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.
      

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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.

CONTENTS

Chapter I

Chapter II

Chapter III

Chapter IV

Chapter V

Chapter VI

Chapter VII

Chapter VIII

Chapter IX

Chapter X

Chapter XI

Chapter XII

Chapter XIII

Chapter XIV

Chapter XV

Chapter XVI

Chapter XVII

Chapter XVIII

Chapter XIX

Chapter XX

Chapter XXI

Chapter XXII

Chapter XXIII

Chapter XXIV

Chapter XXV

Chapter XXVI

Chapter XXVII

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." "Catherine 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: "What," said I, "for
heaven's sake, my friend, what is the matter?"

He started at the sound of my voice. His looks, for a moment, became
convulsed with an emotion very different from grief. His accents were
broken with rage.

"The matter—O wretch!—thus exquisitely fashioned—on whom
nature seemed to have exhausted all her graces; with charms so awful and
so pure! how art thou fallen! From what height fallen! A ruin so complete—so
unheard of!"

His words were again choaked by emotion. Grief and pity were again mingled
in his features. He resumed, in a tone half suffocated by sobs:

"But why should I upbraid thee? Could I restore to thee what thou hast
lost; efface this cursed stain; snatch thee from the jaws of this fiend; I
would do it. Yet what will avail my efforts? I have not arms with which to
contend with so consummate, so frightful a depravity.

"Evidence less than this would only have excited resentment and scorn. The
wretch who should have breathed a suspicion injurious to thy honor, would
have been regarded without anger; not hatred or envy could have prompted
him; it would merely be an argument of madness. That my eyes, that my
ears, should bear witness to thy fall! By no other way could detestible
conviction be imparted.

"Why do I summon thee to this conference? Why expose myself to thy
derision? Here admonition and entreaty are vain. Thou knowest him already,
for a murderer and thief. I had thought to have been the first to disclose
to thee his infamy; to have warned thee of the pit to which thou art
hastening; but thy eyes are open in vain. O foul and insupportable
disgrace!

"There is but one path. I know you will disappear together. In thy ruin,
how will the felicity and honor of multitudes be involved! But it must
come. This scene shall not be blotted by his presence. No doubt thou wilt
shortly see thy detested paramour. This scene will be again polluted by a
midnight assignation. Inform him of his danger; tell him that his crimes
are known; let him fly far and instantly from this spot, if he desires to
avoid the fate which menaced him in Ireland.

"And wilt thou not stay behind?—But shame upon my weakness. I know
not what I would say.—I have done what I purposed. To stay longer,
to expostulate, to beseech, to enumerate the consequences of thy act—what
end can it serve but to blazon thy infamy and embitter our woes? And yet,
O think, think ere it be too late, on the distresses which thy flight will
entail upon us; on the base, grovelling, and atrocious character of the
wretch to whom thou hast sold thy honor. But what is this? Is not thy
effrontery impenetrable, and thy heart thoroughly cankered? O most
specious, and most profligate of women!"

Saying this, he rushed out of the house. I saw him in a few moments
hurrying along the path which led to my brother's. I had no power to
prevent his going, or to recall, or to follow him. The accents I had heard
were calculated to confound and bewilder. I looked around me to assure
myself that the scene was real. I moved that I might banish the doubt that
I was awake. Such enormous imputations from the mouth of Pleyel! To be
stigmatized with the names of wanton and profligate! To be charged with
the sacrifice of honor! with midnight meetings with a wretch known to be a
murderer and thief! with an intention to fly in his company!

What I had heard was surely the dictate of phrenzy, or it was built upon
some fatal, some incomprehensible mistake. After the horrors of the night;
after undergoing perils so imminent from this man, to be summoned to an
interview like this; to find Pleyel fraught with a belief that, instead of
having chosen death as a refuge from the violence of this man, I had
hugged his baseness to my heart, had sacrificed for him my purity, my
spotless name, my friendships, and my fortune! that even madness could
engender accusations like these was not to be believed.

What evidence could possibly suggest conceptions so wild? After the
unlooked-for interview with Carwin in my chamber, he retired. Could Pleyel
have observed his exit? It was not long after that Pleyel himself entered.
Did he build on this incident, his odious conclusions? Could the long
series of my actions and sentiments grant me no exemption from suspicions
so foul? Was it not more rational to infer that Carwin's designs had been
illicit; that my life had been endangered by the fury of one whom, by some
means, he had discovered to be an assassin and robber; that my honor had
been assailed, not by blandishments, but by violence?

He has judged me without hearing. He has drawn from dubious appearances,
conclusions the most improbable and unjust. He has loaded me with all
outrageous epithets. He has ranked me with prostitutes and thieves. I
cannot pardon thee, Pleyel, for this injustice. Thy understanding must be
hurt. If it be not, if thy conduct was sober and deliberate, I can never
forgive an outrage so unmanly, and so gross.

These thoughts gradually gave place to others. Pleyel was possessed by
some momentary phrenzy: appearances had led him into palpable errors.
Whence could his sagacity have contracted this blindness? Was it not love?
Previously assured of my affection for Carwin, distracted with grief and
jealousy, and impelled hither at that late hour by some unknown
instigation, his imagination transformed shadows into monsters, and
plunged him into these deplorable errors.

This idea was not unattended with consolation. My soul was divided between
indignation at his injustice, and delight on account of the source from
which I conceived it to spring. For a long time they would allow admission
to no other thoughts. Surprize is an emotion that enfeebles, not
invigorates. All my meditations were accompanied with wonder. I rambled
with vagueness, or clung to one image with an obstinacy which sufficiently
testified the maddening influence of late transactions.

Gradually I proceeded to reflect upon the consequences of Pleyel's
mistake, and on the measures I should take to guard myself against future
injury from Carwin. Should I suffer this mistake to be detected by time?
When his passion should subside, would he not perceive the flagrancy of
his injustice, and hasten to atone for it? Did it not become my character
to testify resentment for language and treatment so opprobrious? Wrapt up
in the consciousness of innocence, and confiding in the influence of time
and reflection to confute so groundless a charge, it was my province to be
passive and silent.

As to the violences meditated by Carwin, and the means of eluding them,
the path to be taken by me was obvious. I resolved to tell the tale to my
brother, and regulate myself by his advice. For this end, when the morning
was somewhat advanced, I took the way to his house. My sister was engaged
in her customary occupations. As soon as I appeared, she remarked a change
in my looks. I was not willing to alarm her by the information which I had
to communicate. Her health was in that condition which rendered a
disastrous tale particularly unsuitable. I forbore a direct answer to her
inquiries, and inquired, in my turn, for Wieland.

"Why," said she, "I suspect something mysterious and unpleasant has
happened this morning. Scarcely had we risen when Pleyel dropped among us.
What could have prompted him to make us so early and so unseasonable a
visit I cannot tell. To judge from the disorder of his dress, and his
countenance, something of an extraordinary nature has occurred. He
permitted me merely to know that he had slept none, nor even undressed,
during the past night. He took your brother to walk with him. Some topic
must have deeply engaged them, for Wieland did not return till the
breakfast hour was passed, and returned alone. His disturbance was
excessive; but he would not listen to my importunities, or tell me what
had happened. I gathered from hints which he let fall, that your situation
was, in some way, the cause: yet he assured me that you were at your own
house, alive, in good health, and in perfect safety. He scarcely ate a
morsel, and immediately after breakfast went out again. He would not
inform me whither he was going, but mentioned that he probably might not
return before night."

I was equally astonished and alarmed by this information. Pleyel had told
his tale to my brother, and had, by a plausible and exaggerated picture,
instilled into him unfavorable thoughts of me. Yet would not the more
correct judgment of Wieland perceive and expose the fallacy of his
conclusions? Perhaps his uneasiness might arise from some insight into the
character of Carwin, and from apprehensions for my safety. The appearances
by which Pleyel had been misled, might induce him likewise to believe that
I entertained an indiscreet, though not dishonorable affection for Carwin.
Such were the conjectures rapidly formed. I was inexpressibly anxious to
change them into certainty. For this end an interview with my brother was
desirable. He was gone, no one knew whither, and was not expected speedily
to return. I had no clue by which to trace his footsteps.

My anxieties could not be concealed from my sister. They heightened her
solicitude to be acquainted with the cause. There were many reasons
persuading me to silence: at least, till I had seen my brother, it would
be an act of inexcusable temerity to unfold what had lately passed. No
other expedient for eluding her importunities occurred to me, but that of
returning to my own house. I recollected my determination to become a
tenant of this roof. I mentioned it to her. She joyfully acceded to this
proposal, and suffered me, with less reluctance, to depart, when I told
her that it was with a view to collect and send to my new dwelling what
articles would be immediately useful to me.

Once more I returned to the house which had been the scene of so much
turbulence and danger. I was at no great distance from it when I observed
my brother coming out. On seeing me he stopped, and after ascertaining, as
it seemed, which way I was going, he returned into the house before me. I
sincerely rejoiced at this event, and I hastened to set things, if
possible, on their right footing.

His brow was by no means expressive of those vehement emotions with which
Pleyel had been agitated. I drew a favorable omen from this circumstance.
Without delay I began the conversation.

"I have been to look for you," said I, "but was told by Catharine that
Pleyel had engaged you on some important and disagreeable affair. Before
his interview with you he spent a few minutes with me. These minutes he
employed in upbraiding me for crimes and intentions with which I am by no
means chargeable. I believe him to have taken up his opinions on very
insufficient grounds. His behaviour was in the highest degree precipitate
and unjust, and, until I receive some atonement, I shall treat him, in my
turn, with that contempt which he justly merits: meanwhile I am fearful
that he has prejudiced my brother against me. That is an evil which I most
anxiously deprecate, and which I shall indeed exert myself to remove. Has
he made me the subject of this morning's conversation?"

My brother's countenance testified no surprize at my address. The
benignity of his looks were no wise diminished.

"It is true," said he, "your conduct was the subject of our discourse. I
am your friend, as well as your brother. There is no human being whom I
love with more tenderness, and whose welfare is nearer my heart. Judge
then with what emotions I listened to Pleyel's story. I expect and desire
you to vindicate yourself from aspersions so foul, if vindication be
possible."

The tone with which he uttered the last words affected me deeply. "If
vindication be possible!" repeated I. "From what you know, do you deem a
formal vindication necessary? Can you harbour for a moment the belief of
my guilt?"

He shook his head with an air of acute anguish. "I have struggled," said
he, "to dismiss that belief. You speak before a judge who will profit by
any pretence to acquit you: who is ready to question his own senses when
they plead against you."

These words incited a new set of thoughts in my mind. I began to suspect
that Pleyel had built his accusations on some foundation unknown to me. "I
may be a stranger to the grounds of your belief. Pleyel loaded me with
indecent and virulent invectives, but he withheld from me the facts that
generated his suspicions. Events took place last night of which some of
the circumstances were of an ambiguous nature. I conceived that these
might possibly have fallen under his cognizance, and that, viewed through
the mists of prejudice and passion, they supplied a pretence for his
conduct, but believed that your more unbiassed judgment would estimate
them at their just value. Perhaps his tale has been different from what I
suspect it to be. Listen then to my narrative. If there be any thing in
his story inconsistent with mine, his story is false."

I then proceeded to a circumstantial relation of the incidents of the last
night. Wieland listened with deep attention. Having finished, "This,"
continued I, "is the truth; you see in what circumstances an interview
took place between Carwin and me. He remained for hours in my closet, and
for some minutes in my chamber. He departed without haste or interruption.
If Pleyel marked him as he left the house, and it is not impossible that
he did, inferences injurious to my character might suggest themselves to
him. In admitting them, he gave proofs of less discernment and less candor
than I once ascribed to him."

"His proofs," said Wieland, after a considerable pause, "are different.
That he should be deceived, is not possible. That he himself is not the
deceiver, could not be believed, if his testimony were not inconsistent
with yours; but the doubts which I entertained are now removed. Your tale,
some parts of it, is marvellous; the voice which exclaimed against your
rashness in approaching the closet, your persisting notwithstanding that
prohibition, your belief that I was the ruffian, and your subsequent
conduct, are believed by me, because I have known you from childhood,
because a thousand instances have attested your veracity, and because
nothing less than my own hearing and vision would convince me, in
opposition to her own assertions, that my sister had fallen into
wickedness like this."

I threw my arms around him, and bathed his cheek with my tears. "That,"
said I, "is spoken like my brother. But what are the proofs?"

He replied—"Pleyel informed me that, in going to your house, his
attention was attracted by two voices. The persons speaking sat beneath
the bank out of sight. These persons, judging by their voices, were Carwin
and you. I will not repeat the dialogue. If my sister was the female,
Pleyel was justified in concluding you to be, indeed, one of the most
profligate of women. Hence, his accusations of you, and his efforts to
obtain my concurrence to a plan by which an eternal separation should be
brought about between my sister and this man."

I made Wieland repeat this recital. Here, indeed, was a tale to fill me
with terrible foreboding. I had vainly thought that my safety could be
sufficiently secured by doors and bars, but this is a foe from whose grasp
no power of divinity can save me! His artifices will ever lay my fame and
happiness at his mercy. How shall I counterwork his plots, or detect his
coadjutor? He has taught some vile and abandoned female to mimic my voice.
Pleyel's ears were the witnesses of my dishonor. This is the midnight
assignation to which he alluded. Thus is the silence he maintained when
attempting to open the door of my chamber, accounted for. He supposed me
absent, and meant, perhaps, had my apartment been accessible, to leave in
it some accusing memorial.

Pleyel was no longer equally culpable. The sincerity of his anguish, the
depth of his despair, I remembered with some tendencies to gratitude. Yet
was he not precipitate? Was the conjecture that my part was played by some
mimic so utterly untenable? Instances of this faculty are common. The
wickedness of Carwin must, in his opinion, have been adequate to such
contrivances, and yet the supposition of my guilt was adopted in
preference to that.

But how was this error to be unveiled? What but my own assertion had I to
throw in the balance against it? Would this be permitted to outweigh the
testimony of his senses? I had no witnesses to prove my existence in
another place. The real events of that night are marvellous. Few, to whom
they should be related, would scruple to discredit them. Pleyel is
sceptical in a transcendant degree. I cannot summon Carwin to my bar, and
make him the attestor of my innocence, and the accuser of himself.

My brother saw and comprehended my distress. He was unacquainted, however,
with the full extent of it. He knew not by how many motives I was incited
to retrieve the good opinion of Pleyel. He endeavored to console me. Some
new event, he said, would occur to disentangle the maze. He did not
question the influence of my eloquence, if I thought proper to exert it.
Why not seek an interview with Pleyel, and exact from him a minute
relation, in which something may be met with serving to destroy the
probability of the whole?

I caught, with eagerness, at this hope; but my alacrity was damped by new
reflections. Should I, perfect in this respect, and unblemished as I was,
thrust myself, uncalled, into his presence, and make my felicity depend
upon his arbitrary verdict?

"If you chuse to seek an interview," continued Wieland, "you must make
haste, for Pleyel informed me of his intention to set out this evening or
to-morrow on a long journey."

No intelligence was less expected or less welcome than this. I had thrown
myself in a window seat; but now, starting on my feet, I exclaimed, "Good
heavens! what is it you say? a journey? whither? when?"

"I cannot say whither. It is a sudden resolution I believe. I did not hear
of it till this morning. He promises to write to me as soon as he is
settled."

