the due exercise of human understanding. In his studies,
he pursued an austerer and more arduous path. He was much conversant
with the history of religious opinions, and took pains to ascertain
their validity. He deemed it indispensable to examine the ground of
his belief, to settle the relation between motives and actions, the
criterion of merit, and the kinds and properties of evidence.

There was an obvious resemblance between him and my father, in their
conceptions of the importance of certain topics, and in the light in
which the vicissitudes of human life were accustomed to be viewed.
Their characters were similar, but the mind of the son was enriched by
science, and embellished with literature.

The temple was no longer assigned to its ancient use. From an Italian
adventurer, who erroneously imagined that he could find employment
for his skill, and sale for his sculptures in America, my brother had
purchased a bust of Cicero. He professed to have copied this piece from
an antique dug up with his own hands in the environs of Modena. Of the
truth of his assertions we were not qualified to judge; but the marble
was pure and polished, and we were contented to admire the performance,
without waiting for the sanction of connoisseurs. We hired the same
artist to hew a suitable pedestal from a neighbouring quarry. This was
placed in the temple, and the bust rested upon it. Opposite to this was
a harpsichord, sheltered by a temporary roof from the weather. This was
the place of resort in the evenings of summer. Here we sung, and talked,
and read, and occasionally banqueted. Every joyous and tender scene most
dear to my memory, is connected with this edifice. Here the performances
of our musical and poetical ancestor were rehearsed. Here my brother's
children received the rudiments of their education; here a thousand
conversations, pregnant with delight and improvement, took place; and
here the social affections were accustomed to expand, and the tear of
delicious sympathy to be shed.

My brother was an indefatigable student. The authors whom he read were
numerous, but the chief object of his veneration was Cicero. He was
never tired of conning and rehearsing his productions. To understand
them was not sufficient. He was anxious to discover the gestures and
cadences with which they ought to be delivered. He was very scrupulous
in selecting a true scheme of pronunciation for the Latin tongue, and in
adapting it to the words of his darling writer. His favorite occupation
consisted in embellishing his rhetoric with all the proprieties of
gesticulation and utterance.

Not contented with this, he was diligent in settling and restoring the
purity of the text. For this end, he collected all the editions and
commentaries that could be procured, and employed months of severe study
in exploring and comparing them. He never betrayed more satisfaction
than when he made a discovery of this kind.

It was not till the addition of Henry Pleyel, my friend's only brother,
to our society, that his passion for Roman eloquence was countenanced
and fostered by a sympathy of tastes. This young man had been some years
in Europe. We had separated at a very early age, and he was now returned
to spend the remainder of his days among us.

Our circle was greatly enlivened by the accession of a new member. His
conversation abounded with novelty. His gaiety was almost boisterous,
but was capable of yielding to a grave deportment when the occasion
required it. His discernment was acute, but he was prone to view every
object merely as supplying materials for mirth. His conceptions
were ardent but ludicrous, and his memory, aided, as he honestly
acknowledged, by his invention, was an inexhaustible fund of
entertainment.

His residence was at the same distance below the city as ours was above,
but there seldom passed a day without our being favoured with a visit.
My brother and he were endowed with the same attachment to the Latin
writers; and Pleyel was not behind his friend in his knowledge of the
history and metaphysics of religion. Their creeds, however, were in many
respects opposite. Where one discovered only confirmations of his faith,
the other could find nothing but reasons for doubt. Moral necessity,
and calvinistic inspiration, were the props on which my brother thought
proper to repose. Pleyel was the champion of intellectual liberty, and
rejected all guidance but that of his reason. Their discussions were
frequent, but, being managed with candour as well as with skill, they
were always listened to by us with avidity and benefit.

Pleyel, like his new friends, was fond of music and poetry. Henceforth
our concerts consisted of two violins, an harpsichord, and three voices.
We were frequently reminded how much happiness depends upon society.
This new friend, though, before his arrival, we were sensible of no
vacuity, could not now be spared. His departure would occasion a void
which nothing could fill, and which would produce insupportable regret.
Even my brother, though his opinions were hourly assailed, and even the
divinity of Cicero contested, was captivated with his friend, and laid
aside some part of his ancient gravity at Pleyel's approach.



Chapter IV


Six years of uninterrupted happiness had rolled away, since my brother's
marriage. The sound of war had been heard, but it was at such a distance
as to enhance our enjoyment by affording objects of comparison. The
Indians were repulsed on the one side, and Canada was conquered on the
other. Revolutions and battles, however calamitous to those who occupied
the scene, contributed in some sort to our happiness, by agitating our
minds with curiosity, and furnishing causes of patriotic exultation.
Four children, three of whom were of an age to compensate, by their
personal and mental progress, the cares of which they had been, at a
more helpless age, the objects, exercised my brother's tenderness. The
fourth was a charming babe that promised to display the image of her
mother, and enjoyed perfect health. To these were added a sweet girl
fourteen years old, who was loved by all of us, with an affection more
than parental.

Her mother's story was a mournful one. She had come hither from England
when this child was an infant, alone, without friends, and without
money. She appeared to have embarked in a hasty and clandestine
manner. She passed three years of solitude and anguish under my aunt's
protection, and died a martyr to woe; the source of which she could, by
no importunities, be prevailed upon to unfold. Her education and manners
bespoke her to be of no mean birth. Her last moments were rendered
serene, by the assurances she received from my aunt, that her daughter
should experience the same protection that had been extended to herself.

On my brother's marriage, it was agreed that she should make a part of
his family. I cannot do justice to the attractions of this girl. Perhaps
the tenderness she excited might partly originate in her personal
resemblance to her mother, whose character and misfortunes were
still fresh in our remembrance. She was habitually pensive, and this
circumstance tended to remind the spectator of her friendless condition;
and yet that epithet was surely misapplied in this case. This being was
cherished by those with whom she now resided, with unspeakable fondness.
Every exertion was made to enlarge and improve her mind. Her safety
was the object of a solicitude that almost exceeded the bounds of
discretion. Our affection indeed could scarcely transcend her merits.
She never met my eye, or occurred to my reflections, without exciting
a kind of enthusiasm. Her softness, her intelligence, her equanimity,
never shall I see surpassed. I have often shed tears of pleasure at her
approach, and pressed her to my bosom in an agony of fondness.

While every day was adding to the charms of her person, and the stores
of her mind, there occurred an event which threatened to deprive us
of her. An officer of some rank, who had been disabled by a wound
at Quebec, had employed himself, since the ratification of peace, in
travelling through the colonies. He remained a considerable period at
Philadelphia, but was at last preparing for his departure. No one had
been more frequently honoured with his visits than Mrs. Baynton, a
worthy lady with whom our family were intimate. He went to her house
with a view to perform a farewell visit, and was on the point of taking
his leave, when I and my young friend entered the apartment. It is
impossible to describe the emotions of the stranger, when he fixed his
eyes upon my companion. He was motionless with surprise. He was unable
to conceal his feelings, but sat silently gazing at the spectacle before
him. At length he turned to Mrs. Baynton, and more by his looks and
gestures than by words, besought her for an explanation of the scene.
He seized the hand of the girl, who, in her turn, was surprised by his
behaviour, and drawing her forward, said in an eager and faultering
tone, Who is she? whence does she come? what is her name?

The answers that were given only increased the confusion of his
thoughts. He was successively told, that she was the daughter of one
whose name was Louisa Conway, who arrived among us at such a time, who
sedulously concealed her parentage, and the motives of her flight, whose
incurable griefs had finally destroyed her, and who had left this child
under the protection of her friends. Having heard the tale, he melted
into tears, eagerly clasped the young lady in his arms, and called
himself her father. When the tumults excited in his breast by this
unlooked-for meeting were somewhat subsided, he gratified our curiosity
by relating the following incidents.

"Miss Conway was the only daughter of a banker in London, who discharged
towards her every duty of an affectionate father. He had chanced to fall
into her company, had been subdued by her attractions, had tendered her
his hand, and been joyfully accepted both by parent and child. His wife
had given him every proof of the fondest attachment. Her father, who
possessed immense wealth, treated him with distinguished respect,
liberally supplied his wants, and had made one condition of his consent
to their union, a resolution to take up their abode with him.

"They had passed three years of conjugal felicity, which had been
augmented by the birth of this child; when his professional duty called
him into Germany. It was not without an arduous struggle, that she was
persuaded to relinquish the design of accompanying him through all the
toils and perils of war. No parting was ever more distressful. They
strove to alleviate, by frequent letters, the evils of their lot. Those
of his wife, breathed nothing but anxiety for his safety, and impatience
of his absence. At length, a new arrangement was made, and he was
obliged to repair from Westphalia to Canada. One advantage attended this
change. It afforded him an opportunity of meeting his family. His
wife anticipated this interview, with no less rapture than himself. He
hurried to London, and the moment he alighted from the stage-coach, ran
with all speed to Mr. Conway's house.

"It was an house of mourning. His father was overwhelmed with grief, and
incapable of answering his inquiries. The servants, sorrowful and mute,
were equally refractory. He explored the house, and called on the names
of his wife and daughter, but his summons was fruitless. At length,
this new disaster was explained. Two days before his arrival, his wife's
chamber was found empty. No search, however diligent and anxious, could
trace her steps. No cause could be assigned for her disappearance. The
mother and child had fled away together.

"New exertions were made, her chamber and cabinets were ransacked, but
no vestige was found serving to inform them as to the motives of her
flight, whether it had been voluntary or otherwise, and in what corner
of the kingdom or of the world she was concealed. Who shall describe the
sorrow and amazement of the husband? His restlessness, his vicissitudes
of hope and fear, and his ultimate despair? His duty called him to
America. He had been in this city, and had frequently passed the door of
the house in which his wife, at that moment, resided. Her father had not
remitted his exertions to elucidate this painful mystery, but they had
failed. This disappointment hastened his death; in consequence of which,
Louisa's father became possessor of his immense property."

This tale was a copious theme of speculation. A thousand questions were
started and discussed in our domestic circle, respecting the motives
that influenced Mrs. Stuart to abandon her country. It did not appear
that her proceeding was involuntary. We recalled and reviewed every
particular that had fallen under our own observation. By none of these
were we furnished with a clue. Her conduct, after the most rigorous
scrutiny, still remained an impenetrable secret. On a nearer view, Major
Stuart proved himself a man of most amiable character. His attachment
to Louisa appeared hourly to increase. She was no stranger to the
sentiments suitable to her new character. She could not but readily
embrace the scheme which was proposed to her, to return with her father
to England. This scheme his regard for her induced him, however, to
postpone. Some time was necessary to prepare her for so great a change
and enable her to think without agony of her separation from us.

I was not without hopes of prevailing on her father entirely to
relinquish this unwelcome design. Meanwhile, he pursued his travels
through the southern colonies, and his daughter continued with us.
Louisa and my brother frequently received letters from him, which
indicated a mind of no common order. They were filled with amusing
details, and profound reflections. While here, he often partook of
our evening conversations at the temple; and since his departure, his
correspondence had frequently supplied us with topics of discourse.

One afternoon in May, the blandness of the air, and brightness of the
verdure, induced us to assemble, earlier than usual, in the temple.
We females were busy at the needle, while my brother and Pleyel were
bandying quotations and syllogisms. The point discussed was the merit of
the oration for Cluentius, as descriptive, first, of the genius of the
speaker; and, secondly, of the manners of the times. Pleyel laboured to
extenuate both these species of merit, and tasked his ingenuity, to shew
that the orator had embraced a bad cause; or, at least, a doubtful one.
He urged, that to rely on the exaggerations of an advocate, or to
make the picture of a single family a model from which to sketch the
condition of a nation, was absurd. The controversy was suddenly diverted
into a new channel, by a misquotation. Pleyel accused his companion of
saying "polliciatur" when he should have said "polliceretur." Nothing
would decide the contest, but an appeal to the volume. My brother was
returning to the house for this purpose, when a servant met him with
a letter from Major Stuart. He immediately returned to read it in our
company.

Besides affectionate compliments to us, and paternal benedictions
on Louisa, his letter contained a description of a waterfall on the
Monongahela. A sudden gust of rain falling, we were compelled to remove
to the house. The storm passed away, and a radiant moon-light succeeded.
There was no motion to resume our seats in the temple. We therefore
remained where we were, and engaged in sprightly conversation. The
letter lately received naturally suggested the topic. A parallel was
drawn between the cataract there described, and one which Pleyel had
discovered among the Alps of Glarus. In the state of the former, some
particular was mentioned, the truth of which was questionable. To settle
the dispute which thence arose, it was proposed to have recourse to the
letter. My brother searched for it in his pocket. It was no where to be
found. At length, he remembered to have left it in the temple, and he
determined to go in search of it. His wife, Pleyel, Louisa, and myself,
remained where we were.

In a few minutes he returned. I was somewhat interested in the dispute,
and was therefore impatient for his return; yet, as I heard him
ascending the stairs, I could not but remark, that he had executed his
intention with remarkable dispatch. My eyes were fixed upon him on his
entrance. Methought 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
attention was chiefly engrossed.

The moment he saw her, his perplexity visibly increased. He quietly
seated himself, and fixing his eyes on the floor, appeared to be
absorbed in meditation. These singularities suspended the inquiry which
I was preparing to make respecting the letter. In a short time, the
company relinquished the subject which engaged them, and directed their
attention to Wieland. They thought that he only waited for a pause in
the discourse, to produce the letter. The pause was uninterrupted by
him. At length Pleyel said, "Well, I suppose you have found the letter."

"No," said he, without any abatement of his gravity, and looking
stedfastly at his wife, "I did not mount the hill."--"Why
not?"--"Catharine, have you not moved from that spot since I left the
room?"--She was affected with the solemnity of his manner, and laying
down her work, answered in a tone of surprise, "No; Why do you ask that
question?"--His eyes were again fixed upon the floor, and he did not
immediately answer. At length, he said, looking round upon us, "Is it
true that Catharine did not follow me to the hill? That she did not just
now enter the room?"--We assured him, with one voice, that she had not
been absent for a moment, and inquired into the motive of his questions.

"Your assurances," said he, "are solemn and unanimous; and yet I must
deny credit to your assertions, or disbelieve the testimony of my
senses, which informed me, when I was half way up the hill, that
Catharine was at the bottom."

We were confounded at this declaration. Pleyel rallied him with great
levity on his behaviour. He listened to his friend with calmness, but
without any relaxation of features.

"One thing," said he with emphasis, "is true; either I heard my
wife's voice at the bottom of the hill, or I do not hear your voice at
present."

"Truly," returned Pleyel, "it is a sad dilemma to which you have reduced
yourself. Certain it is, if our eyes can give us certainty that your
wife has been sitting in that spot during every moment of your absence.
You have heard her voice, you say, upon the hill. In general, her voice,
like her temper, is all softness. To be heard across the room, she is
obliged to exert herself. While you were gone, if I mistake not, she did
not utter a word. Clara and I had all the talk to ourselves. Still it
may be that she held a whispering conference with you on the hill; but
tell us the particulars."

"The conference," said he, "was short; and far from being carried on in
a whisper. You know with what intention I left the house. Half way to
the rock, the moon was for a moment hidden from us by a cloud. I never
knew the air to be more bland and more calm. In this interval I glanced
at the temple, and thought I saw a glimmering between the columns. It
was so faint, that it would not perhaps have been visible, if the moon
had not been shrowded. I looked again, but saw nothing. I never visit
this building alone, or at night, without being reminded of the fate
of my father. There was nothing wonderful in this appearance; yet it
suggested something more than mere solitude and darkness in the same
place would have done.