I needed no further information as to the cause and issue of this journey.
The scheme of happiness to which he had devoted his thoughts was blasted
by the discovery of last night. My preference of another, and my
unworthiness to be any longer the object of his adoration, were evinced by
the same act and in the same moment. The thought of utter desertion, a
desertion originating in such a cause, was the prelude to distraction.
That Pleyel should abandon me forever, because I was blind to his
excellence, because I coveted pollution, and wedded infamy, when, on the
contrary, my heart was the shrine of all purity, and beat only for his
sake, was a destiny which, as long as my life was in my own hands, I would
by no means consent to endure.

I remembered that this evil was still preventable; that this fatal journey
it was still in my power to procrastinate, or, perhaps, to occasion it to
be laid aside. There were no impediments to a visit: I only dreaded lest
the interview should be too long delayed. My brother befriended my
impatience, and readily consented to furnish me with a chaise and servant
to attend me. My purpose was to go immediately to Pleyel's farm, where his
engagements usually detained him during the day.

Chapter XII

My way lay through the city. I had scarcely entered it when I was seized
with a general sensation of sickness. Every object grew dim and swam
before my sight. It was with difficulty I prevented myself from sinking to
the bottom of the carriage. I ordered myself to be carried to Mrs.
Baynton's, in hope that an interval of repose would invigorate and refresh
me. My distracted thoughts would allow me but little rest. Growing
somewhat better in the afternoon, I resumed my journey.

My contemplations were limited to a few objects. I regarded my success, in
the purpose which I had in view, as considerably doubtful. I depended, in
some degree, on the suggestions of the moment, and on the materials which
Pleyel himself should furnish me. When I reflected on the nature of the
accusation, I burned with disdain. Would not truth, and the consciousness
of innocence, render me triumphant? Should I not cast from me, with
irresistible force, such atrocious imputations?

What an entire and mournful change has been effected in a few hours! The
gulf that separates man from insects is not wider than that which severs
the polluted from the chaste among women. Yesterday and to-day I am the
same. There is a degree of depravity to which it is impossible for me to
sink; yet, in the apprehension of another, my ancient and intimate
associate, the perpetual witness of my actions, and partaker of my
thoughts, I had ceased to be the same. My integrity was tarnished and
withered in his eyes. I was the colleague of a murderer, and the paramour
of a thief!

His opinion was not destitute of evidence: yet what proofs could
reasonably avail to establish an opinion like this? If the sentiments
corresponded not with the voice that was heard, the evidence was
deficient; but this want of correspondence would have been supposed by me
if I had been the auditor and Pleyel the criminal. But mimicry might still
more plausibly have been employed to explain the scene. Alas! it is the
fate of Clara Wieland to fall into the hands of a precipitate and
inexorable judge.

But what, O man of mischief! is the tendency of thy thoughts? Frustrated
in thy first design, thou wilt not forego the immolation of thy victim. To
exterminate my reputation was all that remained to thee, and this my
guardian has permitted. To dispossess Pleyel of this prejudice may be
impossible; but if that be effected, it cannot be supposed that thy wiles
are exhausted; thy cunning will discover innumerable avenues to the
accomplishment of thy malignant purpose.

Why should I enter the lists against thee? Would to heaven I could disarm
thy vengeance by my deprecations! When I think of all the resources with
which nature and education have supplied thee; that thy form is a
combination of steely fibres and organs of exquisite ductility and
boundless compass, actuated by an intelligence gifted with infinite
endowments, and comprehending all knowledge, I perceive that my doom is
fixed. What obstacle will be able to divert thy zeal or repel thy efforts?
That being who has hitherto protected me has borne testimony to the
formidableness of thy attempts, since nothing less than supernatural
interference could check thy career.

Musing on these thoughts, I arrived, towards the close of the day, at
Pleyel's house. A month before, I had traversed the same path; but how
different were my sensations! Now I was seeking the presence of one who
regarded me as the most degenerate of human kind. I was to plead the cause
of my innocence, against witnesses the most explicit and unerring, of
those which support the fabric of human knowledge. The nearer I approached
the crisis, the more did my confidence decay. When the chaise stopped at
the door, my strength refused to support me, and I threw myself into the
arms of an ancient female domestic. I had not courage to inquire whether
her master was at home. I was tormented with fears that the projected
journey was already undertaken. These fears were removed, by her asking me
whether she should call her young master, who had just gone into his own
room. I was somewhat revived by this intelligence, and resolved
immediately to seek him there.

In my confusion of mind, I neglected to knock at the door, but entered his
apartment without previous notice. This abruptness was altogether
involuntary. Absorbed in reflections of such unspeakable moment, I had no
leisure to heed the niceties of punctilio. I discovered him standing with
his back towards the entrance. A small trunk, with its lid raised, was
before him in which it seemed as if he had been busy in packing his
clothes. The moment of my entrance, he was employed in gazing at something
which he held in his hand.

I imagined that I fully comprehended this scene. The image which he held
before him, and by which his attention was so deeply engaged, I doubted
not to be my own. These preparations for his journey, the cause to which
it was to be imputed, the hopelessness of success in the undertaking on
which I had entered, rushed at once upon my feelings, and dissolved me
into a flood of tears.

Startled by this sound, he dropped the lid of the trunk and turned. The
solemn sadness that previously overspread his countenance, gave sudden way
to an attitude and look of the most vehement astonishment. Perceiving me
unable to uphold myself, he stepped towards me without speaking, and
supported me by his arm. The kindness of this action called forth a new
effusion from my eyes. Weeping was a solace to which, at that time, I had
not grown familiar, and which, therefore, was peculiarly delicious.
Indignation was no longer to be read in the features of my friend. They
were pregnant with a mixture of wonder and pity. Their expression was
easily interpreted. This visit, and these tears, were tokens of my
penitence. The wretch whom he had stigmatized as incurably and obdurately
wicked, now shewed herself susceptible of remorse, and had come to confess
her guilt.

This persuasion had no tendency to comfort me. It only shewed me, with new
evidence, the difficulty of the task which I had assigned myself. We were
mutually silent. I had less power and less inclination than ever to speak.
I extricated myself from his hold, and threw myself on a sofa. He placed
himself by my side, and appeared to wait with impatience and anxiety for
some beginning of the conversation. What could I say? If my mind had
suggested any thing suitable to the occasion, my utterance was suffocated
by tears.

Frequently he attempted to speak, but seemed deterred by some degree of
uncertainty as to the true nature of the scene. At length, in faltering
accents he spoke:

"My friend! would to heaven I were still permitted to call you by that
name. The image that I once adored existed only in my fancy; but though I
cannot hope to see it realized, you may not be totally insensible to the
horrors of that gulf into which you are about to plunge. What heart is
forever exempt from the goadings of compunction and the influx of laudable
propensities?

"I thought you accomplished and wise beyond the rest of women. Not a
sentiment you uttered, not a look you assumed, that were not, in my
apprehension, fraught with the sublimities of rectitude and the
illuminations of genius. Deceit has some bounds. Your education could not
be without influence. A vigorous understanding cannot be utterly devoid of
virtue; but you could not counterfeit the powers of invention and
reasoning. I was rash in my invectives. I will not, but with life,
relinquish all hopes of you. I will shut out every proof that would tell
me that your heart is incurably diseased.

"You come to restore me once more to happiness; to convince me that you
have torn her mask from vice, and feel nothing but abhorrence for the part
you have hitherto acted."

At these words my equanimity forsook me. For a moment I forgot the
evidence from which Pleyel's opinions were derived, the benevolence of his
remonstrances, and the grief which his accents bespoke; I was filled with
indignation and horror at charges so black; I shrunk back and darted at
him a look of disdain and anger. My passion supplied me with words.

"What detestable infatuation was it that led me hither! Why do I patiently
endure these horrible insults! My offences exist only in your own
distempered imagination: you are leagued with the traitor who assailed my
life: you have vowed the destruction of my peace and honor. I deserve
infamy for listening to calumnies so base!"

These words were heard by Pleyel without visible resentment. His
countenance relapsed into its former gloom; but he did not even look at
me. The ideas which had given place to my angry emotions returned, and
once more melted me into tears. "O!" I exclaimed, in a voice broken by
sobs, "what a task is mine! Compelled to hearken to charges which I feel
to be false, but which I know to be believed by him that utters them;
believed too not without evidence, which, though fallacious, is not
unplausible.

"I came hither not to confess, but to vindicate. I know the source of your
opinions. Wieland has informed me on what your suspicions are built. These
suspicions are fostered by you as certainties; the tenor of my life, of
all my conversations and letters, affords me no security; every sentiment
that my tongue and my pen have uttered, bear testimony to the rectitude of
my mind; but this testimony is rejected. I am condemned as brutally
profligate: I am classed with the stupidly and sordidly wicked.

"And where are the proofs that must justify so foul and so improbable an
accusation? You have overheard a midnight conference. Voices have saluted
your ear, in which you imagine yourself to have recognized mine, and that
of a detected villain. The sentiments expressed were not allowed to
outweigh the casual or concerted resemblance of voice. Sentiments the
reverse of all those whose influence my former life had attested, denoting
a mind polluted by grovelling vices, and entering into compact with that
of a thief and a murderer. The nature of these sentiments did not enable
you to detect the cheat, did not suggest to you the possibility that my
voice had been counterfeited by another.

"You were precipitate and prone to condemn. Instead of rushing on the
impostors, and comparing the evidence of sight with that of hearing, you
stood aloof, or you fled. My innocence would not now have stood in need of
vindication, if this conduct had been pursued. That you did not pursue it,
your present thoughts incontestibly prove. Yet this conduct might surely
have been expected from Pleyel. That he would not hastily impute the
blackest of crimes, that he would not couple my name with infamy, and
cover me with ruin for inadequate or slight reasons, might reasonably have
been expected." The sobs which convulsed my bosom would not suffer me to
proceed.

Pleyel was for a moment affected. He looked at me with some expression of
doubt; but this quickly gave place to a mournful solemnity. He fixed his
eyes on the floor as in reverie, and spoke:

"Two hours hence I am gone. Shall I carry away with me the sorrow that is
now my guest? or shall that sorrow be accumulated tenfold? What is she
that is now before me? Shall every hour supply me with new proofs of a
wickedness beyond example? Already I deem her the most abandoned and
detestable of human creatures. Her coming and her tears imparted a gleam
of hope, but that gleam has vanished."

He now fixed his eyes upon me, and every muscle in his face trembled. His
tone was hollow and terrible—"Thou knowest that I was a witness of
your interview, yet thou comest hither to upbraid me for injustice! Thou
canst look me in the face and say that I am deceived!—An inscrutable
providence has fashioned thee for some end. Thou wilt live, no doubt, to
fulfil the purposes of thy maker, if he repent not of his workmanship, and
send not his vengeance to exterminate thee, ere the measure of thy days be
full. Surely nothing in the shape of man can vie with thee!

"But I thought I had stifled this fury. I am not constituted thy judge. My
office is to pity and amend, and not to punish and revile. I deemed myself
exempt from all tempestuous passions. I had almost persuaded myself to
weep over thy fall; but I am frail as dust, and mutable as water; I am
calm, I am compassionate only in thy absence.—Make this house, this
room, thy abode as long as thou wilt, but forgive me if I prefer solitude
for the short time during which I shall stay." Saying this, he motioned as
if to leave the apartment.

The stormy passions of this man affected me by sympathy. I ceased to weep.
I was motionless and speechless with agony. I sat with my hands clasped,
mutely gazing after him as he withdrew. I desired to detain him, but was
unable to make any effort for that purpose, till he had passed out of the
room. I then uttered an involuntary and piercing cry—"Pleyel! Art
thou gone? Gone forever?"

At this summons he hastily returned. He beheld me wild, pale, gasping for
breath, and my head already sinking on my bosom. A painful dizziness
seized me, and I fainted away.

When I recovered, I found myself stretched on a bed in the outer
apartment, and Pleyel, with two female servants standing beside it. All
the fury and scorn which the countenance of the former lately expressed,
had now disappeared, and was succeeded by the most tender anxiety. As soon
as he perceived that my senses were returned to me, he clasped his hands,
and exclaimed, "God be thanked! you are once more alive. I had almost
despaired of your recovery. I fear I have been precipitate and unjust. My
senses must have been the victims of some inexplicable and momentary
phrenzy. Forgive me, I beseech you, forgive my reproaches. I would
purchase conviction of your purity, at the price of my existence here and
hereafter."

He once more, in a tone of the most fervent tenderness, besought me to be
composed, and then left me to the care of the women.

Chapter XIII

Here was wrought a surprizing change in my friend. What was it that had
shaken conviction so firm? Had any thing occurred during my fit, adequate
to produce so total an alteration? My attendants informed me that he had
not left my apartment; that the unusual duration of my fit, and the
failure, for a time, of all the means used for my recovery, had filled him
with grief and dismay. Did he regard the effect which his reproaches had
produced as a proof of my sincerity?

In this state of mind, I little regarded my languors of body. I rose and
requested an interview with him before my departure, on which I was
resolved, notwithstanding his earnest solicitation to spend the night at
his house. He complied with my request. The tenderness which he had lately
betrayed, had now disappeared, and he once more relapsed into a chilling
solemnity.

I told him that I was preparing to return to my brother's; that I had come
hither to vindicate my innocence from the foul aspersions which he had
cast upon it. My pride had not taken refuge in silence or distance. I had
not relied upon time, or the suggestion of his cooler thoughts, to confute
his charges. Conscious as I was that I was perfectly guiltless, and
entertaining some value for his good opinion, I could not prevail upon
myself to believe that my efforts to make my innocence manifest, would be
fruitless. Adverse appearances might be numerous and specious, but they
were unquestionably false. I was willing to believe him sincere, that he
made no charges which he himself did not believe; but these charges were
destitute of truth. The grounds of his opinion were fallacious; and I
desired an opportunity of detecting their fallacy. I entreated him to be
explicit, and to give me a detail of what he had heard, and what he had
seen.

At these words, my companion's countenance grew darker. He appeared to be
struggling with his rage. He opened his lips to speak, but his accents
died away ere they were formed. This conflict lasted for some minutes, but
his fortitude was finally successful. He spoke as follows:

"I would fain put an end to this hateful scene: what I shall say, will be
breath idly and unprofitably consumed. The clearest narrative will add
nothing to your present knowledge. You are acquainted with the grounds of
my opinion, and yet you avow yourself innocent: Why then should I rehearse
these grounds? You are apprized of the character of Carwin: Why then
should I enumerate the discoveries which I have made respecting him? Yet,
since it is your request; since, considering the limitedness of human
faculties, some error may possibly lurk in those appearances which I have
witnessed, I will briefly relate what I know.

"Need I dwell upon the impressions which your conversation and deportment
originally made upon me? We parted in childhood; but our intercourse, by
letter, was copious and uninterrupted. How fondly did I anticipate a
meeting with one whom her letters had previously taught me to consider as
the first of women, and how fully realized were the expectations that I
had formed!

"Here, said I, is a being, after whom sages may model their transcendent
intelligence, and painters, their ideal beauty. Here is exemplified, that
union between intellect and form, which has hitherto existed only in the
conceptions of the poet. I have watched your eyes; my attention has hung
upon your lips. I have questioned whether the enchantments of your voice
were more conspicuous in the intricacies of melody, or the emphasis of
rhetoric. I have marked the transitions of your discourse, the felicities
of your expression, your refined argumentation, and glowing imagery; and
been forced to acknowledge, that all delights were meagre and
contemptible, compared with those connected with the audience and sight of
you. I have contemplated your principles, and been astonished at the
solidity of their foundation, and the perfection of their structure. I
have traced you to your home. I have viewed you in relation to your
servants, to your family, to your neighbours, and to the world. I have
seen by what skilful arrangements you facilitate the performance of the
most arduous and complicated duties; what daily accessions of strength
your judicious discipline bestowed upon your memory; what correctness and
abundance of knowledge was daily experienced by your unwearied application
to books, and to writing. If she that possesses so much in the bloom of
youth, will go on accumulating her stores, what, said I, is the picture
she will display at a mature age?

"You know not the accuracy of my observation. I was desirous that others
should profit by an example so rare. I therefore noted down, in writing,
every particular of your conduct. I was anxious to benefit by an
opportunity so seldom afforded us. I laboured not to omit the slightest
shade, or the most petty line in your portrait. Here there was no other
task incumbent on me but to copy; there was no need to exaggerate or
overlook, in order to produce a more unexceptionable pattern. Here was a
combination of harmonies and graces, incapable of diminution or accession
without injury to its completeness.

"I found no end and no bounds to my task. No display of a scene like this
could be chargeable with redundancy or superfluity. Even the colour of a
shoe, the knot of a ribband, or your attitude in plucking a rose, were of
moment to be recorded. Even the arrangements of your breakfast-table and
your toilet have been amply displayed.

"I know that mankind are more easily enticed to virtue by example than by
precept. I know that the absoluteness of a model, when supplied by
invention, diminishes its salutary influence, since it is useless, we
think, to strive after that which we know to be beyond our reach. But the
picture which I drew was not a phantom; as a model, it was devoid of
imperfection; and to aspire to that height which had been really attained,
was by no means unreasonable. I had another and more interesting object in
view. One existed who claimed all my tenderness. Here, in all its parts,
was a model worthy of assiduous study, and indefatigable imitation. I
called upon her, as she wished to secure and enhance my esteem, to mould
her thoughts, her words, her countenance, her actions, by this pattern.

"The task was exuberant of pleasure, and I was deeply engaged in it, when
an imp of mischief was let loose in the form of Carwin. I admired his
powers and accomplishments. I did not wonder that they were admired by
you. On the rectitude of your judgement, however, I relied to keep this
admiration within discreet and scrupulous bounds. I assured myself, that
the strangeness of his deportment, and the obscurity of his life, would
teach you caution. Of all errors, my knowledge of your character informed
me that this was least likely to befall you.

"You were powerfully affected by his first appearance; you were bewitched
by his countenance and his tones; your description was ardent and
pathetic: I listened to you with some emotions of surprize. The portrait
you drew in his absence, and the intensity with which you mused upon it,
were new and unexpected incidents. They bespoke a sensibility somewhat too
vivid; but from which, while subjected to the guidance of an understanding
like yours, there was nothing to dread.

"A more direct intercourse took place between you. I need not apologize
for the solicitude which I entertained for your safety. He that gifted me
with perception of excellence, compelled me to love it. In the midst of
danger and pain, my contemplations have ever been cheered by your image.
Every object in competition with you, was worthless and trivial. No price
was too great by which your safety could be purchased. For that end, the
sacrifice of ease, of health, and even of life, would cheerfully have been
made by me. What wonder then, that I scrutinized the sentiments and
deportment of this man with ceaseless vigilance; that I watched your words
and your looks when he was present; and that I extracted cause for the
deepest inquietudes, from every token which you gave of having put your
happiness into this man's keeping?

"I was cautious in deciding. I recalled the various conversations in which
the topics of love and marriage had been discussed. As a woman, young,
beautiful, and independent, it behoved you to have fortified your mind
with just principles on this subject. Your principles were eminently just.
Had not their rectitude and their firmness been attested by your treatment
of that specious seducer Dashwood? These principles, I was prone to
believe, exempted you from danger in this new state of things. I was not
the last to pay my homage to the unrivalled capacity, insinuation, and
eloquence of this man. I have disguised, but could never stifle the
conviction, that his eyes and voice had a witchcraft in them, which
rendered him truly formidable: but I reflected on the ambiguous expression
of his countenance—an ambiguity which you were the first to remark;
on the cloud which obscured his character; and on the suspicious nature of
that concealment which he studied; and concluded you to be safe. I denied
the obvious construction to appearances. I referred your conduct to some
principle which had not been hitherto disclosed, but which was
reconcileable with those already known.

"I was not suffered to remain long in this suspence. One evening, you may
recollect, I came to your house, where it was my purpose, as usual, to
lodge, somewhat earlier than ordinary. I spied a light in your chamber as
I approached from the outside, and on inquiring of Judith, was informed
that you were writing. As your kinsman and friend, and fellow-lodger, I
thought I had a right to be familiar. You were in your chamber, but your
employment and the time were such as to make it no infraction of decorum
to follow you thither. The spirit of mischievous gaiety possessed me. I
proceeded on tiptoe. You did not perceive my entrance; and I advanced
softly till I was able to overlook your shoulder.

"I had gone thus far in error, and had no power to recede. How cautiously
should we guard against the first inroads of temptation! I knew that to
pry into your papers was criminal; but I reflected that no sentiment of
yours was of a nature which made it your interest to conceal it. You wrote
much more than you permitted your friends to peruse. My curiosity was
strong, and I had only to throw a glance upon the paper, to secure its
gratification. I should never have deliberately committed an act like
this. The slightest obstacle would have repelled me; but my eye glanced
almost spontaneously upon the paper. I caught only parts of sentences; but
my eyes comprehended more at a glance, because the characters were
short-hand. I lighted on the words SUMMER-HOUSE, MIDNIGHT, and made out a
passage which spoke of the propriety and of the effects to be expected
from ANOTHER interview. All this passed in less than a moment. I then
checked myself, and made myself known to you, by a tap upon your shoulder.

"I could pardon and account for some trifling alarm; but your trepidation
and blushes were excessive. You hurried the paper out of sight, and seemed
too anxious to discover whether I knew the contents to allow yourself to
make any inquiries. I wondered at these appearances of consternation, but
did not reason on them until I had retired. When alone, these incidents
suggested themselves to my reflections anew.

"To what scene, or what interview, I asked, did you allude? Your
disappearance on a former evening, my tracing you to the recess in the
bank, your silence on my first and second call, your vague answers and
invincible embarrassment, when you, at length, ascended the hill, I
recollected with new surprize. Could this be the summerhouse alluded to? A
certain timidity and consciousness had generally attended you, when this
incident and this recess had been the subjects of conversation. Nay, I
imagined that the last time that adventure was mentioned, which happened
in the presence of Carwin, the countenance of the latter betrayed some
emotion. Could the interview have been with him?

"This was an idea calculated to rouse every faculty to contemplation. An
interview at that hour, in this darksome retreat, with a man of this
mysterious but formidable character; a clandestine interview, and one
which you afterwards endeavoured with so much solicitude to conceal! It
was a fearful and portentous occurrence. I could not measure his power, or
fathom his designs. Had he rifled from you the secret of your love, and
reconciled you to concealment and noctural meetings? I scarcely ever spent
a night of more inquietude.

"I knew not how to act. The ascertainment of this man's character and
views seemed to be, in the first place, necessary. Had he openly preferred
his suit to you, we should have been impowered to make direct inquiries;
but since he had chosen this obscure path, it seemed reasonable to infer
that his character was exceptionable. It, at least, subjected us to the
necessity of resorting to other means of information. Yet the
improbability that you should commit a deed of such rashness, made me
reflect anew upon the insufficiency of those grounds on which my
suspicions had been built, and almost to condemn myself for harbouring
them.

"Though it was mere conjecture that the interview spoken of had taken
place with Carwin, yet two ideas occurred to involve me in the most
painful doubts. This man's reasonings might be so specious, and his
artifices so profound, that, aided by the passion which you had conceived
for him, he had finally succeeded; or his situation might be such as to
justify the secrecy which you maintained. In neither case did my wildest
reveries suggest to me, that your honor had been forfeited.

"I could not talk with you on this subject. If the imputation was false,
its atrociousness would have justly drawn upon me your resentment, and I
must have explained by what facts it had been suggested. If it were true,
no benefit would follow from the mention of it. You had chosen to conceal
it for some reasons, and whether these reasons were true or false, it was
proper to discover and remove them in the first place. Finally, I
acquiesced in the least painful supposition, trammelled as it was with
perplexities, that Carwin was upright, and that, if the reasons of your
silence were known, they would be found to be just."

Chapter XIV

"Three days have elapsed since this occurrence. I have been haunted by
perpetual inquietude. To bring myself to regard Carwin without terror, and
to acquiesce in the belief of your safety, was impossible. Yet to put an
end to my doubts, seemed to be impracticable. If some light could be
reflected on the actual situation of this man, a direct path would present
itself. If he were, contrary to the tenor of his conversation, cunning and
malignant, to apprize you of this, would be to place you in security. If
he were merely unfortunate and innocent, most readily would I espouse his
cause; and if his intentions were upright with regard to you, most eagerly
would I sanctify your choice by my approbation.

"It would be vain to call upon Carwin for an avowal of his deeds. It was
better to know nothing, than to be deceived by an artful tale. What he was
unwilling to communicate, and this unwillingness had been repeatedly
manifested, could never be extorted from him. Importunity might be
appeased, or imposture effected by fallacious representations. To the rest
of the world he was unknown. I had often made him the subject of
discourse; but a glimpse of his figure in the street was the sum of their
knowledge who knew most. None had ever seen him before, and received as
new, the information which my intercourse with him in Valencia, and my
present intercourse, enabled me to give.

"Wieland was your brother. If he had really made you the object of his
courtship, was not a brother authorized to interfere and demand from him
the confession of his views? Yet what were the grounds on which I had
reared this supposition? Would they justify a measure like this? Surely
not.

"In the course of my restless meditations, it occurred to me, at length,
that my duty required me to speak to you, to confess the indecorum of
which I had been guilty, and to state the reflections to which it had led
me. I was prompted by no mean or selfish views. The heart within my breast
was not more precious than your safety: most cheerfully would I have
interposed my life between you and danger. Would you cherish resentment at
my conduct? When acquainted with the motive which produced it, it would
not only exempt me from censure, but entitle me to gratitude.

"Yesterday had been selected for the rehearsal of the newly-imported
tragedy. I promised to be present. The state of my thoughts but little
qualified me for a performer or auditor in such a scene; but I reflected
that, after it was finished, I should return home with you, and should
then enjoy an opportunity of discoursing with you fully on this topic. My
resolution was not formed without a remnant of doubt, as to its propriety.
When I left this house to perform the visit I had promised, my mind was
full of apprehension and despondency. The dubiousness of the event of our
conversation, fear that my interference was too late to secure your peace,
and the uncertainty to which hope gave birth, whether I had not erred in
believing you devoted to this man, or, at least, in imagining that he had
obtained your consent to midnight conferences, distracted me with
contradictory opinions, and repugnant emotions.

"I can assign no reason for calling at Mrs. Baynton's. I had seen her in
the morning, and knew her to be well. The concerted hour had nearly
arrived, and yet I turned up the street which leads to her house, and
dismounted at her door. I entered the parlour and threw myself in a chair.
I saw and inquired for no one. My whole frame was overpowered by dreary
and comfortless sensations. One idea possessed me wholly; the
inexpressible importance of unveiling the designs and character of Carwin,
and the utter improbability that this ever would be effected. Some
instinct induced me to lay my hand upon a newspaper. I had perused all the
general intelligence it contained in the morning, and at the same spot.
The act was rather mechanical than voluntary.

"I threw a languid glance at the first column that presented itself. The
first words which I read, began with the offer of a reward of three
hundred guineas for the apprehension of a convict under sentence of death,
who had escaped from Newgate prison in Dublin. Good heaven! how every
fibre of my frame tingled when I proceeded to read that the name of the
criminal was Francis Carwin!

"The descriptions of his person and address were minute. His stature,
hair, complexion, the extraordinary position and arrangement of his
features, his aukward and disproportionate form, his gesture and gait,
corresponded perfectly with those of our mysterious visitant. He had been
found guilty in two indictments. One for the murder of the Lady Jane
Conway, and the other for a robbery committed on the person of the
honorable Mr. Ludloe.

"I repeatedly perused this passage. The ideas which flowed in upon my
mind, affected me like an instant transition from death to life. The
purpose dearest to my heart was thus effected, at a time and by means the
least of all others within the scope of my foresight. But what purpose?
Carwin was detected. Acts of the blackest and most sordid guilt had been
committed by him. Here was evidence which imparted to my understanding the
most luminous certainty. The name, visage, and deportment, were the same.
Between the time of his escape, and his appearance among us, there was a
sufficient agreement. Such was the man with whom I suspected you to
maintain a clandestine correspondence. Should I not haste to snatch you
from the talons of this vulture? Should I see you rushing to the verge of
a dizzy precipice, and not stretch forth a hand to pull you back? I had no
need to deliberate. I thrust the paper in my pocket, and resolved to
obtain an immediate conference with you. For a time, no other image made
its way to my understanding. At length, it occurred to me, that though the
information I possessed was, in one sense, sufficient, yet if more could
be obtained, more was desirable. This passage was copied from a British
paper; part of it only, perhaps, was transcribed. The printer was in
possession of the original.

"Towards his house I immediately turned my horse's head. He produced the
paper, but I found nothing more than had already been seen. While busy in
perusing it, the printer stood by my side. He noticed the object of which
I was in search. "Aye," said he, "that is a strange affair. I should never
have met with it, had not Mr. Hallet sent to me the paper, with a
particular request to republish that advertisement."

"Mr. Hallet! What reasons could he have for making this request? Had the
paper sent to him been accompanied by any information respecting the
convict? Had he personal or extraordinary reasons for desiring its
republication? This was to be known only in one way. I speeded to his
house. In answer to my interrogations, he told me that Ludloe had formerly
been in America, and that during his residence in this city, considerable
intercourse had taken place between them. Hence a confidence arose, which
has since been kept alive by occasional letters. He had lately received a
letter from him, enclosing the newspaper from which this extract had been
made. He put it into my hands, and pointed out the passages which related
to Carwin.

"Ludloe confirms the facts of his conviction and escape; and adds, that he
had reason to believe him to have embarked for America. He describes him
in general terms, as the most incomprehensible and formidable among men;
as engaged in schemes, reasonably suspected to be, in the highest degree,
criminal, but such as no human intelligence is able to unravel: that his
ends are pursued by means which leave it in doubt whether he be not in
league with some infernal spirit: that his crimes have hitherto been
perpetrated with the aid of some unknown but desperate accomplices: that
he wages a perpetual war against the happiness of mankind, and sets his
engines of destruction at work against every object that presents itself.