"I kept on my way. The images that haunted me 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 occasion to exert it, but,
nevertheless, I have sometimes heard her call with force and eagerness.
If my ear was not deceived, it was her voice which I heard.

"Stop, go no further. There is danger in your path." The suddenness
and unexpectedness of this warning, the tone of alarm with which it was
given, and, above all, the persuasion that it was my wife who spoke,
were enough to disconcert and make me pause. I turned and listened to
assure myself that I was not mistaken. The deepest silence succeeded. At
length, I spoke in my turn. Who calls? is it you, Catharine? I stopped
and presently received an answer. "Yes, it is I; go not up; return
instantly; you are wanted at the house." Still the voice was
Catharine's, and still it proceeded from the foot of the stairs.

"What could I do? The warning was mysterious. To be uttered by Catharine
at a place, and on an occasion like these, enhanced the mystery. I could
do nothing but obey. Accordingly, I trod back my steps, expecting that
she waited for me at the bottom of the hill. When I reached the
bottom, no one was visible. The moon-light was once more universal and
brilliant, and yet, as far as I could see no human or moving figure
was discernible. If she had returned to the house, she must have used
wondrous expedition to have passed already beyond the reach of my eye.
I exerted my voice, but in vain. To my repeated exclamations, no answer
was returned.

"Ruminating on these incidents, I returned hither. There was no room
to doubt that I had heard my wife's voice; attending incidents were not
easily explained; but you now assure me that nothing extraordinary has
happened to urge my return, and that my wife has not moved from her
seat."

Such was my brother's narrative. It was heard by us with different
emotions. Pleyel did not scruple to regard the whole as a deception of
the senses. Perhaps a voice had been heard; but Wieland's imagination
had misled him in supposing a resemblance to that of his wife, and
giving such a signification to the sounds. According to his custom
he spoke what he thought. Sometimes, he made it the theme of grave
discussion, but more frequently treated it with ridicule. He did not
believe that sober reasoning would convince his friend, and gaiety, he
thought, was useful to take away the solemnities which, in a mind like
Wieland's, an accident of this kind was calculated to produce.

Pleyel proposed to go in search of the letter. He went and speedily
returned, bearing it in his hand. He had found it open on the pedestal;
and neither voice nor visage had risen to impede his design.

Catharine was endowed with an uncommon portion of good sense; but her
mind was accessible, on this quarter, to wonder and panic. That her
voice should be thus inexplicably and unwarrantably assumed, was a
source of no small disquietude. She admitted the plausibility of the
arguments by which Pleyel endeavoured to prove, that this was no more
than an auricular deception; but this conviction was sure to be shaken,
when she turned her eyes upon her husband, and perceived that Pleyel's
logic was far from having produced the same effect upon him.

As to myself, my attention was engaged by this occurrence. I could not
fail to perceive a shadowy resemblance between it and my father's death.
On the latter event, I had frequently reflected; my reflections never
conducted me to certainty, but the doubts that existed were not of a
tormenting kind. I could not deny that the event was miraculous, and
yet I was invincibly averse to that method of solution. My wonder was
excited by the inscrutableness of the cause, but my wonder was unmixed
with sorrow or fear. It begat in me a thrilling, and not unpleasing
solemnity. Similar to these were the sensations produced by the recent
adventure.

But its effect upon my brother's imagination was of chief moment.
All that was desirable was, that it should be regarded by him with
indifference. The worst effect that could flow, was not indeed very
formidable. Yet I could not bear to think that his senses should be the
victims of such delusion. It argued a diseased condition of his frame,
which might show itself hereafter in more dangerous symptoms. The will
is the tool of the understanding, which must fashion its conclusions
on the notices of sense. If the senses be depraved, it is impossible to
calculate the evils that may flow from the consequent deductions of the
understanding.

I said, this man is of an ardent and melancholy character. Those ideas
which, in others, are casual or obscure, which are entertained in
moments of abstraction and solitude, and easily escape when the scene is
changed, have obtained an immoveable hold upon his mind. The conclusions
which long habit has rendered familiar, and, in some sort, palpable to
his intellect, are drawn from the deepest sources. All his actions and
practical sentiments are linked with long and abstruse deductions
from the system of divine government and the laws of our intellectual
constitution. He is, in some respects, an enthusiast, but is fortified
in his belief by innumerable arguments and subtilties.

His father's death was always regarded by him as flowing from a direct
and supernatural decree. It visited his meditations oftener than it did
mine. The traces which it left were more gloomy and permanent. This new
incident had a visible effect in augmenting his gravity. He was less
disposed than formerly to converse and reading. When we sifted his
thoughts, they were generally found to have a relation, more or less
direct, with this incident. It was difficult to ascertain the exact
species of impression which it made upon him. He never introduced the
subject into conversation, and listened with a silent and half-serious
smile to the satirical effusions of Pleyel.

One evening we chanced to be alone together in the temple. I seized that
opportunity of investigating the state of his thoughts. After a pause,
which he seemed in no wise inclined to interrupt, I spoke to him--"How
almost palpable is this dark; yet a ray from above would dispel it."
"Ay," said Wieland, with 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 significantly. "True," said he, "the
understanding has other avenues." "You have never," said I, approaching
nearer to the point--"you have never told me in what way you considered
the late extraordinary incident." "There is no determinate way in which
the subject can be viewed. Here is an effect, but the cause is utterly
inscrutable. To suppose a deception will not do. Such is possible, but
there are twenty other suppositions more probable. They must all be set
aside before we reach that point." "What are these twenty suppositions?"
"It is needless to mention them. They are only less improbable than
Pleyel's. Time may convert one of them into certainty. Till then it is
useless to expatiate on them."



Chapter V


Some time had elapsed when there happened another occurrence, still more
remarkable. Pleyel, on his return from Europe, brought information of
considerable importance to my brother. My ancestors were noble Saxons,
and possessed large domains in Lusatia. The Prussian wars had destroyed
those persons whose right to these estates precluded my brother's.
Pleyel had been exact in his inquiries, and had discovered that, by the
law of male-primogeniture, my brother's claims were superior to those
of any other person now living. Nothing was wanting but his presence in
that country, and a legal application to establish this claim.

Pleyel strenuously recommended this measure. The advantages he thought
attending it were numerous, and it would argue the utmost folly to
neglect them. Contrary to his expectation he found my brother averse
to the scheme. Slight efforts, he, at first, thought would subdue his
reluctance; but he found this aversion by no means slight. The interest
that he took in the happiness of his friend and his sister, and his own
partiality to the Saxon soil, from which he had likewise sprung, and
where he had spent several years of his youth, made him redouble his
exertions to win Wieland's consent. For this end he employed every
argument that his invention could suggest. He painted, in attractive
colours, the state of manners and government in that country, the
security of civil rights, and the freedom of religious sentiments. He
dwelt on the privileges of wealth and rank, and drew from the servile
condition of one class, an argument in favor of his scheme, since the
revenue and power annexed to a German principality afford so large a
field for benevolence. The evil flowing from this power, in malignant
hands, was proportioned to the good that would arise from the virtuous
use of it. Hence, Wieland, in forbearing to claim his own, withheld all
the positive felicity that would accrue to his vassals from his success,
and hazarded all the misery that would redound from a less enlightened
proprietor.

It was easy for my brother to repel these arguments, and to shew that no
spot on the globe enjoyed equal security and liberty to that which he
at present inhabited. That if the Saxons had nothing to fear from
mis-government, the external causes of havoc and alarm were numerous and
manifest. The recent devastations committed by the Prussians furnished
a specimen of these. The horrors of war would always impend over them,
till Germany were seized and divided by Austrian and Prussian tyrants;
an event which he strongly suspected was at no great distance. But
setting these considerations aside, was it laudable to grasp at wealth
and power even when they were within our reach? Were not these the two
great sources of depravity? What security had he, that in this change
of place and condition, he should not degenerate into a tyrant and
voluptuary? Power and riches were chiefly to be dreaded on account of
their tendency to deprave the possessor. He held them in abhorrence, not
only as instruments of misery to others, but to him on whom they
were conferred. Besides, riches were comparative, and was he not rich
already? He lived at present in the bosom of security and luxury. All
the instruments of pleasure, on which his reason or imagination set any
value, were within his reach. But these he must forego, for the sake of
advantages which, whatever were their value, were as yet uncertain. In
pursuit of an imaginary addition to his wealth, he must reduce himself
to poverty, he must exchange present certainties for what was distant
and contingent; for who knows not that the law is a system of expence,
delay and uncertainty? If he should embrace this scheme, it would lay
him under the necessity of making a voyage to Europe, and remaining for
a certain period, separate from his family. He must undergo the perils
and discomforts of the ocean; he must divest himself of all domestic
pleasures; he must deprive his wife of her companion, and his children
of a father and instructor, and all for what? For the ambiguous
advantages which overgrown wealth and flagitious tyranny have to bestow?
For a precarious possession in a land of turbulence and war? Advantages,
which will not certainly be gained, and of which the acquisition, if it
were sure, is necessarily distant.

Pleyel was enamoured of his scheme on account of its intrinsic benefits,
but, likewise, for other reasons. His abode at Leipsig made that country
appear to him like home. He was connected with this place by many social
ties. While there he had not escaped the amorous contagion. But the
lady, though her heart was impressed in his favor, was compelled to
bestow her hand upon another. Death had removed this impediment, and
he was now invited by the lady herself to return. This he was of course
determined to do, but was anxious to obtain the company of Wieland;
he could not bear to think of an eternal separation from his present
associates. Their interest, he thought, would be no less promoted by the
change than his own. Hence he was importunate and indefatigable 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 concealed from us his purpose. If Wieland were
previously enlisted in his cause, he would find it a less difficult task
to overcome our aversion. My brother was silent on this subject, because
he believed himself in no danger of changing his opinion, and he was
willing to save us from any uneasiness. The mere mention of such
a scheme, and the possibility of his embracing it, he knew, would
considerably impair our tranquillity.

One day, about three weeks subsequent to the mysterious call, it was
agreed that the family should be my guests. Seldom had a day been passed
by us, of more serene enjoyment. Pleyel had promised us his company, but
we did not see him till the sun had nearly declined. He brought with
him a countenance that betokened disappointment and vexation. He did not
wait for our inquiries, but immediately explained the cause. Two days
before a packet had arrived from Hamburgh, by which he had flattered
himself with the expectation of receiving letters, but no letters had
arrived. I never saw him so much subdued by an untoward event. His
thoughts were employed in accounting for the silence of his friends.
He was seized with the torments of jealousy, and suspected nothing less
than the infidelity of her to whom he had devoted his heart. The silence
must have been concerted. Her sickness, or absence, or death, would have
increased the certainty of some one's having written. No supposition
could be formed but that his mistress had grown indifferent, or that she
had transferred her affections to another. The miscarriage of a letter
was hardly within the reach of possibility. From Leipsig to Hamburgh,
and from Hamburgh hither, the conveyance was exposed to no hazard.

He had been so long detained in America chiefly in consequence of
Wieland's aversion to the scheme which he proposed. He now became more
impatient than ever to return to Europe. When he reflected that, by his
delays, he had probably forfeited the affections of his mistress, his
sensations amounted to agony. It only remained, by his speedy departure,
to repair, if possible, or prevent so intolerable an evil. Already he
had half resolved to embark in this very ship which, he was informed,
would set out in a few weeks on her return.

Meanwhile he determined to make a new attempt to shake the resolution of
Wieland. The evening was somewhat advanced when he invited the latter
to walk abroad with him. The invitation was accepted, and they left
Catharine, Louisa and me, to amuse ourselves by the best means in our
power. During this walk, Pleyel renewed the subject that was nearest
his heart. He re-urged all his former arguments, and placed them in more
forcible lights.

They promised to return shortly; but hour after hour passed, and they
made not their appearance. Engaged in sprightly conversation, it was not
till the clock struck twelve that we were reminded of the lapse of time.
The absence of our friends excited some uneasy apprehensions. We were
expressing our fears, and comparing our conjectures as to what might be
the cause, when they entered together. There were indications in their
countenances that struck me mute. These were unnoticed by Catharine, who
was eager to express her surprize and curiosity at the length of their
walk. As they listened to her, I remarked that their surprize was not
less than ours. They gazed in silence on each other, and on her. I
watched their looks, but could not understand the emotions that were
written in them.

These appearances diverted Catharine's inquiries into a new channel.
What did they mean, she asked, by their silence, and by their thus
gazing wildly at each other, and at her? Pleyel profited by this hint,
and assuming an air of indifference, framed some trifling excuse, at the
same time darting significant glances at Wieland, as if to caution him
against disclosing the truth. My brother said nothing, but delivered
himself up to meditation. I likewise was silent, but burned with
impatience to fathom this mystery. Presently my brother and his wife,
and Louisa, returned home. Pleyel proposed, of his own accord, to be
my guest for the night. This circumstance, in addition to those which
preceded, gave new edge to my wonder.

As soon as we were left alone, Pleyel's countenance assumed an air of
seriousness, and even consternation, which I had never before beheld in
him. The steps with which he measured the floor betokened the trouble of
his thoughts. My inquiries were suspended by the hope that he would give
me the information that I wanted without the importunity of questions.
I waited some time, but the confusion of his thoughts appeared in no
degree to abate. At length I mentioned the apprehensions which their
unusual absence had occasioned, and which were increased by their
behaviour since their return, and solicited an explanation. He stopped
when I began to speak, and looked stedfastly at me. When I had done,
he said, to me, in a tone which faultered through the vehemence of his
emotions, "How were you employed during our absence?" "In turning over
the Della Crusca dictionary, and talking on different subjects; but
just before your entrance, we were tormenting ourselves with omens and
prognosticks relative to your absence." "Catharine was with you the
whole time?" "Yes." "But are you sure?" "Most sure. She was not absent a
moment." He stood, for a time, as if to assure himself of my sincerity.
Then, clinching his hands, and wildly lifting them above his head, "Lo,"
cried he, "I have news to tell you. The Baroness de Stolberg is dead?"

This was her whom he loved. I was not surprised at the agitations which
he betrayed. "But how was the information procured? How was the truth
of this news connected with the circumstance of Catharine's remaining in
our company?" He was for some time inattentive to my questions. When he
spoke, it seemed merely a continuation of the reverie into which he had
been plunged.

"And yet it might be a mere deception. But could both of us in that
case have been deceived? A rare and prodigious coincidence! Barely not
impossible. And yet, if the accent be oracular--Theresa is dead. No,
no," continued he, covering his face with his hands, and in a tone half
broken into sobs, "I cannot believe it. She has not written, but if
she were dead, the faithful Bertrand would have given me the earliest
information. And yet if he knew his master, he must have easily guessed
at the effect of such tidings. In pity to me he was silent."

"Clara, forgive me; to you, this behaviour is mysterious. I will explain
as well as I am able. But say not a word to Catharine. Her strength of
mind is inferior to your's. She will, besides, have more reason to be
startled. She is Wieland's angel."

Pleyel proceeded to inform me, for the first time, of the scheme which
he had pressed, with so much earnestness, on my brother. He enumerated
the objections which had been made, and the industry with which he
had endeavoured to confute them. He mentioned the effect upon his
resolutions produced by the failure of a letter. "During our late walk,"
continued he, "I introduced the subject that was nearest my heart.
I re-urged all my former arguments, and placed them in more forcible
lights. Wieland was still refractory. He expatiated on the perils of
wealth and power, on the sacredness of conjugal and parental duties, and
the happiness of mediocrity.