"This is the substance of the letter. Hallet expressed some surprize at
the curiosity which was manifested by me on this occasion. I was too much
absorbed by the ideas suggested by this letter, to pay attention to his
remarks. I shuddered with the apprehension of the evil to which our
indiscreet familiarity with this man had probably exposed us. I burnt with
impatience to see you, and to do what in me lay to avert the calamity
which threatened us. It was already five o'clock. Night was hastening, and
there was no time to be lost. On leaving Mr. Hallet's house, who should
meet me in the street, but Bertrand, the servant whom I left in Germany.
His appearance and accoutrements bespoke him to have just alighted from a
toilsome and long journey. I was not wholly without expectation of seeing
him about this time, but no one was then more distant from my thoughts.
You know what reasons I have for anxiety respecting scenes with which this
man was conversant. Carwin was for a moment forgotten. In answer to my
vehement inquiries, Bertrand produced a copious packet. I shall not at
present mention its contents, nor the measures which they obliged me to
adopt. I bestowed a brief perusal on these papers, and having given some
directions to Bertrand, resumed my purpose with regard to you. My horse I
was obliged to resign to my servant, he being charged with a commission
that required speed. The clock had struck ten, and Mettingen was five
miles distant. I was to Journey thither on foot. These circumstances only
added to my expedition.

"As I passed swiftly along, I reviewed all the incidents accompanying the
appearance and deportment of that man among us. Late events have been
inexplicable and mysterious beyond any of which I have either read or
heard. These events were coeval with Carwin's introduction. I am unable to
explain their origin and mutual dependance; but I do not, on that account,
believe them to have a supernatural origin. Is not this man the agent?
Some of them seem to be propitious; but what should I think of those
threats of assassination with which you were lately alarmed? Bloodshed is
the trade, and horror is the element of this man. The process by which the
sympathies of nature are extinguished in our hearts, by which evil is made
our good, and by which we are made susceptible of no activity but in the
infliction, and no joy but in the spectacle of woes, is an obvious
process. As to an alliance with evil geniuses, the power and the malice of
daemons have been a thousand times exemplified in human beings. There are
no devils but those which are begotten upon selfishness, and reared by
cunning.

"Now, indeed, the scene was changed. It was not his secret poniard that I
dreaded. It was only the success of his efforts to make you a confederate
in your own destruction, to make your will the instrument by which he
might bereave you of liberty and honor.

"I took, as usual, the path through your brother's ground. I ranged with
celerity and silence along the bank. I approached the fence, which divides
Wieland's estate from yours. The recess in the bank being near this line,
it being necessary for me to pass near it, my mind being tainted with
inveterate suspicions concerning you; suspicions which were indebted for
their strength to incidents connected with this spot; what wonder that it
seized upon my thoughts! "I leaped on the fence; but before I descended on
the opposite side, I paused to survey the scene. Leaves dropping with dew,
and glistening in the moon's rays, with no moving object to molest the
deep repose, filled me with security and hope. I left the station at
length, and tended forward. You were probably at rest. How should I
communicate without alarming you, the intelligence of my arrival? An
immediate interview was to be procured. I could not bear to think that a
minute should be lost by remissness or hesitation. Should I knock at the
door? or should I stand under your chamber windows, which I perceived to
be open, and awaken you by my calls?

"These reflections employed me, as I passed opposite to the summer-house.
I had scarcely gone by, when my ear caught a sound unusual at this time
and place. It was almost too faint and too transient to allow me a
distinct perception of it. I stopped to listen; presently it was heard
again, and now it was somewhat in a louder key. It was laughter; and
unquestionably produced by a female voice. That voice was familiar to my
senses. It was yours.

"Whence it came, I was at first at a loss to conjecture; but this
uncertainty vanished when it was heard the third time. I threw back my
eyes towards the recess. Every other organ and limb was useless to me. I
did not reason on the subject. I did not, in a direct manner, draw my
conclusions from the hour, the place, the hilarity which this sound
betokened, and the circumstance of having a companion, which it no less
incontestably proved. In an instant, as it were, my heart was invaded with
cold, and the pulses of life at a stand.

"Why should I go further? Why should I return? Should I not hurry to a
distance from a sound, which, though formerly so sweet and delectable, was
now more hideous than the shrieks of owls?

"I had no time to yield to this impulse. The thought of approaching and
listening occurred to me. I had no doubt of which I was conscious. Yet my
certainty was capable of increase. I was likewise stimulated by a
sentiment that partook of rage. I was governed by an half-formed and
tempestuous resolution to break in upon your interview, and strike you
dead with my upbraiding.

"I approached with the utmost caution. When I reached the edge of the bank
immediately above the summer-house, I thought I heard voices from below,
as busy in conversation. The steps in the rock are clear of bushy
impediments. They allowed me to descend into a cavity beside the building
without being detected. Thus to lie in wait could only be justified by the
momentousness of the occasion."

Here Pleyel paused in his narrative, and fixed his eyes upon me. Situated
as I was, my horror and astonishment at this tale gave way to compassion
for the anguish which the countenance of my friend betrayed. I reflected
on his force of understanding. I reflected on the powers of my enemy. I
could easily divine the substance of the conversation that was overheard.
Carwin had constructed his plot in a manner suited to the characters of
those whom he had selected for his victims. I saw that the convictions of
Pleyel were immutable. I forbore to struggle against the storm, because I
saw that all struggles would be fruitless. I was calm; but my calmness was
the torpor of despair, and not the tranquillity of fortitude. It was
calmness invincible by any thing that his grief and his fury could suggest
to Pleyel. He resumed—

"Woman! wilt thou hear me further? Shall I go on to repeat the
conversation? Is it shame that makes thee tongue-tied? Shall I go on? or
art thou satisfied with what has been already said?"

I bowed my head. "Go on," said I. "I make not this request in the hope of
undeceiving you. I shall no longer contend with my own weakness. The storm
is let loose, and I shall peaceably submit to be driven by its fury. But
go on. This conference will end only with affording me a clearer foresight
of my destiny; but that will be some satisfaction, and I will not part
without it."

Why, on hearing these words, did Pleyel hesitate? Did some unlooked-for
doubt insinuate itself into his mind? Was his belief suddenly shaken by my
looks, or my words, or by some newly recollected circumstance?
Whencesoever it arose, it could not endure the test of deliberation. In a
few minutes the flame of resentment was again lighted up in his bosom. He
proceeded with his accustomed vehemence—

"I hate myself for this folly. I can find no apology for this tale. Yet I
am irresistibly impelled to relate it. She that hears me is apprized of
every particular. I have only to repeat to her her own words. She will
listen with a tranquil air, and the spectacle of her obduracy will drive
me to some desperate act. Why then should I persist! yet persist I must."

Again he paused. "No," said he, "it is impossible to repeat your avowals
of love, your appeals to former confessions of your tenderness, to former
deeds of dishonor, to the circumstances of the first interview that took
place between you. It was on that night when I traced you to this recess.
Thither had he enticed you, and there had you ratified an unhallowed
compact by admitting him—

"Great God! Thou witnessedst the agonies that tore my bosom at that
moment! Thou witnessedst my efforts to repel the testimony of my ears! It
was in vain that you dwelt upon the confusion which my unlooked-for
summons excited in you; the tardiness with which a suitable excuse
occurred to you; your resentment that my impertinent intrusion had put an
end to that charming interview: A disappointment for which you endeavoured
to compensate yourself, by the frequency and duration of subsequent
meetings.

"In vain you dwelt upon incidents of which you only could be conscious;
incidents that occurred on occasions on which none beside your own family
were witnesses. In vain was your discourse characterized by peculiarities
inimitable of sentiment and language. My conviction was effected only by
an accumulation of the same tokens. I yielded not but to evidence which
took away the power to withhold my faith.

"My sight was of no use to me. Beneath so thick an umbrage, the darkness
was intense. Hearing was the only avenue to information, which the
circumstances allowed to be open. I was couched within three feet of you.
Why should I approach nearer? I could not contend with your betrayer. What
could be the purpose of a contest? You stood in no need of a protector.
What could I do, but retire from the spot overwhelmed with confusion and
dismay? I sought my chamber, and endeavoured to regain my composure. The
door of the house, which I found open, your subsequent entrance, closing,
and fastening it, and going into your chamber, which had been thus long
deserted, were only confirmations of the truth.

"Why should I paint the tempestuous fluctuation of my thoughts between
grief and revenge, between rage and despair? Why should I repeat my vows
of eternal implacability and persecution, and the speedy recantation of
these vows?

"I have said enough. You have dismissed me from a place in your esteem.
What I think, and what I feel, is of no importance in your eyes. May the
duty which I owe myself enable me to forget your existence. In a few
minutes I go hence. Be the maker of your fortune, and may adversity
instruct you in that wisdom, which education was unable to impart to you."

Those were the last words which Pleyel uttered. He left the room, and my
new emotions enabled me to witness his departure without any apparent loss
of composure. As I sat alone, I ruminated on these incidents. Nothing was
more evident than that I had taken an eternal leave of happiness. Life was
a worthless thing, separate from that good which had now been wrested from
me; yet the sentiment that now possessed me had no tendency to palsy my
exertions, and overbear my strength. I noticed that the light was
declining, and perceived the propriety of leaving this house. I placed
myself again in the chaise, and returned slowly towards the city.

Chapter XV

Before I reached the city it was dusk. It was my purpose to spend the
night at Mettingen. I was not solicitous, as long as I was attended by a
faithful servant, to be there at an early hour. My exhausted strength
required me to take some refreshment. With this view, and in order to pay
respect to one whose affection for me was truly maternal, I stopped at
Mrs. Baynton's. She was absent from home; but I had scarcely entered the
house when one of her domestics presented me a letter. I opened and read
as follows:

"To Clara Wieland,

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

"CARWIN."

What a letter was this! A man known to be an assassin and robber; one
capable of plotting against my life and my fame; detected lurking in my
chamber, and avowing designs the most flagitious and dreadful, now
solicits me to grant him a midnight interview! To admit him alone into my
presence! Could he make this request with the expectation of my
compliance? What had he seen in me, that could justify him in admitting so
wild a belief? Yet this request is preferred with the utmost gravity. It
is not accompanied by an appearance of uncommon earnestness. Had the
misconduct to which he alludes been a slight incivility, and the interview
requested to take place in the midst of my friends, there would have been
no extravagance in the tenor of this letter; but, as it was, the writer
had surely been bereft of his reason.

I perused this epistle frequently. The request it contained might be
called audacious or stupid, if it had been made by a different person; but
from Carwin, who could not be unaware of the effect which it must
naturally produce, and of the manner in which it would unavoidably be
treated, it was perfectly inexplicable. He must have counted on the
success of some plot, in order to extort my assent. None of those motives
by which I am usually governed would ever have persuaded me to meet any
one of his sex, at the time and place which he had prescribed. Much less
would I consent to a meeting with a man, tainted with the most detestable
crimes, and by whose arts my own safety had been so imminently endangered,
and my happiness irretrievably destroyed. I shuddered at the idea that
such a meeting was possible. I felt some reluctance to approach a spot
which he still visited and haunted.

Such were the ideas which first suggested themselves on the perusal of the
letter. Meanwhile, I resumed my journey. My thoughts still dwelt upon the
same topic. Gradually from ruminating on this epistle, I reverted to my
interview with Pleyel. I recalled the particulars of the dialogue to which
he had been an auditor. My heart sunk anew on viewing the inextricable
complexity of this deception, and the inauspicious concurrence of events,
which tended to confirm him in his error. When he approached my chamber
door, my terror kept me mute. He put his ear, perhaps, to the crevice, but
it caught the sound of nothing human. Had I called, or made any token that
denoted some one to be within, words would have ensued; and as
omnipresence was impossible, this discovery, and the artless narrative of
what had just passed, would have saved me from his murderous invectives.
He went into his chamber, and after some interval, I stole across the
entry and down the stairs, with inaudible steps. Having secured the outer
doors, I returned with less circumspection. He heard me not when I
descended; but my returning steps were easily distinguished. Now he
thought was the guilty interview at an end. In what other way was it
possible for him to construe these signals?

How fallacious and precipitate was my decision! Carwin's plot owed its
success to a coincidence of events scarcely credible. The balance was
swayed from its equipoise by a hair. Had I even begun the conversation
with an account of what befel me in my chamber, my previous interview with
Wieland would have taught him to suspect me of imposture; yet, if I were
discoursing with this ruffian, when Pleyel touched the lock of my chamber
door, and when he shut his own door with so much violence, how, he might
ask, should I be able to relate these incidents? Perhaps he had withheld
the knowledge of these circumstances from my brother, from whom,
therefore, I could not obtain it, so that my innocence would have thus
been irresistibly demonstrated.

The first impulse which flowed from these ideas was to return upon my
steps, and demand once more an interview; but he was gone: his parting
declarations were remembered.

Pleyel, I exclaimed, thou art gone for ever! Are thy mistakes beyond the
reach of detection? Am I helpless in the midst of this snare? The plotter
is at hand. He even speaks in the style of penitence. He solicits an
interview which he promises shall end in the disclosure of something
momentous to my happiness. What can he say which will avail to turn aside
this evil? But why should his remorse be feigned? I have done him no
injury. His wickedness is fertile only of despair; and the billows of
remorse will some time overbear him. Why may not this event have already
taken place? Why should I refuse to see him?

This idea was present, as it were, for a moment. I suddenly recoiled from
it, confounded at that frenzy which could give even momentary harbour to
such a scheme; yet presently it returned. At length I even conceived it to
deserve deliberation. I questioned whether it was not proper to admit, at
a lonely spot, in a sacred hour, this man of tremendous and inscrutable
attributes, this performer of horrid deeds, and whose presence was
predicted to call down unheard-of and unutterable horrors.

What was it that swayed me? I felt myself divested of the power to will
contrary to the motives that determined me to seek his presence. My mind
seemed to be split into separate parts, and these parts to have entered
into furious and implacable contention. These tumults gradually subsided.
The reasons why I should confide in that interposition which had hitherto
defended me; in those tokens of compunction which this letter contained;
in the efficacy of this interview to restore its spotlessness to my
character, and banish all illusions from the mind of my friend,
continually acquired new evidence and new strength.

What should I fear in his presence? This was unlike an artifice intended
to betray me into his hands. If it were an artifice, what purpose would it
serve? The freedom of my mind was untouched, and that freedom would defy
the assaults of blandishments or magic. Force was I not able to repel. On
the former occasion my courage, it is true, had failed at the imminent
approach of danger; but then I had not enjoyed opportunities of
deliberation; I had foreseen nothing; I was sunk into imbecility by my
previous thoughts; I had been the victim of recent disappointments and
anticipated ills: Witness my infatuation in opening the closet in
opposition to divine injunctions.

Now, perhaps, my courage was the offspring of a no less erring principle.
Pleyel was for ever lost to me. I strove in vain to assume his person, and
suppress my resentment; I strove in vain to believe in the assuaging
influence of time, to look forward to the birth-day of new hopes, and the
re-exaltation of that luminary, of whose effulgencies I had so long and so
liberally partaken.

What had I to suffer worse than was already inflicted?

Was not Carwin my foe? I owed my untimely fate to his treason. Instead of
flying from his presence, ought I not to devote all my faculties to the
gaining of an interview, and compel him to repair the ills of which he has
been the author? Why should I suppose him impregnable to argument? Have I
not reason on my side, and the power of imparting conviction? Cannot he be
made to see the justice of unravelling the maze in which Pleyel is
bewildered?

He may, at least, be accessible to fear. Has he nothing to fear from the
rage of an injured woman? But suppose him inaccessible to such
inducements; suppose him to persist in all his flagitious purposes; are
not the means of defence and resistance in my power?