"No wonder that the time passed, unperceived, away. Our whole souls were
engaged in this cause. Several times we came to the foot of the rock;
as soon as we perceived it, we changed our course, but never failed to
terminate our circuitous and devious ramble at this spot. At length your
brother observed, 'We seem to be led hither by a kind of fatality. Since
we are so near, let us ascend and rest ourselves a while. If you are not
weary of this argument we will resume it there.'

"I tacitly consented. We mounted the stairs, and drawing the sofa in
front of the river, we seated ourselves upon it. I took up the thread of
our discourse where we had dropped it. I ridiculed his dread of the sea,
and his attachment to home. I kept on in this strain, so congenial with
my disposition, for some time, uninterrupted by him. At length, he said
to me, "Suppose now that I, whom argument has not convinced, should
yield to ridicule, and should agree that your scheme is eligible; what
will you have gained? Nothing. You have other enemies beside myself to
encounter. When you have vanquished me, your toil has scarcely begun.
There are my sister and wife, with whom it will remain for you to
maintain the contest. And trust me, they are adversaries whom all your
force and stratagem will never subdue." I insinuated that they would
model themselves by his will: that Catharine would think obedience her
duty. He answered, with some quickness, "You mistake. Their concurrence
is indispensable. It is not my custom to exact sacrifices of this kind.
I live to be their protector and friend, and not their tyrant and foe.
If my wife shall deem her happiness, and that of her children, most
consulted by remaining where she is, here she shall remain." "But," said
I, "when she knows your pleasure, will she not conform to it?" Before
my friend had time to answer this question, a negative was clearly and
distinctly uttered from another quarter. It did not come from one side
or the other, from before us or behind. Whence then did it come? By
whose organs was it fashioned?

"If any uncertainty had existed with regard to these particulars, it
would have been removed by a deliberate and equally distinct repetition
of the same monosyllable, "No." The voice was my sister's. It appeared
to come from the roof. I started from my seat. Catharine, exclaimed I,
where are you? No answer was returned. I searched the room, and the
area before it, but in vain. Your brother was motionless in his seat.
I returned to him, and placed myself again by his side. My astonishment
was not less than his."

"Well," said he, at length, "What think you of this? This is the
self-same voice which I formerly heard; you are now convinced that my
ears were well informed."

"Yes," said I, "this, it is plain, is no fiction of the fancy." We again
sunk into mutual and thoughtful silence. A recollection of the hour, and
of the length of our absence, made me at last propose to return. We
rose up for this purpose. In doing this, my mind reverted to the
contemplation of my own condition. "Yes," said I aloud, but without
particularly addressing myself to Wieland, "my resolution is taken. I
cannot hope to prevail with my friends to accompany me. They may doze
away their days on the banks of Schuylkill, but as to me, I go in the
next vessel; I will fly to her presence, and demand the reason of this
extraordinary silence."

"I had scarcely finished the sentence, when the same mysterious voice
exclaimed, "You shall not go. The seal of death is on her lips. Her
silence is the silence of the tomb." Think of the effects which accents
like these must have had upon me. I shuddered as I listened. As soon as
I recovered from my first amazement, "Who is it that speaks?" said I,
"whence did you procure these dismal tidings?" I did not wait long for
an answer. "From a source that cannot fail. Be satisfied. She is dead."
You may justly be surprised, that, in the circumstances in which I heard
the tidings, and notwithstanding the mystery which environed him by whom
they were imparted, I could give an undivided attention to the facts,
which were the subject of our dialogue. I eagerly inquired, when and
where did she die? What was the cause of her death? Was her death
absolutely certain? An answer was returned only to the last of these
questions. "Yes," was pronounced by the same voice; but it now sounded
from a greater distance, and the deepest silence was all the return made
to my subsequent interrogatories.

"It was my sister's voice; but it could not be uttered by her; and yet,
if not by her, by whom was it uttered? When we returned hither, and
discovered you together, the doubt that had previously existed was
removed. It was manifest that the intimation came not from her. Yet if
not from her, from whom could it come? Are the circumstances attending
the imparting of this news proof that the tidings are true? God forbid
that they should be true."

Here Pleyel sunk into anxious silence, and gave me leisure to ruminate
on this inexplicable event. I am at a loss to describe the sensations
that affected me. I am not fearful of shadows. The tales of apparitions
and enchantments did not possess that power over my belief which could
even render them interesting. I saw nothing in them but ignorance and
folly, and was a stranger even to that terror which is pleasing. But
this incident was different from any that I had ever before known. Here
were proofs of a sensible and intelligent existence, which could not
be denied. Here was information obtained and imparted by means
unquestionably super-human.

That there are conscious beings, beside ourselves, in existence, whose
modes of activity and information surpass our own, can scarcely be
denied. Is there a glimpse afforded us into a world of these superior
beings? My heart was scarcely large enough to give admittance to
so swelling a thought. An awe, the sweetest and most solemn that
imagination can conceive, pervaded my whole frame. It forsook me not
when I parted from Pleyel and retired to my chamber. An impulse was
given to my spirits utterly incompatible with sleep. I passed the night
wakeful and full of meditation. I was impressed with the belief of
mysterious, but not of malignant agency. Hitherto nothing had occurred
to persuade me that this airy minister was busy to evil rather than to
good purposes. On the contrary, the idea of superior virtue had always
been associated in my mind with that of superior power. The warnings
that had thus been heard appeared to have been prompted by beneficent
intentions. My brother had been hindered by this voice from ascending
the hill. He was told that danger lurked in his path, and his obedience
to the intimation had perhaps saved him from a destiny similar to that
of my father.

Pleyel had been rescued from tormenting uncertainty, and from the
hazards and fatigues of a fruitless voyage, by the same interposition.
It had assured him of the death of his Theresa.

This woman was then dead. A confirmation of the tidings, if true, would
speedily arrive. Was this confirmation to be deprecated or desired?
By her death, the tie that attached him to Europe, was taken away.
Henceforward every motive would combine to retain him in his native
country, and we were rescued from the deep regrets that would accompany
his hopeless absence from us. Propitious was the spirit that imparted
these tidings. Propitious he would perhaps have been, if he had been
instrumental in producing, as well as in communicating the tidings of
her death. Propitious to us, the friends of Pleyel, to whom has thereby
been secured the enjoyment of his society; and not unpropitious to
himself; for though this object of his love be snatched away, is there
not another who is able and willing to console him for her loss?

Twenty days after this, another vessel arrived from the same port. In
this interval, Pleyel, for the most part, estranged himself from his old
companions. He was become the prey of a gloomy and unsociable grief.
His walks were limited to the bank of the Delaware. This bank is an
artificial one. Reeds and the river are on one side, and a watery marsh
on the other, in that part which bounded his lands, and which extended
from the mouth of Hollander's creek to that of Schuylkill. No scene can
be imagined less enticing to a lover of the picturesque than this. The
shore is deformed with mud, and incumbered with a forest of reeds. The
fields, in most seasons, are mire; but when they afford a firm footing,
the ditches by which they are bounded and intersected, are mantled with
stagnating green, and emit the most noxious exhalations. Health is no
less a stranger to those seats than pleasure. Spring and autumn are sure
to be accompanied with agues and bilious remittents.

The scenes which environed our dwellings at Mettingen constituted the
reverse of this. Schuylkill was here a pure and translucid current,
broken into wild and ceaseless music by rocky points, murmuring on a
sandy margin, and reflecting on its surface, banks of all varieties of
height and degrees of declivity. These banks were chequered by patches
of dark verdure and shapeless masses of white marble, and crowned by
copses of cedar, or by the regular magnificence of orchards, which, at
this season, were in blossom, and were prodigal of odours. The ground
which receded from the river was scooped into valleys and dales. Its
beauties were enhanced by the horticultural skill of my brother, who
bedecked this exquisite assemblage of slopes and risings with every
species of vegetable ornament, from the giant arms of the oak to the
clustering tendrils of the honey-suckle.

To screen him from the unwholesome airs of his own residence, it had
been proposed to Pleyel to spend the months of spring with us. He had
apparently acquiesced in this proposal; but the late event induced him
to change his purpose. He was only to be seen by visiting him in his
retirements. His gaiety had flown, and every passion was absorbed in
eagerness to procure tidings from Saxony. I have mentioned the arrival
of another vessel from the Elbe. He descried her early one morning as
he was passing along the skirt of the river. She was easily recognized,
being the ship in which he had performed his first voyage to Germany.
He immediately went on board, but found no letters directed to him.
This omission was, in some degree, compensated by meeting with an old
acquaintance among the passengers, who had till lately been a resident
in Leipsig. This person put an end to all suspense respecting the fate
of Theresa, by relating the particulars of her death and funeral.

Thus was the truth of the former intimation attested. No longer devoured
by suspense, the grief of Pleyel was not long in yielding to the
influence of society. He gave himself up once more to our company. His
vivacity had indeed been damped; but even in this respect he was a more
acceptable companion than formerly, since his seriousness was neither
incommunicative nor sullen.

These incidents, for a time, occupied all our thoughts. In me they
produced a sentiment not unallied to pleasure, and more speedily than in
the case of my friends were intermixed with other topics. My brother was
particularly affected by them. It was easy to perceive that most of his
meditations were tinctured from this source. To this was to be ascribed
a design in which his pen was, at this period, engaged, of collecting
and investigating the facts which relate to that mysterious personage,
the Daemon of Socrates.

My brother's skill in Greek and Roman learning was exceeded by that of
few, and no doubt the world would have accepted a treatise upon this
subject from his hand with avidity; but alas! this and every other
scheme of felicity and honor, were doomed to sudden blast and hopeless
extermination.



Chapter VI


I now come to the mention of a person with whose name the most turbulent
sensations are connected. It is with a shuddering reluctance that I
enter on the province of describing him. Now it is that I begin to
perceive the difficulty of the task which I have undertaken; but it
would be weakness to shrink from it. My blood is congealed: and my
fingers are palsied when I call up his image. Shame upon my cowardly and
infirm heart! Hitherto I have proceeded with some degree of composure,
but now I must pause. I mean not that dire remembrance shall subdue my
courage or baffle my design, but this weakness cannot be immediately
conquered. I must desist for a little while.

I have taken a few turns in my chamber, and have gathered strength
enough to proceed. Yet have I not projected a task beyond my power to
execute? If thus, on the very threshold of the scene, my knees faulter
and I sink, how shall I support myself, when I rush into the midst of
horrors such as no heart has hitherto conceived, nor tongue related? I
sicken and recoil at the prospect, and yet my irresolution is momentary.
I have not formed this design upon slight grounds, and though I may at
times pause and hesitate, I will not be finally diverted from it.

And thou, O most fatal and potent of mankind, in what terms shall I
describe thee? What words are adequate to the just delineation of thy
character? How shall I detail the means which rendered the secrecy of
thy purposes unfathomable? But I will not anticipate. Let me recover
if possible, a sober strain. Let me keep down the flood of passion that
would render me precipitate or powerless. Let me stifle the agonies that
are awakened by thy name. Let me, for a time, regard thee as a being
of no terrible attributes. Let me tear myself from contemplation of
the evils of which it is but too certain that thou wast the author, and
limit my view to those harmless appearances which attended thy entrance
on the stage.

One sunny afternoon, I was standing in the door of my house, when I
marked a person passing close to the edge of the bank that was in
front. His pace was a careless and lingering one, and had none of that
gracefulness and ease which distinguish a person with certain advantages
of education from a clown. His gait was rustic and aukward. His form was
ungainly and disproportioned. Shoulders broad and square, breast sunken,
his head drooping, his body of uniform breadth, supported by long and
lank legs, were the ingredients of his frame. His garb was not ill
adapted to such a figure. A slouched hat, tarnished by the weather, a
coat of thick grey cloth, cut and wrought, as it seemed, by a country
tailor, blue worsted stockings, and shoes fastened by thongs, and deeply
discoloured by dust, which brush had never disturbed, constituted his
dress.

There was nothing remarkable in these appearances; they were frequently
to be met with on the road, and in the harvest field. I cannot tell why
I gazed upon them, on this occasion, with more than ordinary attention,
unless it were that such figures were seldom seen by me, except on the
road or field. This lawn was only traversed by men whose views were
directed to the pleasures of the walk, or the grandeur of the scenery.

He passed slowly along, frequently pausing, as if to examine the
prospect more deliberately, but never turning his eye towards the house,
so as to allow me a view of his countenance. Presently, he entered a
copse at a small distance, and disappeared. My eye followed him while
he remained in sight. If his image remained for any duration in my fancy
after his departure, it was because no other object occurred sufficient
to expel it.

I continued in the same spot for half an hour, vaguely, and by fits,
contemplating the image of this wanderer, and drawing, from outward
appearances, those inferences with respect to the intellectual history
of this person, which experience affords us. I reflected on the
alliance which commonly subsists between ignorance and the practice
of agriculture, and indulged myself in airy speculations as to the
influence of progressive knowledge in dissolving this alliance, and
embodying the dreams of the poets. I asked why the plough and the hoe
might not become the trade of every human being, and how this
trade might be made conducive to, or, at least, consistent with the
acquisition of wisdom and eloquence.

Weary with these reflections, I returned to the kitchen to perform some
household office. I had usually but one servant, and she was a girl
about my own age. I was busy near the chimney, and she was employed near
the door of the apartment, when some one knocked. The door was opened by
her, and she was immediately addressed with "Pry'thee, good girl, canst
thou supply a thirsty man with a glass of buttermilk?" She answered
that there was none in the house. "Aye, but there is some in the dairy
yonder. Thou knowest as well as I, though Hermes never taught thee, that
though every dairy be an house, every house is not a dairy." To
this speech, though she understood only a part of it, she replied
by repeating her assurances, that she had none to give. "Well then,"
rejoined the stranger, "for charity's sweet sake, hand me forth a cup
of cold water." The girl said she would go to the spring and fetch it.
"Nay, give me the cup, and suffer me to help myself. Neither manacled
nor lame, I should merit burial in the maw of carrion crows, if I laid
this task upon thee." She gave him the cup, and he turned to go to the
spring.

I listened to this dialogue in silence. The words uttered by the person
without, affected me as somewhat singular, but what chiefly rendered
them remarkable, was the tone that accompanied them. It was wholly new.
My brother's voice and Pleyel's were musical and energetic. I had fondly
imagined, that, in this respect, they were surpassed by none. Now my
mistake was detected. I cannot pretend to communicate the impression
that was made upon me by these accents, or to depict the degree in which
force and sweetness were blended in them. They were articulated with a
distinctness that was unexampled in my experience. But this was not all.
The voice was not only mellifluent and clear, but the emphasis was so
just, and the modulation so impassioned, that it seemed as if an heart
of stone could not fail of being moved by it. It imparted to me an
emotion altogether involuntary and incontroulable. When he uttered the
words "for charity's sweet sake," I dropped the cloth that I held in
my hand, my heart overflowed with sympathy, and my eyes with unbidden
tears.

This description will appear to you trifling or incredible. The
importance of these circumstances will be manifested in the sequel.
The manner in which I was affected on this occasion, was, to my own
apprehension, a subject of astonishment. The tones were indeed such as
I never heard before; but that they should, in an instant, as 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 inquisitive as to the
person and demeanour of our visitant. After a moment's pause, I stepped
to the door and looked after him. Judge my surprize, when I beheld the
self-same figure that had appeared an half hour before upon the bank. My
fancy had conjured up a very different image. A form, and attitude, and
garb, were instantly created worthy to accompany such elocution; but
this person was, in all visible respects, the reverse of this phantom.
Strange as it may seem, I could not speedily reconcile myself to this
disappointment. Instead of returning to my employment, I threw myself
in a chair that was placed opposite the door, and sunk into a fit of
musing.

My attention was, in a few minutes, recalled by the stranger, who
returned with the empty cup in his hand. I had not thought of the
circumstance, or should certainly have chosen a different seat. He no
sooner shewed himself, than a confused sense of impropriety, added to
the suddenness of the interview, for which, not having foreseen it,
I had made no preparation, threw me into a state of the most painful
embarrassment. He brought with him a placid brow; but no sooner had he
cast his eyes upon me, than his face was as glowingly suffused as
my own. He placed the cup upon the bench, stammered out thanks, and
retired.

It was some time before I could recover my wonted composure. I had
snatched a view of the stranger's countenance. The impression that it
made was vivid and indelible. His cheeks were pallid and lank, his eyes
sunken, his forehead overshadowed by coarse straggling hairs, his teeth
large and irregular, though sound and brilliantly white, and his chin
discoloured by a tetter. His skin was of coarse grain, and sallow hue.
Every feature was wide of beauty, and the outline of his face reminded
you of an inverted cone.

And yet his forehead, so far as shaggy locks would allow it to be seen,
his eyes lustrously black, and possessing, in the midst of haggardness,
a radiance inexpressibly serene and potent, and something in the rest of
his features, which it would be in vain to describe, but which served to
betoken a mind of the highest order, were essential ingredients in the
portrait. This, in the effects which immediately flowed from it, I count
among the most extraordinary incidents of my life. This face, seen for
a moment, continued for hours to occupy my fancy, to the exclusion of
almost every other image. I had purposed to spend the evening with my
brother, but I could not resist the inclination of forming a sketch
upon paper of this memorable visage. Whether my hand was aided by any
peculiar inspiration, or I was deceived by my own fond conceptions, this
portrait, though hastily executed, appeared unexceptionable to my own
taste.

I placed it at all distances, and in all lights; my eyes were rivetted
upon it. Half the night passed away in wakefulness and in contemplation
of this picture. So flexible, and yet so stubborn, is the human mind.
So obedient to impulses the most transient and brief, and yet so
unalterably observant of the direction which is given to it! How little
did I then foresee the termination of that chain, of which this may be
regarded as the first link?

Next day arose in darkness and storm. Torrents of rain fell during
the whole day, attended with incessant thunder, which reverberated in
stunning echoes from the opposite declivity. The inclemency of the air
would not allow me to walk out. I had, indeed, no inclination to leave
my apartment. I betook myself to the contemplation of this portrait,
whose attractions time had rather enhanced than diminished. I laid aside
my usual occupations, and seating myself at a window, consumed the day
in alternately looking out upon the storm, and gazing at the picture
which lay upon a table before me. You will, perhaps, deem this conduct
somewhat singular, and ascribe it to certain peculiarities of temper. I
am not aware of any such peculiarities. I can account for my devotion to
this image no otherwise, than by supposing that its properties were
rare and prodigious. Perhaps you will suspect that such were the
first inroads of a passion incident to every female heart, and
which frequently gains a footing by means even more slight, and more
improbable than these. I shall not controvert the reasonableness of the
suspicion, but leave you at liberty to draw, from my narrative, what
conclusions you please.

Night at length returned, and the storm ceased. The air was once more
clear and calm, and bore an affecting contrast to that uproar of the
elements by which it had been preceded. I spent the darksome hours, as
I spent the day, contemplative and seated at the window. Why was my mind
absorbed in thoughts ominous and dreary? Why did my bosom heave with
sighs, and my eyes overflow with tears? Was the tempest that had just
past a signal of the ruin which impended over me? My soul fondly dwelt
upon the images of my brother and his children, yet they only increased
the mournfulness of my contemplations. The smiles of the charming babes
were as bland as formerly. The same dignity sat on the brow of their
father, and yet I thought of them with anguish. Something whispered
that the happiness we at present enjoyed was set on mutable foundations.
Death must happen to all. Whether our felicity was to be subverted by it
to-morrow, or whether it was ordained that we should lay down our heads
full of years and of honor, was a question that no human being could
solve. At other times, these ideas seldom intruded. I either forbore to
reflect upon the destiny that is reserved for all men, or the reflection
was mixed up with images that disrobed it of terror; but now the
uncertainty of life occurred to me without any of its usual and
alleviating accompaniments. I said to myself, we must die. Sooner or
later, we must disappear for ever from the face of the earth. Whatever
be the links that hold us to life, they must be broken. This scene
of existence is, in all its parts, calamitous. The greater number is
oppressed with immediate evils, and those, the tide of whose fortunes is
full, how small is their portion of enjoyment, since they know that it
will terminate.

For some time I indulged myself, without reluctance, in these gloomy
thoughts; but at length, the dejection which they produced became
insupportably painful. I endeavoured to dissipate it with music. I had
all my grand-father's melody as well as poetry by rote. I now lighted
by chance on a ballad, which commemorated the fate of a German Cavalier,
who fell at the siege of Nice under Godfrey of Bouillon. My choice was
unfortunate, for the scenes of violence and carnage which were here
wildly but forcibly pourtrayed, only suggested to my thoughts a new
topic in the horrors of war.

I sought refuge, but ineffectually, in sleep. My mind was thronged by
vivid, but confused images, and no effort that I made was sufficient to
drive them away. In this situation I heard the clock, which hung in
the room, give the signal for twelve. It was the same instrument which
formerly hung in my father's chamber, and which, on account of its
being his workmanship, was regarded, by every one of our family, with
veneration. It had fallen to me, in the division of his property, and
was placed in this asylum. The sound awakened a series of reflections,
respecting his death. I was not allowed to pursue them; for scarcely
had the vibrations ceased, when my attention was attracted by a whisper,
which, at first, appeared to proceed from lips that were laid close to
my ear.

No wonder that a circumstance like this startled me. In the first
impulse of my terror, I uttered a slight scream, and shrunk to the
opposite side of the bed. In a moment, however, I recovered from my
trepidation. I was habitually indifferent to all the causes of fear,
by which the majority are afflicted. I entertained no apprehension
of either ghosts or robbers. Our security had never been molested by
either, and I made use of no means to prevent or counterwork their
machinations. My tranquillity, on this occasion, was quickly retrieved.
The whisper evidently proceeded from one who was posted at my bed-side.
The first idea that suggested itself was, that it was uttered by the
girl who lived with me as a servant. Perhaps, somewhat had alarmed her,
or she was sick, and had come to request my assistance. By whispering in
my ear, she intended to rouse without alarming me.

Full of this persuasion, I called; "Judith," said I, "is it you? What
do you want? Is there any thing the matter with you?" No answer was
returned. I repeated my inquiry, but equally in vain. Cloudy as was the
atmosphere, and curtained as my bed was, nothing was visible. I withdrew
the curtain, and leaning my head on my elbow, I listened with the
deepest attention to catch some new sound. Meanwhile, I ran over in my
thoughts, every circumstance that could assist my conjectures.

My habitation was a wooden edifice, consisting of two stories. In each
story were two rooms, separated by an entry, or middle passage, with
which they communicated by opposite doors. The passage, on the lower
story, had doors at the two ends, and a stair-case. Windows answered to
the doors on the upper story. Annexed to this, on the eastern side, were
wings, divided, in like manner, into an upper and lower room; one of
them comprized a kitchen, and chamber above it for the servant, and
communicated, on both stories, with the parlour adjoining it below,
and the chamber adjoining it above. The opposite wing is of smaller
dimensions, the rooms not being above eight feet square. The lower of
these was used as a depository of household implements, the upper was a
closet in which I deposited my books and papers. They had but one inlet,
which was from the room adjoining. There was no window in the lower one,
and in the upper, a small aperture which communicated light and air, but
would scarcely admit the body. The door which led into this, was close
to my bed-head, and was always locked, but when I myself was within. The
avenues below were accustomed to be closed and bolted at nights.

The maid was my only companion, and she could not reach my chamber
without previously passing through the opposite chamber, and the middle
passage, of which, however, the doors were usually unfastened. If she
had occasioned this noise, she would have answered my repeated calls.
No other conclusion, therefore, was left me, but that I had mistaken the
sounds, and that my imagination had transformed some casual noise into
the voice of a human creature. Satisfied with this solution, I was
preparing to relinquish my listening attitude, when my ear was again
saluted with a new and yet louder whispering. It appeared, as before,
to issue from lips that touched my pillow. A second effort of attention,
however, clearly shewed me, that the sounds issued from within the
closet, the door of which was not more than eight inches from my pillow.

This second interruption occasioned a shock less vehement than the
former. I started, but gave no audible token of alarm. I was so much
mistress of my feelings, as to continue listening to what should be
said. The whisper was distinct, hoarse, and uttered so as to shew that
the speaker was desirous of being heard by some one near, but, at the
same time, studious to avoid being overheard by any other.

"Stop, stop, I say; madman as you are! there are better means than that.
Curse upon your rashness! There is no need to shoot."

Such were the words uttered in a tone of eagerness and anger, within so
small a distance of my pillow. What construction could I put upon
them? My heart began to palpitate with dread of some unknown danger.
Presently, another voice, but equally near me, was heard whispering in
answer. "Why not? I will draw a trigger in this business, but perdition
be my lot if I do more." To this, the first voice returned, in a tone
which rage had heightened in a small degree above a whisper, "Coward!
stand aside, and see me do it. I will grasp her throat; I will do her
business in an instant; she shall not have time so much as to groan."
What wonder that I was petrified by sounds so dreadful! Murderers
lurked in my closet. They were planning the means of my destruction. One
resolved to shoot, and the other menaced suffocation. Their means being
chosen, they would forthwith break the door. Flight instantly suggested
itself as most eligible in circumstances so perilous. I deliberated not
a moment; but, fear adding wings to my speed, I leaped out of bed, and
scantily 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 impulse. I stopped not till I reached my brother's door.
I had not gained the threshold, when, exhausted by the violence of my
emotions, and by my speed, I sunk down in a fit.

How long I remained in this situation I know not. When I recovered, I
found myself stretched on a bed, surrounded by my sister and her
female servants. I was astonished at the scene before me, but gradually
recovered the recollection of what had happened. I answered their
importunate inquiries as well as I was able. My brother and Pleyel,
whom the storm of the preceding day chanced to detain here, informing
themselves of every particular, proceeded with lights and weapons to my
deserted habitation. They entered my chamber and my closet, and found
every thing in its proper place and customary order. The door of the
closet was locked, and appeared not to have been opened in my absence.
They went to Judith's apartment. They found her asleep and in safety.
Pleyel's caution induced him to forbear alarming the girl; and finding
her wholly ignorant of what had passed, they directed her to return to
her chamber. They then fastened the doors, and returned.

My friends were disposed to regard this transaction as a dream. That
persons should be actually immured in this closet, to which, in the
circumstances of the time, access from without or within was apparently
impossible, they could not seriously believe. That any human beings
had intended murder, unless it were to cover a scheme of pillage, was
incredible; but that no such design had been formed, was evident
from the security in which the furniture of the house and the closet
remained.

I revolved every incident and expression that had occurred. My
senses assured me of the truth of them, and yet their abruptness and
improbability made me, in my turn, somewhat incredulous. The adventure
had made a deep impression on my fancy, and it was not till after a
week's abode at my brother's, that I resolved to resume the possession
of my own dwelling. There was another circumstance that enhanced the
mysteriousness of this event. After my recovery it was obvious to
inquire by what means the attention of the family had been drawn to my
situation. I had fallen before I had reached the threshold, or was able
to give any signal. My brother related, that while this was transacting
in my chamber, he himself was awake, in consequence of some slight
indisposition, and lay, according to his custom, musing on some favorite
topic. Suddenly the silence, which was remarkably profound, was broken
by a voice of most piercing shrillness, that seemed to be uttered by one
in the hall below his chamber. "Awake! arise!" it exclaimed: "hasten to
succour one that is dying at your door."

This summons was effectual. There was no one in the house who was not
roused by it. Pleyel was the first to obey, and my brother overtook him
before he reached the hall. What was the general astonishment when your
friend was discovered stretched upon the grass before the door, pale,
ghastly, and with every mark of death!

This was the third instance of a voice, exerted for the benefit of this
little community. The agent was no less inscrutable in this, than in the
former case. When I ruminated upon these events, my soul was suspended
in wonder and awe. Was I really deceived in imagining that I heard the
closet conversation? I was no longer at liberty to question the reality
of those accents which had formerly recalled my brother from the hill;
which had imparted tidings of the death of the German lady to Pleyel;
and which had lately summoned them to my assistance.

But how was I to regard this midnight conversation? Hoarse and manlike
voices conferring on the means of death, so near my bed, and at such
an hour! How had my ancient security vanished! That dwelling, which had
hitherto been an inviolate asylum, was now beset with danger to my
life. That solitude, formerly so dear to me, could no longer be endured.
Pleyel, who had consented to reside with us during the months of spring,
lodged in the vacant chamber, in order to quiet my alarms. He treated
my fears with ridicule, and in a short time very slight traces of them
remained: but as it was wholly indifferent to him whether his nights
were passed at my house or at my brother's, this arrangement gave
general satisfaction.



Chapter VII


I will not enumerate the various inquiries and conjectures which these
incidents occasioned. After all our efforts, we came no nearer to
dispelling the mist in which they were involved; and time, instead of
facilitating a solution, only accumulated our doubts. In the midst of
thoughts excited by these events, I was not unmindful of my interview
with the stranger. I related the particulars, and shewed the portrait to
my friends. Pleyel recollected to have met with a figure resembling
my description in the city; but neither his face or garb made the same
impression upon him that it made upon me. It was a hint to rally me upon
my prepossessions, and to amuse us with a thousand ludicrous anecdotes
which he had collected in his travels. He made no scruple to charge me
with being in love; and threatened to inform the swain, when he met him,
of his good fortune.

Pleyel's temper made him susceptible of no durable impressions. His
conversation was occasionally visited by gleams of his ancient vivacity;
but, though 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 considerable space upward,
so rugged and steep as not to be easily descended. In a recess of this
declivity, near the southern verge of my little demesne, was placed a
slight building, with seats and lattices. From a crevice of the rock,
to which this edifice was attached, there burst forth a stream of the
purest water, which, leaping from ledge to ledge, for the space of sixty
feet, produced a freshness in the air, and a murmur, the most delicious
and soothing imaginable. These, added to the odours of the cedars
which embowered it, and of the honey-suckle which clustered among the
lattices, rendered this my favorite retreat in summer.

On this occasion I repaired hither. My spirits drooped through the
fatigue of long attention, and I threw myself upon a bench, in a state,
both mentally and personally, of the utmost supineness. The lulling
sounds of the waterfall, the fragrance and the dusk combined to becalm
my spirits, and, in a short time, to sink me into sleep. Either the
uneasiness of my posture, or some slight indisposition molested my
repose with dreams of no cheerful hue. After various incoherences
had taken their turn to occupy my fancy, I at length imagined myself
walking, in the evening twilight, to my brother's habitation. A pit,
methought, had been dug in the path I had taken, of which I was not
aware. As I carelessly pursued my walk, I thought I saw my brother,
standing at some distance before me, beckoning and calling me to make
haste. He stood on the opposite edge of the gulph. I mended my pace, and
one step more would have plunged me into this abyss, had not some
one from behind caught suddenly my arm, and exclaimed, in a voice of
eagerness and terror, "Hold! hold!"