In the progress of such thoughts, was the resolution at last formed. I
hoped that the interview was sought by him for a laudable end; but, be
that as it would, I trusted that, by energy of reasoning or of action, I
should render it auspicious, or, at least, harmless.

Such a determination must unavoidably fluctuate. The poet's chaos was no
unapt emblem of the state of my mind. A torment was awakened in my bosom,
which I foresaw would end only when this interview was past, and its
consequences fully experienced. Hence my impatience for the arrival of the
hour which had been prescribed by Carwin.

Meanwhile, my meditations were tumultuously active. New impediments to the
execution of the scheme were speedily suggested. I had apprized Catharine
of my intention to spend this and many future nights with her. Her husband
was informed of this arrangement, and had zealously approved it. Eleven
o'clock exceeded their hour of retiring. What excuse should I form for
changing my plan? Should I shew this letter to Wieland, and submit myself
to his direction? But I knew in what way he would decide. He would
fervently dissuade me from going. Nay, would he not do more? He was
apprized of the offences of Carwin, and of the reward offered for his
apprehension. Would he not seize this opportunity of executing justice on
a criminal?

This idea was new. I was plunged once more into doubt. Did not equity
enjoin me thus to facilitate his arrest? No. I disdained the office of
betrayer. Carwin was unapprized of his danger, and his intentions were
possibly beneficent. Should I station guards about the house, and make an
act, intended perhaps for my benefit, instrumental to his own destruction?
Wieland might be justified in thus employing the knowledge which I should
impart, but I, by imparting it, should pollute myself with more hateful
crimes than those undeservedly imputed to me. This scheme, therefore, I
unhesitatingly rejected. The views with which I should return to my own
house, it would therefore be necessary to conceal. Yet some pretext must
be invented. I had never been initiated into the trade of lying. Yet what
but falshood was a deliberate suppression of the truth? To deceive by
silence or by words is the same.

Yet what would a lie avail me? What pretext would justify this change in
my plan? Would it not tend to confirm the imputations of Pleyel? That I
should voluntarily return to an house in which honor and life had so
lately been endangered, could be explained in no way favorable to my
integrity.

These reflections, if they did not change, at least suspended my decision.
In this state of uncertainty I alighted at the HUT. We gave this name to
the house tenanted by the farmer and his servants, and which was situated
on the verge of my brother's ground, and at a considerable distance from
the mansion. The path to the mansion was planted by a double row of
walnuts. Along this path I proceeded alone. I entered the parlour, in
which was a light just expiring in the socket. There was no one in the
room. I perceived by the clock that stood against the wall, that it was
near eleven. The lateness of the hour startled me. What had become of the
family? They were usually retired an hour before this; but the
unextinguished taper, and the unbarred door were indications that they had
not retired. I again returned to the hall, and passed from one room to
another, but still encountered not a human being.

I imagined that, perhaps, the lapse of a few minutes would explain these
appearances. Meanwhile I reflected that the preconcerted hour had arrived.
Carwin was perhaps waiting my approach. Should I immediately retire to my
own house, no one would be apprized of my proceeding. Nay, the interview
might pass, and I be enabled to return in half an hour. Hence no necessity
would arise for dissimulation.

I was so far influenced by these views that I rose to execute this design;
but again the unusual condition of the house occurred to me, and some
vague solicitude as to the condition of the family. I was nearly certain
that my brother had not retired; but by what motives he could be induced
to desert his house thus unseasonably I could by no means divine. Louisa
Conway, at least, was at home and had, probably, retired to her chamber;
perhaps she was able to impart the information I wanted.

I went to her chamber, and found her asleep. She was delighted and
surprized at my arrival, and told me with how much impatience and anxiety
my brother and his wife had waited my coming. They were fearful that some
mishap had befallen me, and had remained up longer than the usual period.
Notwithstanding the lateness of the hour, Catharine would not resign the
hope of seeing me. Louisa said she had left them both in the parlour, and
she knew of no cause for their absence.

As yet I was not without solicitude on account of their personal safety. I
was far from being perfectly at ease on that head, but entertained no
distinct conception of the danger that impended over them. Perhaps to
beguile the moments of my long protracted stay, they had gone to walk upon
the bank. The atmosphere, though illuminated only by the star-light, was
remarkably serene. Meanwhile the desirableness of an interview with Carwin
again returned, and I finally resolved to seek it.

I passed with doubting and hasty steps along the path. My dwelling, seen
at a distance, was gloomy and desolate. It had no inhabitant, for my
servant, in consequence of my new arrangement, had gone to Mettingen. The
temerity of this attempt began to shew itself in more vivid colours to my
understanding. Whoever has pointed steel is not without arms; yet what
must have been the state of my mind when I could meditate, without
shuddering, on the use of a murderous weapon, and believe myself secure
merely because I was capable of being made so by the death of another? Yet
this was not my state. I felt as if I was rushing into deadly toils,
without the power of pausing or receding.

Chapter XVI

As soon as I arrived in sight of the front of the house, my attention was
excited by a light from the window of my own chamber. No appearance could
be less explicable. A meeting was expected with Carwin, but that he
pre-occupied my chamber, and had supplied himself with light, was not to
be believed. What motive could influence him to adopt this conduct? Could
I proceed until this was explained? Perhaps, if I should proceed to a
distance in front, some one would be visible. A sidelong but feeble beam
from the window, fell upon the piny copse which skirted the bank. As I
eyed it, it suddenly became mutable, and after flitting to and fro, for a
short time, it vanished. I turned my eye again toward the window, and
perceived that the light was still there; but the change which I had
noticed was occasioned by a change in the position of the lamp or candle
within. Hence, that some person was there was an unavoidable inference.

I paused to deliberate on the propriety of advancing. Might I not advance
cautiously, and, therefore, without danger? Might I not knock at the door,
or call, and be apprized of the nature of my visitant before I entered? I
approached and listened at the door, but could hear nothing. I knocked at
first timidly, but afterwards with loudness. My signals were unnoticed. I
stepped back and looked, but the light was no longer discernible. Was it
suddenly extinguished by a human agent? What purpose but concealment was
intended? Why was the illumination produced, to be thus suddenly brought
to an end? And why, since some one was there, had silence been observed?

These were questions, the solution of which may be readily supposed to be
entangled with danger. Would not this danger, when measured by a woman's
fears, expand into gigantic dimensions? Menaces of death; the stunning
exertions of a warning voice; the known and unknown attributes of Carwin;
our recent interview in this chamber; the pre-appointment of a meeting at
this place and hour, all thronged into my memory. What was to be done?

Courage is no definite or stedfast principle. Let that man who shall
purpose to assign motives to the actions of another, blush at his folly
and forbear. Not more presumptuous would it be to attempt the
classification of all nature, and the scanning of supreme intelligence. I
gazed for a minute at the window, and fixed my eyes, for a second minute,
on the ground. I drew forth from my pocket, and opened, a penknife. This,
said I, be my safe-guard and avenger. The assailant shall perish, or
myself shall fall. I had locked up the house in the morning, but had the
key of the kitchen door in my pocket. I, therefore, determined to gain
access behind. Thither I hastened, unlocked and entered. All was lonely,
darksome, and waste. Familiar as I was with every part of my dwelling, I
easily found my way to a closet, drew forth a taper, a flint, tinder, and
steel, and, in a moment as it were, gave myself the guidance and
protection of light.

What purpose did I meditate? Should I explore my way to my chamber, and
confront the being who had dared to intrude into this recess, and had
laboured for concealment? By putting out the light did he seek to hide
himself, or mean only to circumvent my incautious steps? Yet was it not
more probable that he desired my absence by thus encouraging the
supposition that the house was unoccupied? I would see this man in spite
of all impediments; ere I died, I would see his face, and summon him to
penitence and retribution; no matter at what cost an interview was
purchased. Reputation and life might be wrested from me by another, but my
rectitude and honor were in my own keeping, and were safe.

I proceeded to the foot of the stairs. At such a crisis my thoughts may be
supposed at no liberty to range; yet vague images rushed into my mind, of
the mysterious interposition which had been experienced on the last night.
My case, at present, was not dissimilar; and, if my angel were not weary
of fruitless exertions to save, might not a new warning be expected? Who
could say whether his silence were ascribable to the absence of danger, or
to his own absence?

In this state of mind, no wonder that a shivering cold crept through my
veins; that my pause was prolonged; and, that a fearful glance was thrown
backward.

Alas! my heart droops, and my fingers are enervated; my ideas are vivid,
but my language is faint: now know I what it is to entertain
incommunicable sentiments. The chain of subsequent incidents is drawn
through my mind, and being linked with those which forewent, by turns
rouse up agonies and sink me into hopelessness.

Yet I will persist to the end. My narrative may be invaded by inaccuracy
and confusion; but if I live no longer, I will, at least, live to complete
it. What but ambiguities, abruptnesses, and dark transitions, can be
expected from the historian who is, at the same time, the sufferer of
these disasters?

I have said that I cast a look behind. Some object was expected to be
seen, or why should I have gazed in that direction? Two senses were at
once assailed. The same piercing exclamation of HOLD! HOLD! was uttered
within the same distance of my ear. This it was that I heard. The airy
undulation, and the shock given to my nerves, were real. Whether the
spectacle which I beheld existed in my fancy or without, might be doubted.
I had not closed the door of the apartment I had just left. The
stair-case, at the foot of which I stood, was eight or ten feet from the
door, and attached to the wall through which the door led. My view,
therefore, was sidelong, and took in no part of the room.

Through this aperture was an head thrust and drawn back with so much
swiftness, that the immediate conviction was, that thus much of a form,
ordinarily invisible, had been unshrowded. The face was turned towards me.
Every muscle was tense; the forehead and brows were drawn into vehement
expression; the lips were stretched as in the act of shrieking, and the
eyes emitted sparks, which, no doubt, if I had been unattended by a light,
would have illuminated like the coruscations of a meteor. The sound and
the vision were present, and departed together at the same instant; but
the cry was blown into my ear, while the face was many paces distant.

This face was well suited to a being whose performances exceeded the
standard of humanity, and yet its features were akin to those I had before
seen. The image of Carwin was blended in a thousand ways with the stream
of my thoughts. This visage was, perhaps, pourtrayed by my fancy. If so,
it will excite no surprize that some of his lineaments were now
discovered. Yet affinities were few and unconspicuous, and were lost
amidst the blaze of opposite qualities.

What conclusion could I form? Be the face human or not, the intimation was
imparted from above. Experience had evinced the benignity of that being
who gave it. Once he had interposed to shield me from harm, and subsequent
events demonstrated the usefulness of that interposition. Now was I again
warned to forbear. I was hurrying to the verge of the same gulf, and the
same power was exerted to recall my steps. Was it possible for me not to
obey? Was I capable of holding on in the same perilous career? Yes. Even
of this I was capable!

The intimation was imperfect: it gave no form to my danger, and prescribed
no limits to my caution. I had formerly neglected it, and yet escaped.
Might I not trust to the same issue? This idea might possess, though
imperceptibly, some influence. I persisted; but it was not merely on this
account. I cannot delineate the motives that led me on. I now speak as if
no remnant of doubt existed in my mind as to the supernal origin of these
sounds; but this is owing to the imperfection of my language, for I only
mean that the belief was more permanent, and visited more frequently my
sober meditations than its opposite. The immediate effects served only to
undermine the foundations of my judgment and precipitate my resolutions.

I must either advance or return. I chose the former, and began to ascend
the stairs. The silence underwent no second interruption. My chamber door
was closed, but unlocked, and, aided by vehement efforts of my courage, I
opened and looked in.

No hideous or uncommon object was discernible. The danger, indeed, might
easily have lurked out of sight, have sprung upon me as I entered, and
have rent me with his iron talons; but I was blind to this fate, and
advanced, though cautiously, into the room.

Still every thing wore its accustomed aspect. Neither lamp nor candle was
to be found. Now, for the first time, suspicions were suggested as to the
nature of the light which I had seen. Was it possible to have been the
companion of that supernatural visage; a meteorous refulgence producible
at the will of him to whom that visage belonged, and partaking of the
nature of that which accompanied my father's death?

The closet was near, and I remembered the complicated horrors of which it
had been productive. Here, perhaps, was inclosed the source of my peril,
and the gratification of my curiosity. Should I adventure once more to
explore its recesses? This was a resolution not easily formed. I was
suspended in thought: when glancing my eye on a table, I perceived a
written paper. Carwin's hand was instantly recognized, and snatching up
the paper, I read as follows:—

"There was folly in expecting your compliance with my invitation. Judge
how I was disappointed in finding another in your place. I have waited,
but to wait any longer would be perilous. I shall still seek an interview,
but it must be at a different time and place: meanwhile, I will write this—How
will you bear—How inexplicable will be this transaction!—An
event so unexpected—a sight so horrible!"

Such was this abrupt and unsatisfactory script. The ink was yet moist, the
hand was that of Carwin. Hence it was to be inferred that he had this
moment left the apartment, or was still in it. I looked back, on the
sudden expectation of seeing him behind me.

What other did he mean? What transaction had taken place adverse to my
expectations? What sight was about to be exhibited? I looked around me
once more, but saw nothing which indicated strangeness. Again I remembered
the closet, and was resolved to seek in that the solution of these
mysteries. Here, perhaps, was inclosed the scene destined to awaken my
horrors and baffle my foresight.

I have already said, that the entrance into this closet was beside my bed,
which, on two sides, was closely shrowded by curtains. On that side
nearest the closet, the curtain was raised. As I passed along I cast my
eye thither. I started, and looked again. I bore a light in my hand, and
brought it nearer my eyes, in order to dispel any illusive mists that
might have hovered before them. Once more I fixed my eyes upon the bed, in
hope that this more stedfast scrutiny would annihilate the object which
before seemed to be there.

This then was the sight which Carwin had predicted! This was the event
which my understanding was to find inexplicable! This was the fate which
had been reserved for me, but which, by some untoward chance, had befallen
on another!

I had not been terrified by empty menaces. Violation and death awaited my
entrance into this chamber. Some inscrutable chance had led HER hither
before me, and the merciless fangs of which I was designed to be the prey,
had mistaken their victim, and had fixed themselves in HER heart. But
where was my safety? Was the mischief exhausted or flown? The steps of the
assassin had just been here; they could not be far off; in a moment he
would rush into my presence, and I should perish under the same polluting
and suffocating grasp!

My frame shook, and my knees were unable to support me. I gazed
alternately at the closet door and at the door of my room. At one of these
avenues would enter the exterminator of my honor and my life. I was
prepared for defence; but now that danger was imminent, my means of
defence, and my power to use them were gone. I was not qualified, by
education and experience, to encounter perils like these: or, perhaps, I
was powerless because I was again assaulted by surprize, and had not
fortified my mind by foresight and previous reflection against a scene
like this.

Fears for my own safety again yielded place to reflections on the scene
before me. I fixed my eyes upon her countenance. My sister's well-known
and beloved features could not be concealed by convulsion or lividness.
What direful illusion led thee hither? Bereft of thee, what hold on
happiness remains to thy offspring and thy spouse? To lose thee by a
common fate would have been sufficiently hard; but thus suddenly to perish—to
become the prey of this ghastly death! How will a spectacle like this be
endured by Wieland? To die beneath his grasp would not satisfy thy enemy.
This was mercy to the evils which he previously made thee suffer! After
these evils death was a boon which thou besoughtest him to grant. He
entertained no enmity against thee: I was the object of his treason; but
by some tremendous mistake his fury was misplaced. But how comest thou
hither? and where was Wieland in thy hour of distress?