The sound broke my sleep, and I found myself, at the next moment,
standing on my feet, and surrounded by the deepest darkness. Images
so terrific and forcible disabled me, for a time, from distinguishing
between sleep and wakefulness, and withheld from me the knowledge of my
actual condition. My first panics were succeeded by the perturbations of
surprize, to find myself alone in the open air, and immersed in so deep
a gloom. I slowly recollected the incidents of the afternoon, and how
I came hither. I could not estimate the time, but saw the propriety of
returning with speed to the house. My faculties were still too confused,
and the darkness too intense, to allow me immediately to find my way up
the steep. I sat down, therefore, to recover myself, and to reflect upon
my situation.

This was no sooner done, than a low voice was heard from behind the
lattice, on the side where I sat. Between the rock and the lattice was a
chasm not wide enough to admit a human body; yet, in this chasm he that
spoke appeared to be stationed. "Attend! attend! but be not terrified."

I started and exclaimed, "Good heavens! what is that? Who are you?"

"A friend; one come, not to injure, but to save you; fear nothing."

This voice was immediately recognized to be the same with one of
those which I had heard in the closet; it was the voice of him who had
proposed to shoot, rather than to strangle, his victim. My terror made
me, at once, mute and motionless. He continued, "I leagued to murder
you. I repent. Mark my bidding, and be safe. Avoid this spot. The snares
of death encompass it. Elsewhere danger will be distant; but this spot,
shun it as you value your life. Mark me further; profit by this warning,
but divulge it not. If a syllable of what has passed escape you, your
doom is sealed. Remember your father, and be faithful."

Here the accents ceased, and left me overwhelmed with dismay. I was
fraught with the persuasion, that during every moment I remained here,
my life was endangered; but I could not take a step without hazard of
falling to the bottom of the precipice. The path, leading to the summit,
was short, but rugged and intricate. Even star-light was excluded by the
umbrage, and not the faintest gleam was afforded to guide my steps. What
should I do? To depart or remain was equally and eminently perilous.

In this state of uncertainty, I perceived a ray flit across the gloom
and disappear. Another succeeded, which was stronger, and remained for
a passing moment. It glittered on the shrubs that were scattered at the
entrance, and gleam continued to succeed gleam for a few seconds, till
they, finally, gave place to unintermitted darkness.

The first visitings of this light called up a train of horrors in my
mind; destruction impended over this spot; the voice which I had lately
heard had warned me to retire, and had menaced me with the fate of my
father if I refused. I was desirous, but unable, to obey; these gleams
were such as preluded the stroke by which he fell; the hour, perhaps,
was the same--I shuddered as if I had beheld, suspended over me, the
exterminating sword.

Presently a new and stronger illumination burst through the lattice
on the right hand, and a voice, from the edge of the precipice above,
called out my name. It was Pleyel. Joyfully did I recognize his accents;
but such was the tumult of my thoughts that I had not power to answer
him till he had frequently repeated his summons. I hurried, at length,
from the fatal spot, and, directed by the lanthorn which he bore,
ascended the hill.

Pale and breathless, it was with difficulty I could support myself. He
anxiously inquired into the cause of my affright, and the motive of my
unusual absence. He had returned from my brother's at a late hour, and
was informed by Judith, that I had walked out before sun-set, and had
not yet returned. This intelligence was somewhat alarming. He waited
some time; but, my absence continuing, he had set out in search of me.
He had explored the neighbourhood with the utmost care, but, receiving
no tidings of me, he was preparing to acquaint my brother with this
circumstance, when he recollected the summer-house on the bank, and
conceived it possible that some accident had detained me there. He again
inquired into the cause of this detention, and of that confusion and
dismay which my looks testified.

I told him that I had strolled hither in the afternoon, that sleep had
overtaken me as I sat, and that I had awakened a few minutes before
his arrival. I could tell him no more. In the present impetuosity of my
thoughts, I was almost dubious, whether the pit, into which my brother
had endeavoured to entice me, and the voice that talked through the
lattice, were not parts of the same dream. I remembered, likewise, the
charge of secrecy, and the penalty denounced, if I should rashly divulge
what I had heard. For these reasons, I was silent on that subject, and
shutting myself in my chamber, delivered myself up to contemplation.

What I have related will, no doubt, appear to you a fable. You will
believe that calamity has subverted my reason, and that I am amusing
you with the chimeras of my brain, instead of facts that have really
happened. I shall not be surprized or offended, if these be your
suspicions. I know not, indeed, how you can deny them admission. For, if
to me, the immediate witness, they were fertile of perplexity and doubt,
how must they affect another to whom they are recommended only by
my testimony? It was only by subsequent events, that I was fully and
incontestibly assured of the veracity of my senses.

Meanwhile what was I to think? I had been assured that a design had been
formed against my life. The ruffians had leagued to murder me. Whom had
I offended? Who was there with whom I had ever maintained intercourse,
who was capable of harbouring such atrocious purposes?

My temper was the reverse of cruel and imperious. My heart was touched
with sympathy for the children of misfortune. But this sympathy was not
a barren sentiment. My purse, scanty as it was, was ever open, and my
hands ever active, to relieve distress. Many were the wretches whom
my personal exertions had extricated from want and disease, and who
rewarded me with their gratitude. There was no face which lowered at my
approach, and no lips which uttered imprecations in my hearing. On the
contrary, there was none, over whose fate I had exerted any influence,
or to whom I was known by reputation, who did not greet me with smiles,
and dismiss me with proofs of veneration; yet did not my senses assure
me that a plot was laid against my life?

I am not destitute of courage. I have shewn myself deliberative and calm
in the midst of peril. I have hazarded my own life, for the preservation
of another, but now was I confused and panic struck. I have not lived
so as to fear death, yet to perish by an unseen and secret stroke, to be
mangled by the knife of an assassin was a thought at which I shuddered;
what had I done to deserve to be made the victim of malignant passions?

But soft! was I not assured, that my life was safe in all places but
one? And why was the treason limited to take effect in this spot? I
was every where equally defenceless. My house and chamber were, at all
times, accessible. Danger still impended over me; the bloody purpose was
still entertained, but the hand that was to execute it, was powerless in
all places but one!

Here I had remained for the last four or five hours, without the means
of resistance or defence, yet I had not been attacked. A human being was
at hand, who was conscious of my presence, and warned me hereafter to
avoid this retreat. His voice was not absolutely new, but had I never
heard it but once before? But why did he prohibit me from relating
this incident to others, and what species of death will be awarded if I
disobey?

He talked of my father. He intimated, that disclosure would pull upon my
head, the same destruction. Was then the death of my father, portentous
and inexplicable as it was, the consequence of human machinations? It
should seem, that this being is apprised of the true nature of this
event, and is conscious of the means that led to it. Whether it shall
likewise fall upon me, depends upon the observance of silence. Was it
the infraction of a similar command, that brought so horrible a penalty
upon my father?

Such were the reflections that haunted me during the night, and which
effectually deprived me of sleep. Next morning, at breakfast, Pleyel
related an event which my disappearance had hindered him from mentioning
the night before. Early the preceding morning, his occasions called him
to the city; he had stepped into a coffee-house to while away an hour;
here he had met a person whose appearance instantly bespoke him to be
the same whose hasty visit I have mentioned, and whose extraordinary
visage and tones had so powerfully affected me. On an attentive survey,
however, he proved, likewise, to be one with whom my friend had had some
intercourse in Europe. This authorised the liberty of accosting him, and
after some conversation, mindful, as Pleyel said, of the footing which
this stranger had gained in my heart, he had ventured to invite him
to Mettingen. The invitation had been cheerfully accepted, and a visit
promised on the afternoon of the next day.

This information excited no sober emotions in my breast. I was, of
course, eager to be informed as to the circumstances of their ancient
intercourse. When, and where had they met? What knew he of the life and
character of this man?

In answer to my inquiries, he informed me that, three years before,
he was a traveller in Spain. He had made an excursion from Valencia to
Murviedro, with a view to inspect the remains of Roman magnificence,
scattered in the environs of that town. While traversing the scite
of the theatre of old Saguntum, he lighted upon this man, seated on a
stone, and deeply engaged in perusing the work of the deacon Marti. A
short conversation ensued, which proved the stranger to be English. They
returned to Valencia together.

His garb, aspect, and deportment, were wholly Spanish. A residence of
three years in the country, indefatigable attention to the language,
and a studious conformity with the customs of the people, had made him
indistinguishable from a native, when he chose to assume that character.
Pleyel found him to be connected, on the footing of friendship and
respect, with many eminent merchants in that city. He had embraced the
catholic religion, and adopted a Spanish name instead of his own, which
was CARWIN, and devoted himself to the literature and religion of his
new country. He pursued no profession, but subsisted on remittances from
England.

While Pleyel remained in Valencia, Carwin betrayed no aversion to
intercourse, and the former found no small attractions in the society of
this new acquaintance. On general topics he was highly intelligent and
communicative. He had visited every corner of Spain, and could furnish
the most accurate details respecting its ancient and present state.
On topics of religion and of his own history, previous to his
_transformation_ into a Spaniard, he was invariably silent. You could
merely gather from his discourse that he was English, and that he was
well acquainted with the neighbouring countries.

His character excited considerable curiosity in this observer. It was
not easy to reconcile his conversion to the Romish faith, with those
proofs of knowledge and capacity that were exhibited by him on different
occasions. A suspicion was, sometimes, admitted, that his belief was
counterfeited for some political purpose. The most careful observation,
however, produced no discovery. His manners were, at all times, harmless
and inartificial, and his habits those of a lover of contemplation and
seclusion. He appeared to have contracted an affection for Pleyel, who
was not slow to return it.

My friend, after a month's residence in this city, returned into France,
and, since that period, had heard nothing concerning Carwin till his
appearance at Mettingen.

On this occasion Carwin had received Pleyel's greeting with a certain
distance and solemnity to which the latter had not been accustomed. He
had waved noticing the inquiries of Pleyel respecting his desertion
of Spain, in which he had formerly declared that it was his purpose to
spend his life. He had assiduously diverted the attention of the latter
to indifferent topics, but was still, on every theme, as eloquent and
judicious as formerly. Why he had assumed the garb of a rustic, Pleyel
was unable to conjecture. Perhaps it might be poverty, perhaps he was
swayed by motives which it was his interest to conceal, but which were
connected with consequences of the utmost moment.

Such was the sum of my friend's information. I was not sorry to be left
alone during the greater part of this day. Every employment was irksome
which did not leave me at liberty to meditate. I had now a new subject
on which to exercise my thoughts. Before evening I should be ushered
into his presence, and listen to those tones whose magical and thrilling
power I had already experienced. But with what new images would he then
be accompanied?

Carwin was an adherent to the Romish faith, yet was an Englishman by
birth, and, perhaps, a protestant by education. He had adopted Spain for
his country, and had intimated a design to spend his days there, yet now
was an inhabitant of this district, and disguised by the habiliments of
a clown! What could have obliterated the impressions of his youth, and
made him abjure his religion and his country? What subsequent events had
introduced so total a change in his plans? In withdrawing from Spain,
had he reverted to the religion of his ancestors; or was it true, that
his former conversion was deceitful, and that his conduct had been
swayed by motives which it was prudent to conceal?

Hours were consumed in revolving these ideas. My meditations were
intense; and, when the series was broken, I began to reflect with
astonishment on my situation. From the death of my parents, till the
commencement of this year, my life had been serene and blissful, beyond
the ordinary portion of humanity; but, now, my bosom was corroded by
anxiety. I was visited by dread of unknown dangers, and the future was
a scene over which clouds rolled, and thunders muttered. I compared the
cause with the effect, and they seemed disproportioned to each other.
All unaware, and in a manner which I had no power to explain, I was
pushed from my immoveable and lofty station, and cast upon a sea of
troubles.

I determined to be my brother's visitant on this evening, yet my
resolves were not unattended with wavering and reluctance. Pleyel's
insinuations that I was in love, affected, in no degree, my belief, yet
the consciousness that this was the opinion of one who would, probably,
be present at our introduction to each other, would 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 exerted
upon this topic, was the source of the bitterest vexation. Had he been
aware of its influence upon my happiness, his temper would not have
allowed him to persist; but this influence, it was my chief endeavour
to conceal. That the belief of my having bestowed my heart upon another,
produced in my friend none but ludicrous sensations, was the true cause
of my distress; but if this had been discovered by him, my distress
would have been unspeakably aggravated.



Chapter VIII


As soon as evening arrived, I performed my visit. Carwin made one of the
company, into which I was ushered. Appearances were the same as when I
before beheld him. His garb was equally negligent and rustic. I gazed
upon his countenance with new curiosity. My situation was such as to
enable me to bestow upon it a deliberate examination. Viewed at more
leisure, it lost none of its wonderful properties. I could not deny my
homage to the intelligence expressed in it, but was wholly uncertain,
whether he were an object to be dreaded or adored, and whether his
powers had been exerted to evil or to good.

He was sparing in discourse; but whatever he said was pregnant with
meaning, and uttered with rectitude of articulation, and force of
emphasis, of which I had entertained no conception previously to my
knowledge of him. Notwithstanding the uncouthness of his garb, his
manners were not unpolished. All topics were 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. Each day introduced us to a more intimate
acquaintance with his sentiments, but left us wholly in the dark,
concerning that about which we were most inquisitive. He studiously
avoided all mention of his past or present situation. Even the place of
his abode in the city he concealed from us.

Our sphere, in this respect, being somewhat limited, and the
intellectual endowments of this man being indisputably great, his
deportment was more diligently marked, and copiously commented on by
us, than you, perhaps, will think the circumstances warranted. Not a
gesture, or glance, or accent, that was not, in our private assemblies,
discussed, and inferences deduced from it. It may well be thought that
he modelled his behaviour by an uncommon standard, when, with all our
opportunities and accuracy of observation, we were able, for a long
time, to gather no satisfactory information. He afforded us no ground on
which to build even a plausible conjecture.

There is a degree of familiarity which takes place between constant
associates, that justifies the negligence of many rules of which, in
an earlier period of their intercourse, politeness requires the exact
observance. Inquiries into our condition are allowable when they are
prompted by a disinterested concern for our welfare; and this solicitude
is not only pardonable, but may justly be demanded from those who chuse
us for their companions. This state of things was more slow to arrive
on this occasion than on most others, on account of the gravity and
loftiness of this man's behaviour.

Pleyel, however, began, at length, to employ regular means for this end.
He occasionally alluded to the circumstances in which they had formerly
met, and remarked the incongruousness between the religion and habits
of a Spaniard, with those of a native of Britain. He expressed
his astonishment at meeting our guest in this corner of the globe,
especially as, when they parted in Spain, he was taught to believe that
Carwin should never leave that country. He insinuated, that a change
so great must have been prompted by motives of a singular and momentous
kind.

No answer, or an answer wide of the purpose, was generally made to these
insinuations. Britons and Spaniards, he said, are votaries of the same
Deity, and square their faith by the same precepts; their ideas are
drawn from the same fountains of literature, and they speak dialects of
the same tongue; their government and laws have more resemblances than
differences; they were formerly provinces of the same civil, and till
lately, of the same religious, Empire.

As to the motives which induce men to change the place of their abode,
these must unavoidably be fleeting and mutable. If not bound to one spot
by conjugal or parental ties, or by the nature of that employment to
which we are indebted for subsistence, the inducements to change are far
more numerous and powerful, than opposite inducements.

He spoke as if desirous of shewing that he was not aware of the tendency
of Pleyel's remarks; yet, certain tokens were apparent, that proved him
by no means wanting in penetration. These tokens were to be read in his
countenance, and not in his words. When any thing was said, indicating
curiosity in us, the gloom of his countenance was deepened, his eyes
sunk to the ground, and his wonted air was not resumed without visible
struggle. Hence, it was obvious to infer, that some incidents of
his life were reflected on by him with regret; and that, since these
incidents were carefully concealed, and even that regret which flowed
from them laboriously stifled, they had not been merely disastrous. The
secrecy that was observed appeared not designed to provoke or baffle the
inquisitive, but was prompted by the shame, or by the prudence of guilt.

These ideas, which were adopted by Pleyel and my brother, as well as
myself, hindered us from employing more direct means for accomplishing
our wishes. Questions might have been put in such terms, that no room
should be left for the pretence of misapprehension, and if modesty
merely had been the obstacle, such questions would not have been
wanting; but we considered, that, if the disclosure were productive of
pain or disgrace, it was inhuman to extort it.

Amidst the various topics that were discussed in his presence, allusions
were, of course, made to the inexplicable events that had lately
happened. At those times, the words and looks of this man were objects
of my particular attention. The subject was extraordinary; and any
one whose experience or reflections could throw any light upon it, was
entitled to my gratitude. As this man was enlightened by reading and
travel, I listened with eagerness to the remarks which he should make.

At first, I entertained a kind of apprehension, that the tale would be
heard by him with incredulity and secret ridicule. I had formerly heard
stories that resembled this in some of their mysterious circumstances,
but they were, commonly, heard by me with contempt. I was doubtful,
whether the same impression would not now be made on the mind of our
guest; but I was mistaken in my fears.

He heard them with seriousness, and without any marks either of
surprize or incredulity. He pursued, with visible pleasure, that kind
of disquisition which was naturally suggested by them. His fancy was
eminently vigorous and prolific, and if he did not persuade us, that
human beings are, sometimes, admitted to a sensible intercourse with the
author of nature, he, at least, won over our inclination to the cause.
He merely deduced, from his own reasonings, that such intercourse
was probable; but confessed that, though he was acquainted with many
instances somewhat similar to those which had been related by us, none
of them were perfectly exempted from the suspicion of human agency.

On being requested to relate these instances, he amused us with many
curious details. His narratives were constructed with so much skill,
and rehearsed with so much energy, that all the effects of a dramatic
exhibition were frequently produced by them. Those that were most
coherent and most minute, and, of consequence, least entitled to credit,
were yet rendered probable by the exquisite art of this rhetorician. For
every difficulty that was suggested, a ready and plausible solution
was furnished. Mysterious voices had always a share in producing
the catastrophe, but they were always to be explained on some known
principles, either as reflected into a focus, or communicated through
a tube. I could not but remark that his narratives, however complex or
marvellous, contained no instance sufficiently parallel to those that
had befallen ourselves, and in which the solution was applicable to our
own case.

My brother was a much more sanguine reasoner than our guest. Even
in some of the facts which were related by Carwin, he maintained the
probability of celestial interference, when the latter was disposed to
deny it, and had found, as he imagined, footsteps of an human agent.
Pleyel was by no means equally credulous. He scrupled not to deny faith
to any testimony but that of his senses, and allowed the facts which had
lately been supported by this testimony, not to mould his belief, but
merely to give birth to doubts.

It was soon observed that Carwin adopted, in some degree, a similar
distinction. A tale of this kind, related by others, he would believe,
provided it was explicable upon known principles; but that such notices
were actually communicated by beings of an higher order, he would
believe only when his own ears were assailed in a manner which could not
be otherwise accounted for. Civility forbad him to contradict my brother
or myself, but his understanding refused to acquiesce in our testimony.
Besides, he was disposed to question whether the voices heard in the
temple, at the foot of the hill, and in my closet, were not really
uttered by human organs. On this supposition he was desired to explain
how the effect was produced.

He answered, that the power of mimickry was very common. Catharine's
voice might easily be imitated by one at the foot of the hill, who would
find no difficulty in eluding, by flight, the search of Wieland. The
tidings of the death of the Saxon lady were uttered by one near at hand,
who overheard the conversation, who conjectured her death, and whose
conjecture happened to accord with the truth. That the voice appeared to
come from the cieling was to be considered as an illusion of the fancy.
The cry for help, heard in the hall on the night of my adventure, was to
be ascribed to an human creature, who actually stood in the hall when he
uttered it. It was of no moment, he said, that we could not explain by
what motives he that made the signal was led hither. How imperfectly
acquainted were we with the condition and designs of the beings that
surrounded us? The city was near at hand, and thousands might there
exist whose powers and purposes might easily explain whatever was
mysterious in this transaction. As to the closet dialogue, he was
obliged to adopt one of two suppositions, and affirm either that it was
fashioned in my own fancy, or that it actually took place between two
persons in the closet.

Such was Carwin's mode of explaining these appearances. It is such,
perhaps, as would commend itself as most plausible to the most sagacious
minds, but it was insufficient to impart conviction to us. As to the
treason that was meditated against me, it was doubtless just to conclude
that it was either real or imaginary; but that it was real was attested
by the mysterious warning in the summer-house, the secret of which I had
hitherto locked up in my own breast.

A month passed away in this kind of intercourse. As to Carwin, our
ignorance was in no degree enlightened respecting his genuine character
and views. Appearances were uniform. No man possessed a larger store of
knowledge, or a greater degree of skill in the communication of it to
others; Hence he was regarded as an inestimable addition to our society.
Considering the distance of my brother's house from the city, he was
frequently prevailed upon to pass the night where he spent the evening.
Two days seldom elapsed without a visit from him; hence he was regarded
as a kind of inmate of the house. He entered and departed without
ceremony. When he arrived he received an unaffected welcome, and when he
chose to retire, no importunities were used to induce him to remain.

The temple was the principal scene of our social enjoyments; yet the
felicity that we tasted when assembled in this asylum, was but the
gleam of a former sun-shine. Carwin never parted with his gravity.
The inscrutableness of his character, and the uncertainty whether his
fellowship tended to good or to evil, were seldom absent from our minds.
This circumstance powerfully contributed to sadden us.

My heart was the seat of growing disquietudes. This change in one who
had formerly been characterized by all the exuberances of soul, could
not fail to be remarked by my friends. My brother was always a pattern
of solemnity. My sister was clay, moulded by the circumstances in which
she happened to be placed. There was but one whose deportment remains
to be described as being of importance to our happiness. Had Pleyel
likewise dismissed his vivacity?

He was as whimsical and jestful as ever, but he was not happy. The
truth, in this respect, was of too much importance to me not to make me
a vigilant observer. His mirth was easily perceived to be the fruit
of exertion. When his thoughts wandered from the company, an air of
dissatisfaction and impatience stole across his features. Even the
punctuality and frequency of his visits were somewhat lessened. It may
be supposed that my own uneasiness was heightened by these tokens; but,
strange as it may seem, I found, in the present state of my mind, no
relief but in the persuasion that Pleyel was unhappy.

That unhappiness, indeed, depended, for its value in my eyes, on the
cause that produced it. It did not arise from the death of the Saxon
lady: it was not a contagious emanation from the countenances of Wieland
or Carwin. There was but one other source whence it could flow. A
nameless ecstacy thrilled through my frame when any new proof occurred
that the ambiguousness of my behaviour was the cause.



Chapter IX


My brother had received a new book from Germany. It was a tragedy, and
the first attempt of a Saxon poet, of whom my brother had been taught to
entertain the highest expectations. The exploits of Zisca, the Bohemian
hero, were woven into a dramatic series and connection. According to
German custom, it was minute and diffuse, and dictated by an adventurous
and lawless fancy. It was a chain of audacious acts, and unheard-of
disasters. The moated fortress, and the thicket; the ambush and the
battle; and the conflict of headlong passions, were pourtrayed in
wild numbers, and with terrific energy. An afternoon was set apart to
rehearse this performance. The language was familiar to all of us but
Carwin, whose company, therefore, was tacitly dispensed with.

The morning previous to this intended rehearsal, I spent at home. My
mind was occupied with reflections relative to my own situation. The
sentiment which lived with chief energy in my heart, was connected
with the image of Pleyel. In the midst of my anguish, I had not been
destitute of consolation. His late deportment had given spring to my
hopes. Was not the hour at hand, which should render me the happiest
of human creatures? He suspected that I looked with favorable eyes upon
Carwin. Hence arose disquietudes, which he struggled in vain to conceal.
He loved me, but was hopeless that his love would be compensated. Is it
not time, said I, to rectify this error? But by what means is this to be
effected? It can only be done by a change of deportment in me; but how
must I demean myself for this purpose?

I must not speak. Neither eyes, nor lips, must impart the information.
He must not be assured that my heart is his, previous to the tender of
his own; but he must be convinced that it has not been given to another;
he must be supplied with space whereon to build a doubt as to the true
state of my affections; he must be prompted to avow himself. The line
of delicate propriety; how hard it is, not to fall short, and not to
overleap it!

This afternoon we shall meet at the temple. We shall not separate till
late. It will be his province to accompany me home. The airy expanse is
without a speck. This breeze is usually stedfast, and its promise of
a bland and cloudless evening, may be trusted. The moon will rise at
eleven, and at that hour, we shall wind along this bank. Possibly that
hour may decide my fate. If suitable encouragement be given, Pleyel will
reveal his soul to me; and I, ere I reach this threshold, will be made
the happiest of beings. And is this good to be mine? Add wings to thy
speed, sweet evening; and thou, moon, I charge thee, shroud thy beams at
the moment when my Pleyel whispers love. I would not for the world, that
the burning blushes, and the mounting raptures of that moment, should be
visible.

But what encouragement is wanting? I must be regardful of insurmountable
limits. Yet when minds are imbued with a genuine sympathy, are not words
and looks superfluous? Are not motion and touch sufficient 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 possible that he
mistook the impetuosities of love, for the eloquence of indignation?

But the hastening evening will decide. Would it were come! And yet I
shudder at its near approach. An interview that must thus terminate, is
surely to be wished for by me; and yet it is not without its terrors.
Would to heaven it were come and gone!

I feel no reluctance, my friends to be thus explicit. Time was, when
these emotions would be hidden with immeasurable solicitude, from every
human eye. Alas! these airy and fleeting impulses of shame are gone. My
scruples were preposterous and criminal. They are bred in all hearts, by
a perverse and vicious education, and they would still have maintained
their place in my heart, had not my portion been set in misery. My
errors have taught me thus much wisdom; that those sentiments which we
ought not to disclose, it is criminal to harbour.

It was proposed to begin the rehearsal at four o'clock; I counted the
minutes as they passed; their flight was at once too rapid and too slow;
my sensations were of an excruciating kind; I could taste no food, nor
apply to any task, nor enjoy a moment's repose: when the hour arrived, I
hastened to my brother's.

Pleyel was not there. He had not yet come. On ordinary occasions, he was
eminent for punctuality. He had testified great eagerness to share
in the pleasures of this 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
vehemence 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 attractions, and that he staid, because his coming would afford
him no gratification. But why should we expect him to adhere to the
minute?

An half hour elapsed, but Pleyel was still at a distance. Perhaps he had
misunderstood the hour which had been proposed. Perhaps he had conceived
that to-morrow, and not to-day, had been selected for this purpose:
but no. A review of preceding circumstances demonstrated that such
misapprehension was impossible; for he had himself proposed this day,
and this hour. This day, his attention would not otherwise be occupied;
but to-morrow, an indispensible engagement was foreseen, by which all
his time would be engrossed: his detention, therefore, must be owing
to some unforeseen and extraordinary event. Our conjectures were vague,
tumultuous, and sometimes fearful. His sickness and his death might
possibly have detained him.

Tortured with suspense, we sat gazing at each other, and at the path
which led from the road. Every horseman that passed was, for a moment,
imagined to be him. Hour succeeded hour, and the sun, gradually
declining, at length, disappeared. Every signal of his coming proved
fallacious, and our hopes were at length dismissed. His absence affected
my friends in no insupportable degree. They should be obliged, they
said, to defer this undertaking till the morrow; and, perhaps, their
impatient curiosity would compel them to dispense entirely with his
presence. No doubt, some harmless occurrence had diverted him from
his purpose; and they trusted that they should receive a satisfactory
account of him in the morning.

It may be supposed that this disappointment affected me in a very
different manner. I turned aside my head to conceal my tears. I fled
into solitude, to give vent to my reproaches, without interruption
or restraint. My heart was ready to burst with indignation and grief.
Pleyel was not the only object of my keen but unjust upbraiding. Deeply
did I execrate my own folly. Thus fallen into ruins was the gay fabric
which I had reared! Thus had my golden vision melted into air!

How fondly did I dream that Pleyel was a lover! If he were, would he
have suffered any obstacle to hinder his coming? Blind and infatuated
man! I exclaimed. Thou sportest with happiness. The good that is
offered thee, thou hast the insolence and folly to refuse. Well, I will
henceforth intrust my felicity to no one's keeping but my own.

The first agonies of this disappointment would not allow me to be
reasonable or just. Every ground on which I had built the persuasion
that Pleyel was not unimpressed in my favor, appeared to vanish. It
seemed as if I had been misled into this opinion, by the most palpable
illusions.

I made some trifling excuse, and returned, much earlier than I expected,
to my own house. I retired early to my chamber, without designing to
sleep. I placed myself at a window, and gave the reins to reflection.

The hateful and degrading impulses which had lately controuled me were,
in some degree, removed. New dejection succeeded, but was now produced
by contemplating my late behaviour. Surely that passion is worthy to
be abhorred which obscures our understanding, and urges us to the
commission of injustice. What right had I to expect his attendance?
Had I not demeaned myself like one indifferent to his happiness, and as
having bestowed my regards upon another? His absence might be prompted
by the love which I considered his absence as a proof that he wanted.
He came not because the sight of me, the spectacle of my coldness or
aversion, contributed to his despair. Why should I prolong, by hypocrisy
or silence, his misery as well as my own? Why not deal with him
explicitly, and assure him of the truth?

You will hardly believe that, in obedience to this suggestion, I rose
for the purpose of ordering a light, that I might instantly make this
confession in a letter. A second thought shewed me the rashness of this
scheme, and I wondered by what infirmity of mind I could be betrayed
into a momentary approbation of it. I saw with the utmost clearness that
a confession like that would be the most remediless and unpardonable
outrage upon the dignity of my sex, and utterly unworthy of that passion
which controuled me.

I resumed my seat and my musing. To account for the absence of Pleyel
became once more the scope of my conjectures. How many incidents might
occur to raise an insuperable impediment in his way? When I was a child,
a scheme of pleasure, in which he and his sister were parties, had been,
in like manner, frustrated by his absence; but his absence, in that
instance, had been occasioned by his falling from a boat into the river,
in consequence of which he had run the most imminent hazard of being
drowned. Here was a second disappointment endured by the same persons,
and produced by his failure. Might it not originate in the same cause?
Had he not designed to cross the river that morning to make some
necessary purchases in Jersey? He had preconcerted to return to his
own house to dinner; but, perhaps, some disaster had befallen him.
Experience had taught me the insecurity of a canoe, and that was the
only kind of boat which Pleyel used: I was, likewise, actuated by
an hereditary dread of water. These circumstances combined to bestow
considerable plausibility on this conjecture; but the consternation
with which I began to be seized was allayed by reflecting, that if
this disaster had happened my brother would have received the speediest
information of it. The consolation which this idea imparted was ravished
from me by a new thought. This disaster might have happened, and his
family not be apprized of it. The first intelligence of his fate may
be communicated by the livid corpse which the tide may cast, many days
hence, upon the shore.