I approached the corpse: I lifted the still flexible hand, and kissed the
lips which were breathless. Her flowing drapery was discomposed. I
restored it to order, and seating myself on the bed, again fixed stedfast
eyes upon her countenance. I cannot distinctly recollect the ruminations
of that moment. I saw confusedly, but forcibly, that every hope was
extinguished with the life of CATHARINE. All happiness and dignity must
henceforth be banished from the house and name of Wieland: all that
remained was to linger out in agonies a short existence; and leave to the
world a monument of blasted hopes and changeable fortune. Pleyel was
already lost to me; yet, while Catharine lived life was not a detestable
possession: but now, severed from the companion of my infancy, the
partaker of all my thoughts, my cares, and my wishes, I was like one set
afloat upon a stormy sea, and hanging his safety upon a plank; night was
closing upon him, and an unexpected surge had torn him from his hold and
overwhelmed him forever.

Chapter XVII

I had no inclination nor power to move from this spot. For more than an
hour, my faculties and limbs seemed to be deprived of all activity. The
door below creaked on its hinges, and steps ascended the stairs. My
wandering and confused thoughts were instantly recalled by these sounds,
and dropping the curtain of the bed, I moved to a part of the room where
any one who entered should be visible; such are the vibrations of
sentiment, that notwithstanding the seeming fulfilment of my fears, and
increase of my danger, I was conscious, on this occasion, to no turbulence
but that of curiosity.

At length he entered the apartment, and I recognized my brother. It was
the same Wieland whom I had ever seen. Yet his features were pervaded by a
new expression. I supposed him unacquainted with the fate of his wife, and
his appearance confirmed this persuasion. A brow expanding into exultation
I had hitherto never seen in him, yet such a brow did he now wear. Not
only was he unapprized of the disaster that had happened, but some joyous
occurrence had betided. What a reverse was preparing to annihilate his
transitory bliss! No husband ever doated more fondly, for no wife ever
claimed so boundless a devotion. I was not uncertain as to the effects to
flow from the discovery of her fate. I confided not at all in the efforts
of his reason or his piety. There were few evils which his modes of
thinking would not disarm of their sting; but here, all opiates to grief,
and all compellers of patience were vain. This spectacle would be
unavoidably followed by the outrages of desperation, and a rushing to
death.

For the present, I neglected to ask myself what motive brought him hither.
I was only fearful of the effects to flow from the sight of the dead. Yet
could it be long concealed from him? Some time and speedily he would
obtain this knowledge. No stratagems could considerably or usefully
prolong his ignorance. All that could be sought was to take away the
abruptness of the change, and shut out the confusion of despair, and the
inroads of madness: but I knew my brother, and knew that all exertions to
console him would be fruitless.

What could I say? I was mute, and poured forth those tears on his account,
which my own unhappiness had been unable to extort. In the midst of my
tears, I was not unobservant of his motions. These were of a nature to
rouse some other sentiment than grief or, at least, to mix with it a
portion of astonishment.

His countenance suddenly became troubled. His hands were clasped with a
force that left the print of his nails in his flesh. His eyes were fixed
on my feet. His brain seemed to swell beyond its continent. He did not
cease to breathe, but his breath was stifled into groans. I had never
witnessed the hurricane of human passions. My element had, till lately,
been all sunshine and calm. I was unconversant with the altitudes and
energies of sentiment, and was transfixed with inexplicable horror by the
symptoms which I now beheld.

After a silence and a conflict which I could not interpret, he lifted his
eyes to heaven, and in broken accents exclaimed, "This is too much! Any
victim but this, and thy will be done. Have I not sufficiently attested my
faith and my obedience? She that is gone, they that have perished, were
linked with my soul by ties which only thy command would have broken; but
here is sanctity and excellence surpassing human. This workmanship is
thine, and it cannot be thy will to heap it into ruins."

Here suddenly unclasping his hands, he struck one of them against his
forehead, and continued—"Wretch! who made thee quicksighted in the
councils of thy Maker? Deliverance from mortal fetters is awarded to this
being, and thou art the minister of this decree."

So saying, Wieland advanced towards me. His words and his motions were
without meaning, except on one supposition. The death of Catharine was
already known to him, and that knowledge, as might have been suspected,
had destroyed his reason. I had feared nothing less; but now that I beheld
the extinction of a mind the most luminous and penetrating that ever
dignified the human form, my sensations were fraught with new and
insupportable anguish.

I had not time to reflect in what way my own safety would be effected by
this revolution, or what I had to dread from the wild conceptions of a
madman. He advanced towards me. Some hollow noises were wafted by the
breeze. Confused clamours were succeeded by many feet traversing the
grass, and then crowding intO the piazza.

These sounds suspended my brother's purpose, and he stood to listen. The
signals multiplied and grew louder; perceiving this, he turned from me,
and hurried out of my sight. All about me was pregnant with motives to
astonishment. My sister's corpse, Wieland's frantic demeanour, and, at
length, this crowd of visitants so little accorded with my foresight, that
my mental progress was stopped. The impulse had ceased which was
accustomed to give motion and order to my thoughts.

Footsteps thronged upon the stairs, and presently many faces shewed
themselves within the door of my apartment. These looks were full of alarm
and watchfulness. They pryed into corners as if in search of some
fugitive; next their gaze was fixed upon me, and betokened all the
vehemence of terror and pity. For a time I questioned whether these were
not shapes and faces like that which I had seen at the bottom of the
stairs, creatures of my fancy or airy existences. My eye wandered from one
to another, till at length it fell on a countenance which I well knew. It
was that of Mr. Hallet. This man was a distant kinsman of my mother,
venerable for his age, his uprightness, and sagacity. He had long
discharged the functions of a magistrate and good citizen. If any terrors
remained, his presence was sufficient to dispel them.

He approached, took my hand with a compassionate air, and said in a low
voice, "Where, my dear Clara, are your brother and sister?" I made no
answer, but pointed to the bed. His attendants drew aside the curtain, and
while their eyes glared with horror at the spectacle which they beheld,
those of Mr. Hallet overflowed with tears.

After considerable pause, he once more turned to me. "My dear girl, this
sight is not for you. Can you confide in my care, and that of Mrs.
Baynton's? We will see performed all that circumstances require."

I made strenuous opposition to this request. I insisted on remaining near
her till she were interred. His remonstrances, however, and my own
feelings, shewed me the propriety of a temporary dereliction. Louisa stood
in need of a comforter, and my brother's children of a nurse. My unhappy
brother was himself an object of solicitude and care. At length, I
consented to relinquish the corpse, and go to my brother's, whose house, I
said, would need mistress, and his children a parent.

During this discourse, my venerable friend struggled with his tears, but
my last intimation called them forth with fresh violence. Meanwhile, his
attendants stood round in mournful silence, gazing on me and at each
other. I repeated my resolution, and rose to execute it; but he took my
hand to detain me. His countenance betrayed irresolution and reluctance. I
requested him to state the reason of his opposition to this measure. I
entreated him to be explicit. I told him that my brother had just been
there, and that I knew his condition. This misfortune had driven him to
madness, and his offspring must not want a protector. If he chose, I would
resign Wieland to his care; but his innocent and helpless babes stood in
instant need of nurse and mother, and these offices I would by no means
allow another to perform while I had life.

Every word that I uttered seemed to augment his perplexity and distress.
At last he said, "I think, Clara, I have entitled myself to some regard
from you. You have professed your willingness to oblige me. Now I call
upon you to confer upon me the highest obligation in your power. Permit
Mrs. Baynton to have the management of your brother's house for two or
three days; then it shall be yours to act in it as you please. No matter
what are my motives in making this request: perhaps I think your age, your
sex, or the distress which this disaster must occasion, incapacitates you
for the office. Surely you have no doubt of Mrs. Baynton's tenderness or
discretion." New ideas now rushed into my mind. I fixed my eyes stedfastly
on Mr. Hallet. "Are they well?" said I. "Is Louisa well? Are Benjamin, and
William, and Constantine, and Little Clara, are they safe? Tell me truly,
I beseech you!"

"They are well," he replied; "they are perfectly safe."

"Fear no effeminate weakness in me: I can bear to hear the truth. Tell me
truly, are they well?"

He again assured me that they were well.

"What then," resumed I, "do you fear? Is it possible for any calamity to
disqualify me for performing my duty to these helpless innocents? I am
willing to divide the care of them with Mrs. Baynton; I shall be grateful
for her sympathy and aid; but what should I be to desert them at an hour
like this!"

I will cut short this distressful dialogue. I still persisted in my
purpose, and he still persisted in his opposition. This excited my
suspicions anew; but these were removed by solemn declarations of their
safety. I could not explain this conduct in my friend; but at length
consented to go to the city, provided I should see them for a few minutes
at present, and should return on the morrow.

Even this arrangement was objected to. At length he told me they were
removed to the city. Why were they removed, I asked, and whither? My
importunities would not now be eluded. My suspicions were roused, and no
evasion or artifice was sufficient to allay them. Many of the audience
began to give vent to their emotions in tears. Mr. Hallet himself seemed
as if the conflict were too hard to be longer sustained. Something
whispered to my heart that havoc had been wider than I now witnessed. I
suspected this concealment to arise from apprehensions of the effects
which a knowledge of the truth would produce in me. I once more entreated
him to inform me truly of their state. To enforce my entreaties, I put on
an air of insensibility. "I can guess," said I, "what has happened—They
are indeed beyond the reach of injury, for they are dead! Is it not so?"
My voice faltered in spite of my courageous efforts.

"Yes," said he, "they are dead! Dead by the same fate, and by the same
hand, with their mother!"

"Dead!" replied I; "what, all?"

"All!" replied he: "he spared NOT ONE!"

Allow me, my friends, to close my eyes upon the after-scene. Why should I
protract a tale which I already begin to feel is too long? Over this scene
at least let me pass lightly. Here, indeed, my narrative would be
imperfect. All was tempestuous commotion in my heart and in my brain. I
have no memory for ought but unconscious transitions and rueful sights. I
was ingenious and indefatigable in the invention of torments. I would not
dispense with any spectacle adapted to exasperate my grief. Each pale and
mangled form I crushed to my bosom. Louisa, whom I loved with so ineffable
a passion, was denied to me at first, but my obstinacy conquered their
reluctance.

They led the way into a darkened hall. A lamp pendant from the ceiling was
uncovered, and they pointed to a table. The assassin had defrauded me of
my last and miserable consolation. I sought not in her visage, for the
tinge of the morning, and the lustre of heaven. These had vanished with
life; but I hoped for liberty to print a last kiss upon her lips. This was
denied me; for such had been the merciless blow that destroyed her, that
not a LINEAMENT REMAINED!

I was carried hence to the city. Mrs. Hallet was my companion and my
nurse. Why should I dwell upon the rage of fever, and the effusions of
delirium? Carwin was the phantom that pursued my dreams, the giant
oppressor under whose arm I was for ever on the point of being crushed.
Strenuous muscles were required to hinder my flight, and hearts of steel
to withstand the eloquence of my fears. In vain I called upon them to look
upward, to mark his sparkling rage and scowling contempt. All I sought was
to fly from the stroke that was lifted. Then I heaped upon my guards the
most vehement reproaches, or betook myself to wailings on the haplessness
of my condition.

This malady, at length, declined, and my weeping friends began to look for
my restoration. Slowly, and with intermitted beams, memory revisited me.
The scenes that I had witnessed were revived, became the theme of
deliberation and deduction, and called forth the effusions of more
rational sorrow.

Chapter XVIII

I had imperfectly recovered my strength, when I was informed of the
arrival of my mother's brother, Thomas Cambridge. Ten years since, he went
to Europe, and was a surgeon in the British forces in Germany, during the
whole of the late war. After its conclusion, some connection that he had
formed with an Irish officer, made him retire into Ireland. Intercourse
had been punctually maintained by letters with his sister's children, and
hopes were given that he would shortly return to his native country, and
pass his old age in our society. He was now in an evil hour arrived.

I desired an interview with him for numerous and urgent reasons. With the
first returns of my understanding I had anxiously sought information of
the fate of my brother. During the course of my disease I had never seen
him; and vague and unsatisfactory answers were returned to all my
inquires. I had vehemently interrogated Mrs. Hallet and her husband, and
solicited an interview with this unfortunate man; but they mysteriously
insinuated that his reason was still unsettled, and that his circumstances
rendered an interview impossible. Their reserve on the particulars of this
destruction, and the author of it, was equally invincible.

For some time, finding all my efforts fruitless, I had desisted from
direct inquiries and solicitations, determined, as soon as my strength was
sufficiently renewed, to pursue other means of dispelling my uncertainty.
In this state of things my uncle's arrival and intention to visit me were
announced. I almost shuddered to behold the face of this man. When I
reflected on the disasters that had befallen us, I was half unwilling to
witness that dejection and grief which would be disclosed in his
countenance. But I believed that all transactions had been thoroughly
disclosed to him, and confided in my importunity to extort from him the
knowledge that I sought.

I had no doubt as to the person of our enemy; but the motives that urged
him to perpetrate these horrors, the means that he used, and his present
condition, were totally unknown. It was reasonable to expect some
information on this head, from my uncle. I therefore waited his coming
with impatience. At length, in the dusk of the evening, and in my solitary
chamber, this meeting took place.

This man was our nearest relation, and had ever treated us with the
affection of a parent. Our meeting, therefore, could not be without
overflowing tenderness and gloomy joy. He rather encouraged than
restrained the tears that I poured out in his arms, and took upon himself
the task of comforter. Allusions to recent disasters could not be long
omitted. One topic facilitated the admission of another. At length, I
mentioned and deplored the ignorance in which I had been kept respecting
my brother's destiny, and the circumstances of our misfortunes. I
entreated him to tell me what was Wieland's condition, and what progress
had been made in detecting or punishing the author of this unheard-of
devastation.

"The author!" said he; "Do you know the author?"

"Alas!" I answered, "I am too well acquainted with him. The story of the
grounds of my suspicions would be painful and too long. I am not apprized
of the extent of your present knowledge. There are none but Wieland,
Pleyel, and myself, who are able to relate certain facts."

"Spare yourself the pain," said he. "All that Wieland and Pleyel can
communicate, I know already. If any thing of moment has fallen within your
own exclusive knowledge, and the relation be not too arduous for your
present strength, I confess I am desirous of hearing it. Perhaps you
allude to one by the name of Carwin. I will anticipate your curiosity by
saying, that since these disasters, no one has seen or heard of him. His
agency is, therefore, a mystery still unsolved."

I readily complied with his request, and related as distinctly as I could,
though in general terms, the events transacted in the summer-house and my
chamber. He listened without apparent surprize to the tale of Pleyel's
errors and suspicions, and with augmented seriousness, to my narrative of
the warnings and inexplicable vision, and the letter found upon the table.
I waited for his comments.

"You gather from this," said he, "that Carwin is the author of all this
misery."

"Is it not," answered I, "an unavoidable inference? But what know you
respecting it? Was it possible to execute this mischief without witness or
coadjutor? I beseech you to relate to me, when and why Mr. Hallet was
summoned to the scene, and by whom this disaster was first suspected or
discovered. Surely, suspicion must have fallen upon some one, and pursuit
was made."