Thus was I distressed by opposite conjectures: thus was I tormented by
phantoms of my own creation. It was not always thus. I can ascertain the
date when my mind became the victim of this imbecility; perhaps it was
coeval with the inroad of a fatal passion; a passion that will never
rank me in the number of its eulogists; it was alone sufficient to the
extermination of my peace: it was itself a plenteous source of
calamity, and needed not the concurrence of other evils to take away the
attractions of existence, and dig for me an untimely grave.

The state of my mind naturally introduced a train of reflections upon
the dangers and cares which inevitably beset an human being. By no
violent transition was I led to ponder on the turbulent life and
mysterious end of my father. I cherished, with the utmost veneration,
the memory of this man, and every relique connected with his fate was
preserved with the most scrupulous care. Among these was to be numbered
a manuscript, containing memoirs of his own life. The narrative was by
no means recommended by its eloquence; but neither did all its value
flow from my relationship to the author. Its stile had an unaffected and
picturesque simplicity. The great variety and circumstantial display of
the incidents, together with their intrinsic importance, as descriptive
of human manners and passions, made it the most useful book in my
collection. It was late; but being sensible of no inclination to sleep,
I resolved to betake myself to the perusal of it.

To do this it was requisite to procure a light. The girl had long since
retired to her chamber: it was therefore proper to wait upon myself.
A lamp, and the means of lighting it, were only to be found in the
kitchen. Thither I resolved forthwith to repair; but the light was of
use merely to enable me to read the book. I knew the shelf and the spot
where it stood. Whether I took down the book, or prepared the lamp in
the first place, appeared to be a matter of no moment. The latter was
preferred, and, leaving my seat, I approached the closet in which, as I
mentioned formerly, my books and papers were deposited.

Suddenly the remembrance of what had lately passed in this closet
occurred. Whether midnight was approaching, or had passed, I knew not. I
was, as then, alone, and defenceless. The wind was in that direction
in which, aided by the deathlike repose of nature, it brought to me
the murmur of the water-fall. This was mingled with that solemn and
enchanting sound, which a breeze produces among the leaves of pines. The
words of that mysterious dialogue, their fearful import, and the wild
excess to which I was transported by my terrors, filled my imagination
anew. My steps faultered, and I stood a moment to recover myself.

I prevailed on myself at length to move towards the closet. I touched
the lock, but my fingers were powerless; I was visited afresh by
unconquerable apprehensions. A sort of belief darted into my mind, that
some being was concealed within, whose purposes were evil. I began to
contend with those fears, when it occurred to me that I might, without
impropriety, go for a lamp previously to opening the closet. I receded
a few steps; but before I reached my chamber door my thoughts took a new
direction. Motion seemed to produce a mechanical influence upon me. I
was ashamed of my weakness. Besides, what aid could be afforded me by a
lamp?

My fears had pictured to themselves no precise object. It would be
difficult to depict, in words, the ingredients and hues of that phantom
which haunted me. An hand invisible and of preternatural strength,
lifted by human passions, and selecting my life for its aim, were parts
of this terrific image. All places were alike accessible to this foe, or
if his empire were restricted by local bounds, those bounds were utterly
inscrutable by me. But had I not been told by some one in league with
this enemy, that every place but the recess in the bank was exempt from
danger? I returned to the closet, and once more put my hand upon the
lock. O! may my ears lose their sensibility, ere they be again assailed
by a shriek so terrible! Not merely my understanding was subdued by the
sound: it acted on my nerves like an edge of steel. It appeared to cut
asunder the fibres of my brain, and rack every joint with agony.

The cry, loud and piercing as it was, was nevertheless human. No
articulation was ever more distinct. The breath which accompanied it did
not fan my hair, yet did every circumstance combine to persuade me that
the lips which uttered it touched my very shoulder.

"Hold! Hold!" were the words of this tremendous prohibition, in whose
tone the whole soul seemed to be wrapped up, and every energy converted
into eagerness and terror.

Shuddering, I dashed myself against the wall, and by the same
involuntary impulse, turned my face backward to examine the mysterious
monitor. The moon-light streamed into each window, and every corner of
the room was conspicuous, and yet I beheld nothing!

The interval was too brief to be artificially measured, between the
utterance of these words, and my scrutiny directed to the quarter whence
they came. Yet if a human being had been there, could he fail to have
been visible? Which of my senses was the prey of a fatal illusion? The
shock which the sound produced was still felt in every part of my frame.
The sound, therefore, could not but be a genuine commotion. But that I
had heard it, was not more true than that the being who uttered it was
stationed at my right ear; yet my attendant was invisible.

I cannot describe the state of my thoughts at that moment. Surprize
had mastered my faculties. My frame shook, and the vital current was
congealed. I was conscious only to the vehemence of my sensations. This
condition could not be lasting. Like a tide, which suddenly mounts to
an overwhelming height, and then gradually subsides, my confusion slowly
gave place to order, and my tumults to a calm. I was able to deliberate
and move. I resumed my feet, and advanced into the midst of the room.
Upward, and behind, and on each side, I threw penetrating glances. I was
not satisfied with one examination. He that hitherto refused to be
seen, might change his purpose, and on the next survey be clearly
distinguishable.

Solitude imposes least restraint upon the fancy. Dark is less fertile
of images than the feeble lustre of the moon. I was alone, and the walls
were chequered by shadowy forms. As the moon passed behind a cloud and
emerged, these shadows seemed to be endowed with life, and to move. The
apartment was open to the breeze, and the curtain was occasionally
blown from its ordinary position. This motion was not unaccompanied with
sound. I failed not to snatch a look, and to listen when this motion
and this sound occurred. My belief that my monitor was posted near,
was strong, and instantly converted these appearances to tokens of his
presence, and yet I could discern nothing.

When my thoughts were at length permitted to revert to the past, the
first idea that occurred was the resemblance between the words of the
voice which I had just heard, and those which had terminated my dream in
the summer-house. There are means by which we are able to distinguish a
substance from a shadow, a reality from the phantom of a dream. The pit,
my brother beckoning me forward, the seizure of my arm, and the voice
behind, were surely imaginary. That these incidents were fashioned in my
sleep, is supported by the same indubitable evidence that compels me to
believe myself awake at present; yet the words and the voice were the
same. Then, by some inexplicable contrivance, I was aware of the danger,
while my actions and sensations were those of one wholly unacquainted
with it. Now, was it not equally true that my actions and persuasions
were at war? Had not the belief, that evil lurked in the closet, gained
admittance, and had not my actions betokened an unwarrantable security?
To obviate the effects of my infatuation, the same means had been used.

In my dream, he that tempted me to my destruction, was my brother. Death
was ambushed in my path. From what evil was I now rescued? What minister
or implement of ill was shut up in this recess? Who was it whose
suffocating grasp I was to feel, should I dare to enter it? What
monstrous conception is this? my brother!

No; protection, and not injury is his province. Strange and terrible
chimera! Yet it would not be suddenly dismissed. It was surely no vulgar
agency that gave this form to my fears. He to whom all parts of time are
equally present, whom no contingency approaches, was the author of that
spell which now seized upon me. Life was dear to me. No consideration
was present that enjoined me to relinquish it. Sacred duty combined
with every 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 aginst me was Wieland's?

Ideas exist in our minds that can be accounted for by no established
laws. Why did I dream that my brother was my foe? Why but because an
omen of my fate was ordained to be communicated? Yet what salutary end
did it serve? Did it arm me with caution to elude, or fortitude to bear
the evils to which I was reserved? My present thoughts were, no
doubt, indebted for their hue to the similitude existing between these
incidents and those of my dream. Surely it was phrenzy that dictated my
deed. That a ruffian was hidden in the closet, was an idea, the genuine
tendency of which was to urge me to flight. Such had been the effect
formerly produced. Had my mind been simply occupied with this thought at
present, no doubt, the same impulse would have been experienced; but
now it was my brother whom I was irresistably 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 faultering.

The door was formed of light materials. The lock, of simple structure,
easily forewent its hold. It opened into the room, and commonly moved
upon its hinges, after being unfastened, without any effort of mine.
This effort, however, was bestowed upon 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 new cause for affright. This was confirmation proper to decide my
conduct. Now was all ground of hesitation taken away. What could be
supposed but that I deserted the chamber and the house? that I at least
endeavoured no longer to withdraw the door?

Have I not said that my actions were dictated by phrenzy? My reason had
forborne, for a time, to suggest or to sway my resolves. I reiterated
my endeavours. I exerted all my force to overcome the obstacle, but in
vain. The strength that was exerted to keep it shut, was superior to
mine.

A casual observer might, perhaps, applaud the audaciousness of this
conduct. Whence, but from an habitual defiance of danger, could my
perseverance arise? I have already assigned, as distinctly as I am able,
the cause of it. The frantic conception that my brother was within, that
the resistance made to my design was exerted by him, had rooted itself
in my mind. You will comprehend the height of this infatuation, when
I tell you, that, finding all my exertions vain, I betook myself to
exclamations. Surely I was utterly bereft of understanding.

Now had I arrived at the crisis of my fate. "O! hinder not the door to
open," I exclaimed, in a tone that had less of fear than of grief in
it. "I know you well. Come forth, but harm me not. I beseech you come
forth."

I had taken my hand from the lock, and removed to a small distance from
the door. I had scarcely uttered these words, when the door swung upon
its hinges, and displayed to my view the interior of the closet. Whoever
was within, was shrouded in darkness. A few seconds passed without
interruption of the silence. I knew not what to expect or to fear. My
eyes would not stray from the recess. Presently, a deep sigh was heard.
The quarter from which it came heightened the eagerness of my gaze. Some
one approached from the farther end. I quickly perceived the outlines
of a human figure. Its steps were irresolute and slow. I recoiled as it
advanced.

By coming at length within the verge of the room, his form was clearly
distinguishable. I had prefigured to myself a very different personage.
The face that presented itself was the last that I should desire to meet
at an hour, and in a place like this. My wonder was stifled by my fears.
Assassins had lurked in this recess. Some divine voice warned me of
danger, that at this moment awaited me. I had spurned the intimation,
and challenged my adversary.

I recalled the mysterious countenance and dubious character of Carwin.
What motive but atrocious ones could guide his steps hither? I was
alone. My habit suited the hour, and the place, and the warmth of the
season. All succour was remote. He had placed himself between me and the
door. My frame shook with the vehemence of my apprehensions.

Yet I was not wholly lost to myself: I vigilantly marked his demeanour.
His looks were grave, but not without perturbation. What species of
inquietude it betrayed, the light was not strong enough to enable me
to discover. He stood still; but his eyes wandered from one object to
another. When these powerful organs were fixed upon me, I shrunk into
myself. At length, he broke silence. Earnestness, and not embarrassment,
was in his tone. He advanced close to me while he spoke.

"What voice was that which lately addressed you?"

He paused for an answer; but observing my trepidation, he resumed, with
undiminished solemnity: "Be not terrified. Whoever he was, he hast done
you an important service. I need not ask you if it were the voice of
a companion. That sound was beyond the compass of human organs. The
knowledge that enabled him to tell you who was in the closet, was
obtained by incomprehensible means.

"You knew that Carwin was there. Were you not apprized of his intents?
The same power could impart the one as well as the other. Yet, knowing
these, you persisted. Audacious girl! but, perhaps, you confided in his
guardianship. Your confidence was just. With succour like this at hand
you may safely defy me.

"He is my eternal foe; the baffler of my best concerted schemes. Twice
have you been saved by his accursed interposition. But for him I should
long ere now have borne away the spoils of your honor."

He looked at me with greater stedfastness than before. I became every
moment more anxious for my safety. It was with difficulty I stammered
out an entreaty that he would instantly depart, or suffer me to do so.
He paid no regard to my request, but proceeded in a more impassioned
manner.

"What is it you fear? Have I not told you, you are safe? Has not one
in whom you more reasonably place trust assured you of it? Even if I
execute my purpose, what injury is done? Your prejudices will call it
by that name, but it merits it not. I was impelled by a sentiment that
does you honor; a sentiment, that would sanctify my deed; but, whatever
it be, you are safe. Be this chimera still worshipped; I will do nothing
to pollute it." There he stopped.

The accents and gestures of this man left me drained of all courage.
Surely, on no other occasion should I have been thus pusillanimous. My
state I regarded as a hopeless one. I was wholly at the mercy of this
being. Whichever way I turned my eyes, I saw no avenue by which I might
escape. The resources of my personal strength, my ingenuity, and my
eloquence, I estimated at nothing. The dignity of virtue, and the force
of truth, I had been accustomed to celebrate; and had frequently vaunted
of the conquests which I should make with their assistance.

I used to suppose that certain evils could never befall a being in
possession of a sound mind; that true virtue supplies us with energy
which vice can never resist; that it was always in our power to
obstruct, by his own death, the designs of an enemy who aimed at less
than our life. How was it that a sentiment like despair had now invaded
me, and that I trusted to the protection of chance, or to the pity of my
persecutor?

His words imparted some notion of the injury which he had meditated. He
talked of obstacles that had risen in his way. He had relinquished his
design. These sources supplied me with slender consolation. There was no
security but in his absence. When I looked at myself, when I reflected
on the hour and the place, I was overpowered by horror and dejection.

He was silent, museful, and inattentive to my situation, yet made no
motion to depart. I was silent in my turn. What could I say? I was
confident that reason in this contest would be impotent. I must owe my
safety to his own suggestions. Whatever purpose brought him hither, he
had changed it. Why then did he remain? His resolutions might fluctuate,
and the pause of a few minutes restore to him his first resolutions.

Yet was not this the man whom we had treated with unwearied kindness?
Whose society was endeared to us by his intellectual elevation and
accomplishments? Who had a thousand times expatiated on the usefulness
and beauty of virtue? Why should such a one be dreaded? If I could have
forgotten the circumstances in which our interview had taken place, I
might have treated his words as jests. Presently, he resumed:

"Fear me not: the space that severs us is small, and all visible succour
is distant. You believe yourself completely in my power; that you stand
upon the brink of ruin. Such are your groundless fears. I cannot lift
a finger to hurt you. Easier it would be to stop the moon in her course
than to injure you. The power that protects you would crumble my sinews,
and reduce me to a heap of ashes in a moment, if I were to harbour a
thought hostile to your safety. Thus are appearances at length solved.
Little did I expect that they originated hence. What a portion is
assigned to you? Scanned by the eyes of this intelligence, your path
will be without pits to swallow, or snares to entangle you. Environed by
the arms of this protection, all artifices will be frustrated, and all
malice repelled."

Here succeeded a new pause. I was still observant of every gesture and
look. The tranquil solemnity that had lately possessed his countenance
gave way to a new expression. All now was trepidation and anxiety.

"I must be gone," said he in a faltering accent. "Why do I linger here?
I will not ask your forgiveness. I see that your terrors are invincible.
Your pardon will be extorted by fear, and not dictated by compassion. I
must fly from you forever. He that could plot against your honor, must
expect from you and your friends persecution and death. I must doom
myself to endless exile."

Saying this, he hastily left the room. I listened while he descended the
stairs, and, unbolting the outer door, went forth. I did not follow him
with my eyes, as the moon-light would have enabled me to do. Relieved by
his absence, and exhausted by the conflict of my fears, I threw myself
on a chair, and resigned myself to those bewildering ideas which
incidents like these could not fail to produce.



Chapter X


Order could not readily be introduced into my thoughts. The voice still
rung in my ears. Every accent that was uttered by Carwin was fresh in my
remembrance. His unwelcome approach, the recognition of his person, his
hasty departure, produced a complex impression on my mind which no words
can delineate. I strove to give a slower motion to my thoughts, and to
regulate a confusion which became painful; but my efforts were nugatory.
I covered my eyes with my hand, and sat, I know not how long, without
power to arrange or utter my conceptions.