My uncle rose from his seat, and traversed the floor with hasty steps. His
eyes were fixed upon the ground, and he seemed buried in perplexity. At
length he paused, and said with an emphatic tone, "It is true; the
instrument is known. Carwin may have plotted, but the execution was
another's. That other is found, and his deed is ascertained."

"Good heaven!" I exclaimed, "what say you? Was not Carwin the assassin?
Could any hand but his have carried into act this dreadful purpose?"

"Have I not said," returned he, "that the performance was another's?
Carwin, perhaps, or heaven, or insanity, prompted the murderer; but Carwin
is unknown. The actual performer has, long since, been called to judgment
and convicted, and is, at this moment, at the bottom of a dungeon loaded
with chains."

I lifted my hands and eyes. "Who then is this assassin? By what means, and
whither was he traced? What is the testimony of his guilt?"

"His own, corroborated with that of a servant-maid who spied the murder of
the children from a closet where she was concealed. The magistrate
returned from your dwelling to your brother's. He was employed in hearing
and recording the testimony of the only witness, when the criminal
himself, unexpected, unsolicited, unsought, entered the hall, acknowledged
his guilt, and rendered himself up to justice.

"He has since been summoned to the bar. The audience was composed of
thousands whom rumours of this wonderful event had attracted from the
greatest distance. A long and impartial examination was made, and the
prisoner was called upon for his defence. In compliance with this call he
delivered an ample relation of his motives and actions." There he stopped.

I besought him to say who this criminal was, and what the instigations
that compelled him. My uncle was silent. I urged this inquiry with new
force. I reverted to my own knowledge, and sought in this some basis to
conjecture. I ran over the scanty catalogue of the men whom I knew; I
lighted on no one who was qualified for ministering to malice like this.
Again I resorted to importunity. Had I ever seen the criminal? Was it
sheer cruelty, or diabolical revenge that produced this overthrow?

He surveyed me, for a considerable time, and listened to my interrogations
in silence. At length he spoke: "Clara, I have known thee by report, and
in some degree by observation. Thou art a being of no vulgar sort. Thy
friends have hitherto treated thee as a child. They meant well, but,
perhaps, they were unacquainted with thy strength. I assure myself that
nothing will surpass thy fortitude.

"Thou art anxious to know the destroyer of thy family, his actions, and
his motives. Shall I call him to thy presence, and permit him to confess
before thee? Shall I make him the narrator of his own tale?"

I started on my feet, and looked round me with fearful glances, as if the
murderer was close at hand. "What do you mean?" said I; "put an end, I
beseech you, to this suspence."

"Be not alarmed; you will never more behold the face of this criminal,
unless he be gifted with supernatural strength, and sever like threads the
constraint of links and bolts. I have said that the assassin was arraigned
at the bar, and that the trial ended with a summons from the judge to
confess or to vindicate his actions. A reply was immediately made with
significance of gesture, and a tranquil majesty, which denoted less of
humanity than godhead. Judges, advocates and auditors were panic-struck
and breathless with attention. One of the hearers faithfully recorded the
speech. There it is," continued he, putting a roll of papers in my hand,
"you may read it at your leisure."

With these words my uncle left me alone. My curiosity refused me a
moment's delay. I opened the papers, and read as follows.

Chapter XIX

"Theodore Wieland, the prisoner at the bar, was now called upon for his
defence. He looked around him for some time in silence, and with a mild
countenance. At length he spoke:

"It is strange; I am known to my judges and my auditors. Who is there
present a stranger to the character of Wieland? who knows him not as an
husband—as a father—as a friend? yet here am I arraigned as
criminal. I am charged with diabolical malice; I am accused of the murder
of my wife and my children!

"It is true, they were slain by me; they all perished by my hand. The task
of vindication is ignoble. What is it that I am called to vindicate? and
before whom?

"You know that they are dead, and that they were killed by me. What more
would you have? Would you extort from me a statement of my motives? Have
you failed to discover them already? You charge me with malice; but your
eyes are not shut; your reason is still vigorous; your memory has not
forsaken you. You know whom it is that you thus charge. The habits of his
life are known to you; his treatment of his wife and his offspring is
known to you; the soundness of his integrity, and the unchangeableness of
his principles, are familiar to your apprehension; yet you persist in this
charge! You lead me hither manacled as a felon; you deem me worthy of a
vile and tormenting death!

"Who are they whom I have devoted to death? My wife—the little ones,
that drew their being from me—that creature who, as she surpassed
them in excellence, claimed a larger affection than those whom natural
affinities bound to my heart. Think ye that malice could have urged me to
this deed? Hide your audacious fronts from the scrutiny of heaven. Take
refuge in some cavern unvisited by human eyes. Ye may deplore your
wickedness or folly, but ye cannot expiate it.

"Think not that I speak for your sakes. Hug to your hearts this detestable
infatuation. Deem me still a murderer, and drag me to untimely death. I
make not an effort to dispel your illusion: I utter not a word to cure you
of your sanguinary folly: but there are probably some in this assembly who
have come from far: for their sakes, whose distance has disabled them from
knowing me, I will tell what I have done, and why.

"It is needless to say that God is the object of my supreme passion. I
have cherished, in his presence, a single and upright heart. I have
thirsted for the knowledge of his will. I have burnt with ardour to
approve my faith and my obedience.

"My days have been spent in searching for the revelation of that will; but
my days have been mournful, because my search failed. I solicited
direction: I turned on every side where glimmerings of light could be
discovered. I have not been wholly uninformed; but my knowledge has always
stopped short of certainty. Dissatisfaction has insinuated itself into all
my thoughts. My purposes have been pure; my wishes indefatigable; but not
till lately were these purposes thoroughly accomplished, and these wishes
fully gratified.

"I thank thee, my father, for thy bounty; that thou didst not ask a less
sacrifice than this; that thou placedst me in a condition to testify my
submission to thy will! What have I withheld which it was thy pleasure to
exact? Now may I, with dauntless and erect eye, claim my reward, since I
have given thee the treasure of my soul.

"I was at my own house: it was late in the evening: my sister had gone to
the city, but proposed to return. It was in expectation of her return that
my wife and I delayed going to bed beyond the usual hour; the rest of the
family, however, were retired.

"My mind was contemplative and calm; not wholly devoid of apprehension on
account of my sister's safety. Recent events, not easily explained, had
suggested the existence of some danger; but this danger was without a
distinct form in our imagination, and scarcely ruffled our tranquillity.

"Time passed, and my sister did not arrive; her house is at some distance
from mine, and though her arrangements had been made with a view to
residing with us, it was possible that, through forgetfulness, or the
occurrence of unforeseen emergencies, she had returned to her own
dwelling.

"Hence it was conceived proper that I should ascertain the truth by going
thither. I went. On my way my mind was full of these ideas which related
to my intellectual condition. In the torrent of fervid conceptions, I lost
sight of my purpose. Some times I stood still; some times I wandered from
my path, and experienced some difficulty, on recovering from my fit of
musing, to regain it.

"The series of my thoughts is easily traced. At first every vein beat with
raptures known only to the man whose parental and conjugal love is without
limits, and the cup of whose desires, immense as it is, overflows with
gratification. I know not why emotions that were perpetual visitants
should now have recurred with unusual energy. The transition was not new
from sensations of joy to a consciousness of gratitude. The author of my
being was likewise the dispenser of every gift with which that being was
embellished. The service to which a benefactor like this was entitled,
could not be circumscribed. My social sentiments were indebted to their
alliance with devotion for all their value. All passions are base, all
joys feeble, all energies malignant, which are not drawn from this source.

"For a time, my contemplations soared above earth and its inhabitants. I
stretched forth my hands; I lifted my eyes, and exclaimed, O! that I might
be admitted to thy presence; that mine were the supreme delight of knowing
thy will, and of performing it! The blissful privilege of direct
communication with thee, and of listening to the audible enunciation of
thy pleasure!

"What task would I not undertake, what privation would I not cheerfully
endure, to testify my love of thee? Alas! thou hidest thyself from my
view: glimpses only of thy excellence and beauty are afforded me. Would
that a momentary emanation from thy glory would visit me! that some
unambiguous token of thy presence would salute my senses!

"In this mood, I entered the house of my sister. It was vacant. Scarcely
had I regained recollection of the purpose that brought me hither.
Thoughts of a different tendency had such absolute possession of my mind,
that the relations of time and space were almost obliterated from my
understanding. These wanderings, however, were restrained, and I ascended
to her chamber.

"I had no light, and might have known by external observation, that the
house was without any inhabitant. With this, however, I was not satisfied.
I entered the room, and the object of my search not appearing, I prepared
to return.

"The darkness required some caution in descending the stair. I stretched
my hand to seize the balustrade by which I might regulate my steps. How
shall I describe the lustre, which, at that moment, burst upon my vision!

"I was dazzled. My organs were bereaved of their activity. My eye-lids
were half-closed, and my hands withdrawn from the balustrade. A nameless
fear chilled my veins, and I stood motionless. This irradiation did not
retire or lessen. It seemed as if some powerful effulgence covered me like
a mantle.

"I opened my eyes and found all about me luminous and glowing. It was the
element of heaven that flowed around. Nothing but a fiery stream was at
first visible; but, anon, a shrill voice from behind called upon me to
attend.

"I turned: It is forbidden to describe what I saw: Words, indeed, would be
wanting to the task. The lineaments of that being, whose veil was now
lifted, and whose visage beamed upon my sight, no hues of pencil or of
language can pourtray.

"As it spoke, the accents thrilled to my heart. "Thy prayers are heard. In
proof of thy faith, render me thy wife. This is the victim I chuse. Call
her hither, and here let her fall."—The sound, and visage, and light
vanished at once.

"What demand was this? The blood of Catharine was to be shed! My wife was
to perish by my hand! I sought opportunity to attest my virtue. Little did
I expect that a proof like this would have been demanded.

"My wife! I exclaimed: O God! substitute some other victim. Make me not
the butcher of my wife. My own blood is cheap. This will I pour out before
thee with a willing heart; but spare, I beseech thee, this precious life,
or commission some other than her husband to perform the bloody deed.

"In vain. The conditions were prescribed; the decree had gone forth, and
nothing remained but to execute it. I rushed out of the house and across
the intermediate fields, and stopped not till I entered my own parlour.
"My wife had remained here during my absence, in anxious expectation of my
return with some tidings of her sister. I had none to communicate. For a
time, I was breathless with my speed: This, and the tremors that shook my
frame, and the wildness of my looks, alarmed her. She immediately
suspected some disaster to have happened to her friend, and her own speech
was as much overpowered by emotion as mine.

"She was silent, but her looks manifested her impatience to hear what I
had to communicate. I spoke, but with so much precipitation as scarcely to
be understood; catching her, at the same time, by the arm, and forcibly
pulling her from her seat.

"Come along with me: fly: waste not a moment: time will be lost, and the
deed will be omitted. Tarry not; question not; but fly with me!

"This deportment added afresh to her alarms. Her eyes pursued mine, and
she said, "What is the matter? For God's sake what is the matter? Where
would you have me go?"

"My eyes were fixed upon her countenance while she spoke. I thought upon
her virtues; I viewed her as the mother of my babes: as my wife: I
recalled the purpose for which I thus urged her attendance. My heart
faltered, and I saw that I must rouse to this work all my faculties. The
danger of the least delay was imminent.

"I looked away from her, and again exerting my force, drew her towards the
door—'You must go with me—indeed you must.'

"In her fright she half-resisted my efforts, and again exclaimed, 'Good
heaven! what is it you mean? Where go? What has happened? Have you found
Clara?"

"Follow me, and you will see," I answered, still urging her reluctant
steps forward.

"What phrenzy has seized you? Something must needs have happened. Is she
sick? Have you found her?"

"Come and see. Follow me, and know for yourself."

"Still she expostulated and besought me to explain this mysterious
behaviour. I could not trust myself to answer her; to look at her; but
grasping her arm, I drew her after me. She hesitated, rather through
confusion of mind than from unwillingness to accompany me. This confusion
gradually abated, and she moved forward, but with irresolute footsteps,
and continual exclamations of wonder and terror. Her interrogations Of
"what was the matter?" and "whither was I going?" were ceaseless and
vehement.

"It was the scope of my efforts not to think; to keep up a conflict and
uproar in my mind in which all order and distinctness should be lost; to
escape from the sensations produced by her voice. I was, therefore,
silent. I strove to abridge this interval by my haste, and to waste all my
attention in furious gesticulations.

"In this state of mind we reached my sister's door. She looked at the
windows and saw that all was desolate—"Why come we here? There is no
body here. I will not go in."

"Still I was dumb; but opening the door, I drew her into the entry. This
was the allotted scene: here she was to fall. I let go her hand, and
pressing my palms against my forehead, made one mighty effort to work up
my soul to the deed.

"In vain; it would not be; my courage was appalled; my arms nerveless: I
muttered prayers that my strength might be aided from above. They availed
nothing.

"Horror diffused itself over me. This conviction of my cowardice, my
rebellion, fastened upon me, and I stood rigid and cold as marble. From
this state I was somewhat relieved by my wife's voice, who renewed her
supplications to be told why we came hither, and what was the fate of my
sister.

"What could I answer? My words were broken and inarticulate. Her fears
naturally acquired force from the observation of these symptoms; but these
fears were misplaced. The only inference she deduced from my conduct was,
that some terrible mishap had befallen Clara.

"She wrung her hands, and exclaimed in an agony, "O tell me, where is she?
What has become of her? Is she sick? Dead? Is she in her chamber? O let me
go thither and know the worst!"

"This proposal set my thoughts once more in motion. Perhaps what my
rebellious heart refused to perform here, I might obtain strength enough
to execute elsewhere.

"Come then," said I, "let us go."

"I will, but not in the dark. We must first procure a light."

"Fly then and procure it; but I charge you, linger not. I will await for
your return.

"While she was gone, I strode along the entry. The fellness of a gloomy
hurricane but faintly resembled the discord that reigned in my mind. To
omit this sacrifice must not be; yet my sinews had refused to perform it.
No alternative was offered. To rebel against the mandate was impossible;
but obedience would render me the executioner of my wife. My will was
strong, but my limbs refused their office.

"She returned with a light; I led the way to the chamber; she looked round
her; she lifted the curtain of the bed; she saw nothing.

"At length, she fixed inquiring eyes upon me. The light now enabled her to
discover in my visage what darkness had hitherto concealed. Her cares were
now transferred from my sister to myself, and she said in a tremulous
voice, "Wieland! you are not well: What ails you? Can I do nothing for
you?"

"That accents and looks so winning should disarm me of my resolution, was
to be expected. My thoughts were thrown anew into anarchy. I spread my
hand before my eyes that I might not see her, and answered only by groans.
She took my other hand between her's, and pressing it to her heart, spoke
with that voice which had ever swayed my will, and wafted away sorrow.

"My friend! my soul's friend! tell me thy cause of grief. Do I not merit
to partake with thee in thy cares? Am I not thy wife?"

"This was too much. I broke from her embrace, and retired to a corner of
the room. In this pause, courage was once more infused into me. I resolved
to execute my duty. She followed me, and renewed her passionate entreaties
to know the cause of my distress.