I had remained for hours, as I believed, in absolute solitude. No
thought of personal danger had molested my tranquillity. I had made
no preparation for defence. What was it that suggested the design of
perusing my father's manuscript? If, instead of this, I had retired
to bed, and to sleep, to what fate might I not have been reserved? The
ruffian, who must almost have suppressed his breathing to screen himself
from discovery, would have noticed this signal, and I should have
awakened only to perish with affright, and to abhor myself. Could I have
remained unconscious of my danger? Could I have tranquilly slept in the
midst of so deadly a snare?

And who was he that threatened to destroy me? By what means could he
hide himself in this closet? Surely he is gifted with supernatural
power. Such is the enemy of whose attempts I was forewarned. Daily I had
seen him and conversed with him. Nothing could be discerned through the
impenetrable veil of his duplicity. When busied in conjectures, as to
the author of the evil that was threatened, my mind did not light, for
a moment, upon his image. Yet has he not avowed himself my enemy? Why
should he be here if he had not meditated evil?

He confesses that this has been his second attempt. What was the scene
of his former conspiracy? Was it not he whose whispers betrayed him? Am
I deceived; or was there not a faint resemblance between the voice of
this man and that which talked of grasping my throat, and extinguishing
my life in a moment? Then he had a colleague in his crime; now he
is alone. Then death was the scope of his thoughts; now an injury
unspeakably more dreadful. How thankful should I be to the power that
has interposed to save me!

That power is invisible. It is subject to the cognizance of one of my
senses. What are the means that will inform me of what nature it is?
He has set himself to counterwork the machinations of this man, who had
menaced destruction to all that is dear to me, and whose cunning had
surmounted every human impediment. There was none to rescue me from
his grasp. My rashness even hastened the completion of his scheme, and
precluded him from the benefits of deliberation. I had robbed him of the
power to repent and forbear. Had I been apprized of the danger, I should
have regarded my conduct as the means of rendering my escape from it
impossible. Such, likewise, seem to have been the fears of my invisible
protector. Else why that startling intreaty to refrain from opening the
closet? By what inexplicable infatuation was I compelled to proceed?

Yet my conduct was wise. Carwin, unable to comprehend my folly, ascribed
my behaviour to my knowledge. He conceived himself previously detected,
and such detection being possible to flow only from _my_ heavenly
friend, and _his_ enemy, his fears acquired additional strength.

He is apprized of the nature and intentions of this being. Perhaps he
is a human agent. Yet, on that supposition his atchievements are
incredible. Why should I be selected as the object of his care; or, if
a mere mortal, should I not recognize some one, whom, benefits imparted
and received had prompted to love me? What were the limits and duration
of his guardianship? Was the genius of my birth entrusted by divine
benignity with this province? Are human faculties adequate to
receive stronger proofs of the existence of unfettered and beneficent
intelligences than I have received?

But who was this man's coadjutor? The voice that acknowledged an
alliance in treachery with Carwin warned me to avoid the summer-house.
He assured me that there only my safety was endangered. His assurance,
as it now appears, was fallacious. Was there not deceit in his
admonition? Was his compact really annulled? Some purpose was, perhaps,
to be accomplished by preventing my future visits to that spot. Why was
I enjoined silence to others, on the subject of this admonition, unless
it were for some unauthorized and guilty purpose?

No one but myself was accustomed to visit it. Backward, it was hidden
from distant view by the rock, and in front, it was screened from all
examination, by creeping plants, and the branches of cedars. What
recess could be more propitious to secrecy? The spirit which haunted it
formerly was pure and rapturous. It was a fane sacred to the memory
of infantile days, and to blissful imaginations of the future! What a
gloomy reverse had succeeded since the ominous arrival of this stranger!
Now, perhaps, it is the scene of his meditations. Purposes fraught with
horror, that shun the light, and contemplate the pollution of innocence,
are here engendered, and fostered, and reared to maturity.

Such were the ideas that, during the night, were tumultuously revolved
by me. I reviewed every conversation in which Carwin had borne a part.
I studied to discover the true inferences deducible from his deportment
and words with regard to his former adventures and actual views. I
pondered on the comments which he made on the relation which I had given
of the closet dialogue. No new ideas suggested themselves in the course
of this review. My expectation had, from the first, been disappointed
on the small degree of surprize which this narrative excited in him. He
never explicitly declared his opinion as to the nature of those voices,
or decided whether they were real or visionary. He recommended no
measures of caution or prevention.

But what measures were now to be taken? Was the danger which threatened
me at an end? Had I nothing more to fear? I was lonely, and without
means of defence. I could not calculate the motives and regulate the
footsteps of this person. What certainty was there, that he would not
re-assume his purposes, and swiftly return to the execution of them?

This idea covered me once more with dismay. How deeply did I regret the
solitude in which I was placed, and how ardently did I desire the return
of day! But neither of these inconveniencies were susceptible of remedy.
At first, it occurred to me to summon my servant, and make her spend the
night in my chamber; but the inefficacy of this expedient to enhance my
safety was easily seen. Once I resolved to leave the house, and retire
to my brother's, but was deterred by reflecting on the unseasonableness
of the hour, on the alarm which my arrival, and the account which I
should be obliged to give, might occasion, and on the danger to which I
might expose myself in the way thither. I began, likewise, to consider
Carwin's return to molest me as exceedingly improbable. He had
relinquished, of his own accord, his design, and departed without
compulsion. "Surely," said I, "there is omnipotence in the cause that
changed the views of a man like Carwin. The divinity that shielded me
from his attempts will take suitable care of my future safety. Thus to
yield to my fears is to deserve that they should be real."

Scarcely had I uttered these words, when my attention was startled by
the sound of footsteps. They denoted some one stepping into the piazza
in front of my house. My new-born confidence was extinguished in a
moment. Carwin, I thought, had repented his departure, and was hastily
returning. The possibility that his return was prompted by intentions
consistent with my safety, found no place in my mind. Images of
violation and murder assailed me anew, and the terrors which succeeded
almost incapacitated me from taking any measures for my defence. It was
an impulse of which I was scarcely conscious, that made me fasten the
lock and draw the bolts of my chamber door. Having done this, I threw
myself on a seat; for I trembled to a degree which disabled me from
standing, and my soul was so perfectly absorbed in the act of listening,
that almost the vital motions were stopped.

The door below creaked on its hinges. It was not again thrust to, but
appeared to remain open. Footsteps entered, traversed the entry, and
began to mount the stairs. How I detested the folly of not pursuing the
man when he withdrew, and bolting after him the outer door! Might he not
conceive this omission to be a proof that my angel had deserted me, and
be thereby fortified in guilt?

Every step on the stairs, which brought him nearer to my chamber, added
vigor to my desperation. The evil with which I was menaced was to be at
any rate eluded. How little did I preconceive the conduct which, in an
exigence like this, I should be prone to adopt. You will suppose that
deliberation and despair would have suggested the same course of action,
and that I should have, unhesitatingly, resorted to the best means of
personal defence within my power. A penknife lay open upon my table. I
remembered that it was there, and seized it. For what purpose you will
scarcely inquire. It will be immediately supposed that I meant it for my
last refuge, and that if all other means should fail, I should plunge it
into the heart of my ravisher.

I have lost all faith in the stedfastness 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 her injurer ere the injury was perpetrated, but
herself when it was without remedy. Yet now this penknife appeared to
me of no other use than to baffle my assailant, and prevent the crime
by destroying myself. To deliberate at such a time was impossible; but
among the tumultuous suggestions of the moment, I do not recollect that
it once occurred to me to use it as an instrument of direct defence. The
steps had now reached the second floor. Every footfall accelerated the
completion, without augmenting, the certainty of evil. The consciousness
that the door was fast, now that nothing but that was interposed between
me and danger, was a source of some consolation. I cast my eye towards
the window. This, likewise, was a new suggestion. If the door should
give way, it was my sudden resolution to throw myself from the window.
Its height from the ground, which was covered beneath by a brick
pavement, would insure my destruction; but I thought not of that.

When opposite to my door the footsteps ceased. Was he listening whether
my fears were allayed, and my caution were asleep? Did he hope to take
me by surprize? Yet, if so, why did he allow so many noisy signals to
betray his approach? Presently the steps were again heard to approach
the door. An hand was laid upon the lock, and the latch pulled back. Did
he imagine it possible that I should fail to secure the door? A slight
effort was made to push it open, as if all bolts being withdrawn, a
slight effort only was required.

I no sooner perceived this, than I moved swiftly towards the window.
Carwin's frame might be said to be all muscle. His strength and activity
had appeared, in various instances, to be prodigious. A slight exertion
of his force would demolish the door. Would not that exertion be made?
Too surely it would; but, at the same moment that this obstacle should
yield, and he should enter the apartment, my determination was formed to
leap from the window. My senses were still bound to this object. I gazed
at the door in momentary expectation that the assault would be made. The
pause continued. The person without was irresolute and motionless.

Suddenly, it occurred to me that Carwin might conceive me to have fled.
That I had not betaken myself to flight was, indeed, the least probable
of all conclusions. In this persuasion he must have been confirmed on
finding the lower door unfastened, and the chamber door locked. Was
it not wise to foster this persuasion? Should I maintain deep silence,
this, in addition to other circumstances, might encourage the belief,
and he would once more depart. Every new reflection added plausibility
to this reasoning. It was presently more strongly enforced, when I
noticed footsteps withdrawing from the door. The blood once more flowed
back to my heart, and a dawn of exultation began to rise: but my joy was
short lived. Instead of descending the stairs, he passed to the door of
the opposite chamber, opened it, and having entered, shut it after him
with a violence that shook the house.

How was I to interpret this circumstance? For what end could he have
entered this chamber? Did the violence with which he closed the door
testify the depth of his vexation? This room was usually occupied by
Pleyel. Was Carwin aware of his absence on this night? Could he be
suspected of a design so sordid as pillage? If this were his view there
were no means in my power to frustrate it. It behoved me to seize the
first opportunity to escape; but if my escape were supposed by my
enemy to have been already effected, no asylum was more secure than the
present. How could my passage from the house be accomplished without
noises that might incite him to pursue me?

Utterly at a loss to account for his going into Pleyel's chamber, I
waited in instant expectation of hearing him come forth. All, however,
was profoundly still. I listened in vain for a considerable period, to
catch the sound of the door when it should again be opened. There was
no other avenue by which he could escape, but a door which led into the
girl's chamber. Would any evil from this quarter befall the girl?

Hence arose a new train of apprehensions. They merely added to the
turbulence and agony of my reflections. Whatever evil impended over her,
I had no power to avert it. Seclusion and silence were the only means of
saving myself from the perils of this fatal night. What solemn vows did
I put up, that if I should once more behold the light of day, I would
never trust myself again within the threshold of this dwelling!

Minute lingered after minute, but no token was given that Carwin had
returned to the passage. What, I again asked, could detain him in this
room? Was it possible that he had returned, and glided, unperceived,
away? I was speedily aware of the difficulty that attended an enterprize
like this; and yet, as if by that means I were capable of gaining any
information on that head, I cast anxious looks from the window.

The object that first attracted my attention was an human figure
standing on the edge of the bank. Perhaps my penetration was assisted
by my hopes. Be that as it will, the figure of Carwin was clearly
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 incredible than that my eyes had deceived me.
But what was now to be done? The house was at length delivered from this
detested inmate. By one avenue might he again re-enter. Was it not wise
to bar the lower door? Perhaps he had gone out by the kitchen door. For
this end, he must have passed through Judith's chamber. These entrances
being closed and bolted, as great security was gained as was compatible
with my lonely condition.

The propriety of these measures was too manifest not to make me struggle
successfully with my fears. Yet I opened my own door with the utmost
caution, and descended as if I were afraid that Carwin had been still
immured in Pleyel's chamber. The outer door was a-jar. I shut, with
trembling eagerness, and drew every bolt that appended to it. I then
passed with light and less cautious steps through the parlour, but was
surprized to discover that the kitchen door was secure. I was compelled
to acquiesce in the first conjecture that Carwin had escaped through the
entry.

My heart was now somewhat eased of the load of apprehension. I returned
once more to my chamber, the door of which I was careful to lock. It was
no time to think of repose. The moon-light began already to fade before
the light of the day. The approach of morning was betokened by the usual
signals. I mused upon the events of this night, and determined to take
up my abode henceforth at my brother's. Whether I should inform him
of what had happened was a question which seemed to demand some
consideration. My safety unquestionably required that I should abandon
my present habitation.

As my thoughts began to flow with fewer impediments, the image of
Pleyel, and the dubiousness of his condition, again recurred to me. I
again ran over the possible causes of his absence on the preceding day.
My mind was attuned to melancholy. I dwelt, with an obstinacy for which
I could not account, on the idea of his death. I painted to myself his
struggles with the billows, and his last appearance. I imagined myself
a midnight wanderer on the shore, and to have stumbled on his corpse,
which the tide had cast up. These dreary images affected me even to
tears. I endeavoured not to restrain them. They imparted a relief which
I had not anticipated. The more copiously they flowed, the more did
my general sensations appear to subside into calm, and a certain
restlessness give way to repose.

Perhaps, relieved by this effusion, the slumber so much wanted might
have stolen on my senses, had there been no new cause of alarm.



Chapter XI


I was aroused from this stupor by sounds that evidently arose in the
next chamber. Was it possible that I had been mistaken in the figure
which I had seen on the bank? or had Carwin, by some inscrutable means,
penetrated once more into this chamber? The opposite door opened;
footsteps came forth, and the person, advancing to mine, knocked.

So unexpected an incident robbed me of all presence of mind, and,
starting up, I involuntarily exclaimed, "Who is there?" An answer was
immediately given. The voice, to my inexpressible astonishment, was
Pleyel's.

"It is I. Have you risen? If you have not, make haste; I want three
minutes conversation with you in the parlour--I will wait for you
there." Saying this he retired from the door.

Should I confide in the testimony of my ears? If that were true, it was
Pleyel that had been hitherto immured in the opposite chamber: he whom
my rueful fancy had depicted in so many ruinous and ghastly shapes: he
whose footsteps had been listened to with such inquietude! What is man,
that knowledge is so sparingly conferred upon him! that his heart should
be wrung with distress, and his frame be exanimated with fear, though
his safety be encompassed with impregnable walls! What are the bounds
of human imbecility! He that warned me of the presence of my foe refused
the intimation by which so many racking fears would have been precluded.

Yet who would have imagined the arrival of Pleyel at such an hour? His
tone was desponding and anxious. Why this unseasonable summons? and why
this hasty departure? Some tidings he, perhaps, bears of mysterious and
unwelcome import.

My impatience would not allow me to consume much time in deliberation: I
hastened down. Pleyel I found standing at a window, with eyes cast
down as in meditation, and arms folded on his breast. Every line in
his countenance was pregnant with sorrow. To this was added a certain
wanness and air of fatigue. The last time I had seen him appearances
had been the reverse of these. I was startled at the change. The first
impulse was to question him as to the cause. This impulse was supplanted
by some degree of confusion, flowing from a consciousness that love had
too large, and, as it might prove, a perceptible share in creating this
impulse. I was silent.

Presently he raised his eyes and fixed them upon me. I read in them an
anguish altogether ineffable. Never had I witnessed a like demeanour
in Pleyel. Never, indeed, had I observed an human countenance in which
grief was more legibly inscribed. He seemed struggling for utterance;
but his struggles being fruitless, he shook his head and turned away
from me.

My impatience would not allow me to be longer silent:

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