"I raised my head and regarded her with stedfast looks. I muttered
something about death, and the injunctions of my duty. At these words she
shrunk back, and looked at me with a new expression of anguish. After a
pause, she clasped her hands, and exclaimed—

"O Wieland! Wieland! God grant that I am mistaken; but surely something is
wrong. I see it: it is too plain: thou art undone—lost to me and to
thyself." At the same time she gazed on my features with intensest
anxiety, in hope that different symptoms would take place. I replied to
her with vehemence—

"Undone! No; my duty is known, and I thank my God that my cowardice is now
vanquished, and I have power to fulfil it. Catharine! I pity the weakness
of thy nature: I pity thee, but must not spare. Thy life is claimed from
my hands: thou must die!"

"Fear was now added to her grief. 'What mean you? Why talk you of death?
Bethink yourself, Wieland: bethink yourself, and this fit will pass. O why
came I hither! Why did you drag me hither?'

"I brought thee hither to fulfil a divine command. I am appointed thy
destroyer, and destroy thee I must." Saying this I seized her wrists. She
shrieked aloud, and endeavoured to free herself from my grasp; but her
efforts were vain.

"Surely, surely Wieland, thou dost not mean it. Am I not thy wife? and
wouldst thou kill me? Thou wilt not; and yet—I see—thou art
Wieland no longer! A fury resistless and horrible possesses thee—Spare
me—spare—help—help—"

"Till her breath was stopped she shrieked for help—for mercy. When
she could speak no longer, her gestures, her looks appealed to my
compassion. My accursed hand was irresolute and tremulous. I meant thy
death to be sudden, thy struggles to be brief. Alas! my heart was infirm;
my resolves mutable. Thrice I slackened my grasp, and life kept its hold,
though in the midst of pangs. Her eye-balls started from their sockets.
Grimness and distortion took place of all that used to bewitch me into
transport, and subdue me into reverence.

"I was commissioned to kill thee, but not to torment thee with the
foresight of thy death; not to multiply thy fears, and prolong thy
agonies. Haggard, and pale, and lifeless, at length thou ceasedst to
contend with thy destiny.

"This was a moment of triumph. Thus had I successfully subdued the
stubbornness of human passions: the victim which had been demanded was
given: the deed was done past recal.

"I lifted the corpse in my arms and laid it on the bed. I gazed upon it
with delight. Such was the elation of my thoughts, that I even broke into
laughter. I clapped my hands and exclaimed, 'It is done! My sacred duty is
fulfilled! To that I have sacrificed, O my God! thy last and best gift, my
wife!'

"For a while I thus soared above frailty. I imagined I had set myself
forever beyond the reach of selfishness; but my imaginations were false.
This rapture quickly subsided. I looked again at my wife. My joyous
ebullitions vanished, and I asked myself who it was whom I saw? Methought
it could not be Catharine. It could not be the woman who had lodged for
years in my heart; who had slept, nightly, in my bosom; who had borne in
her womb, who had fostered at her breast, the beings who called me father;
whom I had watched with delight, and cherished with a fondness ever new
and perpetually growing: it could not be the same.

"Where was her bloom! These deadly and blood-suffused orbs but ill
resemble the azure and exstatic tenderness of her eyes. The lucid stream
that meandered over that bosom, the glow of love that was wont to sit upon
that cheek, are much unlike these livid stains and this hideous deformity.
Alas! these were the traces of agony; the gripe of the assassin had been
here!

"I will not dwell upon my lapse into desperate and outrageous sorrow. The
breath of heaven that sustained me was withdrawn and I sunk into MERE MAN.
I leaped from the floor: I dashed my head against the wall: I uttered
screams of horror: I panted after torment and pain. Eternal fire, and the
bickerings of hell, compared with what I felt, were music and a bed of
roses.

"I thank my God that this degeneracy was transient, that he deigned once
more to raise me aloft. I thought upon what I had done as a sacrifice to
duty, and WAS CALM. My wife was dead; but I reflected, that though this
source of human consolation was closed, yet others were still open. If the
transports of an husband were no more, the feelings of a father had still
scope for exercise. When remembrance of their mother should excite too
keen a pang, I would look upon them, and BE COMFORTED.

"While I revolved these ideas, new warmth flowed in upon my heart—I
was wrong. These feelings were the growth of selfishness. Of this I was
not aware, and to dispel the mist that obscured my perceptions, a new
effulgence and a new mandate were necessary.

"From these thoughts I was recalled by a ray that was shot into the room.
A voice spake like that which I had before heard—'Thou hast done
well; but all is not done—the sacrifice is incomplete—thy
children must be offered—they must perish with their mother!—'"

Chapter XX

Will you wonder that I read no farther? Will you not rather be astonished
that I read thus far? What power supported me through such a task I know
not. Perhaps the doubt from which I could not disengage my mind, that the
scene here depicted was a dream, contributed to my perseverance. In vain
the solemn introduction of my uncle, his appeals to my fortitude, and
allusions to something monstrous in the events he was about to disclose;
in vain the distressful perplexity, the mysterious silence and ambiguous
answers of my attendants, especially when the condition of my brother was
the theme of my inquiries, were remembered. I recalled the interview with
Wieland in my chamber, his preternatural tranquillity succeeded by bursts
of passion and menacing actions. All these coincided with the tenor of
this paper.

Catharine and her children, and Louisa were dead. The act that destroyed
them was, in the highest degree, inhuman. It was worthy of savages trained
to murder, and exulting in agonies.

Who was the performer of the deed? Wieland! My brother! The husband and
the father! That man of gentle virtues and invincible benignity! placable
and mild—an idolator of peace! Surely, said I, it is a dream. For
many days have I been vexed with frenzy. Its dominion is still felt; but
new forms are called up to diversify and augment my torments.

The paper dropped from my hand, and my eyes followed it. I shrunk back, as
if to avoid some petrifying influence that approached me. My tongue was
mute; all the functions of nature were at a stand, and I sunk upon the
floor lifeless. The noise of my fall, as I afterwards heard, alarmed my
uncle, who was in a lower apartment, and whose apprehensions had detained
him. He hastened to my chamber, and administered the assistance which my
condition required. When I opened my eyes I beheld him before me. His
skill as a reasoner as well as a physician, was exerted to obviate the
injurious effects of this disclosure; but he had wrongly estimated the
strength of my body or of my mind. This new shock brought me once more to
the brink of the grave, and my malady was much more difficult to subdue
than at first.

I will not dwell upon the long train of dreary sensations, and the hideous
confusion of my understanding. Time slowly restored its customary firmness
to my frame, and order to my thoughts. The images impressed upon my mind
by this fatal paper were somewhat effaced by my malady. They were obscure
and disjointed like the parts of a dream. I was desirous of freeing my
imagination from this chaos. For this end I questioned my uncle, who was
my constant companion. He was intimidated by the issue of his first
experiment, and took pains to elude or discourage my inquiry. My
impetuosity some times compelled him to have resort to misrepresentations
and untruths.

Time effected that end, perhaps, in a more beneficial manner. In the
course of my meditations the recollections of the past gradually became
more distinct. I revolved them, however, in silence, and being no longer
accompanied with surprize, they did not exercise a death-dealing power. I
had discontinued the perusal of the paper in the midst of the narrative;
but what I read, combined with information elsewhere obtained, threw,
perhaps, a sufficient light upon these detestable transactions; yet my
curiosity was not inactive. I desired to peruse the remainder.

My eagerness to know the particulars of this tale was mingled and abated
by my antipathy to the scene which would be disclosed. Hence I employed no
means to effect my purpose. I desired knowledge, and, at the same time,
shrunk back from receiving the boon.

One morning, being left alone, I rose from my bed, and went to a drawer
where my finer clothing used to be kept. I opened it, and this fatal paper
saluted my sight. I snatched it involuntarily, and withdrew to a chair. I
debated, for a few minutes, whether I should open and read. Now that my
fortitude was put to trial, it failed. I felt myself incapable of
deliberately surveying a scene of so much horror. I was prompted to return
it to its place, but this resolution gave way, and I determined to peruse
some part of it. I turned over the leaves till I came near the conclusion.
The narrative of the criminal was finished. The verdict of GUILTY
reluctantly pronounced by the jury, and the accused interrogated why
sentence of death should not pass. The answer was brief, solemn, and
emphatical.

"No. I have nothing to say. My tale has been told. My motives have been
truly stated. If my judges are unable to discern the purity of my
intentions, or to credit the statement of them, which I have just made; if
they see not that my deed was enjoined by heaven; that obedience was the
test of perfect virtue, and the extinction of selfishness and error, they
must pronounce me a murderer.

"They refuse to credit my tale; they impute my acts to the influence of
daemons; they account me an example of the highest wickedness of which
human nature is capable; they doom me to death and infamy. Have I power to
escape this evil? If I have, be sure I will exert it. I will not accept
evil at their hand, when I am entitled to good; I will suffer only when I
cannot elude suffering.

"You say that I am guilty. Impious and rash! thus to usurp the
prerogatives of your Maker! to set up your bounded views and halting
reason, as the measure of truth!

"Thou, Omnipotent and Holy! Thou knowest that my actions were conformable
to thy will. I know not what is crime; what actions are evil in their
ultimate and comprehensive tendency or what are good. Thy knowledge, as
thy power, is unlimited. I have taken thee for my guide, and cannot err.
To the arms of thy protection, I entrust my safety. In the awards of thy
justice, I confide for my recompense.

"Come death when it will, I am safe. Let calumny and abhorrence pursue me
among men; I shall not be defrauded of my dues. The peace of virtue, and
the glory of obedience, will be my portion hereafter."

Here ended the speaker. I withdrew my eyes from the page; but before I had
time to reflect on what I had read, Mr. Cambridge entered the room. He
quickly perceived how I had been employed, and betrayed some solicitude
respecting the condition of my mind.

His fears, however, were superfluous. What I had read, threw me into a
state not easily described. Anguish and fury, however, had no part in it.
My faculties were chained up in wonder and awe. Just then, I was unable to
speak. I looked at my friend with an air of inquisitiveness, and pointed
at the roll. He comprehended my inquiry, and answered me with looks of
gloomy acquiescence. After some time, my thoughts found their way to my
lips.

Such then were the acts of my brother. Such were his words. For this he
was condemned to die: To die upon the gallows! A fate, cruel and
unmerited! And is it so? continued I, struggling for utterance, which this
new idea made difficult; is he—dead!

"No. He is alive. There could be no doubt as to the cause of these
excesses. They originated in sudden madness; but that madness continues.
and he is condemned to perpetual imprisonment."

"Madness, say you? Are you sure? Were not these sights, and these sounds,
really seen and heard?"

My uncle was surprized at my question. He looked at me with apparent
inquietude. "Can you doubt," said he, "that these were illusions? Does
heaven, think you, interfere for such ends?"

"O no; I think it not. Heaven cannot stimulate to such unheard-of outrage.
The agent was not good, but evil."

"Nay, my dear girl," said my friend, "lay aside these fancies. Neither
angel nor devil had any part in this affair."

"You misunderstand me," I answered; "I believe the agency to be external
and real, but not supernatural."

"Indeed!" said he, in an accent of surprize. "Whom do you then suppose to
be the agent?"

"I know not. All is wildering conjecture. I cannot forget Carwin. I cannot
banish the suspicion that he was the setter of these snares. But how can
we suppose it to be madness? Did insanity ever before assume this form?"

"Frequently. The illusion, in this case, was more dreadful in its
consequences, than any that has come to my knowledge; but, I repeat that
similar illusions are not rare. Did you never hear of an instance which
occurred in your mother's family?"

"No. I beseech you relate it. My grandfather's death I have understood to
have been extraordinary, but I know not in what respect. A brother, to
whom he was much attached, died in his youth, and this, as I have heard,
influenced, in some remarkable way, the fate of my grandfather; but I am
unacquainted with particulars."

"On the death of that brother," resumed my friend, "my father was seized
with dejection, which was found to flow from two sources. He not only
grieved for the loss of a friend, but entertained the belief that his own
death would be inevitably consequent on that of his brother. He waited
from day to day in expectation of the stroke which he predicted was
speedily to fall upon him. Gradually, however, he recovered his
cheerfulness and confidence. He married, and performed his part in the
world with spirit and activity. At the end of twenty-one years it happened
that he spent the summer with his family at an house which he possessed on
the sea coast in Cornwall. It was at no great distance from a cliff which
overhung the ocean, and rose into the air to a great height. The summit
was level and secure, and easily ascended on the land side. The company
frequently repaired hither in clear weather, invited by its pure airs and
extensive prospects. One evening in June my father, with his wife and some
friends, chanced to be on this spot. Every one was happy, and my father's
imagination seemed particularly alive to the grandeur of the scenery.

"Suddenly, however, his limbs trembled and his features betrayed alarm. He
threw himself into the attitude of one listening. He gazed earnestly in a
direction in which nothing was visible to his friends. This lasted for a
minute; then turning to his companions, he told them that his brother had
just delivered to him a summons, which must be instantly obeyed. He then
took an hasty and solemn leave of each person, and, before their surprize
would allow them to understand the scene, he rushed to the edge of the
cliff, threw himself headlong, and was seen no more.

"In the course of my practice in the German army, many cases, equally
remarkable, have occurred. Unquestionably the illusions were maniacal,
though the vulgar thought otherwise. They are all reducible to one class,
[*] and are not more difficult of explication and cure than most
affections of our frame."

This opinion my uncle endeavoured, by various means, to impress upon me. I
listened to his reasonings and illustrations with silent respect. My
astonishment was great on finding proofs of an influence of which I had
supposed there were no examples; but I was far from accounting for
appearances in my uncle's manner. Ideas thronged into my mind which I was
unable to disjoin or to regulate. I reflected that this madness, if
madness it were, had affected Pleyel and myself as well as Wieland. Pleyel
had heard a mysterious voice. I had seen and heard. A form had showed
itself to me as well as to Wieland. The disclosure had been made in the
same spot. The appearance was equally complete and equally prodigious in
both instances. Whatever supposition I should adopt, had I not equal
reason to tremble? What was my security against influences equally
terrific and equally irresistable?

It would be vain to attempt to describe the state of mind which this idea
produced. I wondered at the change which a moment had affected in my
brother's condition. Now was I stupified with tenfold wonder in
contemplating myself. Was I not likewise transformed from rational and
human into a creature of nameless and fearful attributes? Was I not
transported to the brink of the same abyss? Ere a new day should come, my
hands might be embrued in blood, and my remaining life be consigned to a
dungeon and chains.

With moral sensibility like mine, no wonder that this new dread was more
insupportable than the anguish I had lately endured. Grief carries its own
antidote along with it. When thought becomes merely a vehicle of pain, its
progress must be stopped. Death is a cure which nature or ourselves must
administer: To this cure I now looked forward with gloomy satisfaction.

My silence could not conceal from my uncle the state of my thoughts. He
made unwearied efforts to divert my attention from views so pregnant with
danger. His efforts, aided by time, were in some measure successful.
Confidence in the strength of my resolution, and in the healthful state of
my faculties, was once more revived. I was able to devote my thoughts to
my brother's state, and the causes of this disasterous proceeding.

My opinions were the sport of eternal change. Some times I conceived the
apparition to be more than human. I had no grounds on which to build a
disbelief. I could not deny faith to the evidence of my religion; the
testimony of men was loud and unanimous: both these concurred to persuade
me that evil spirits existed, and that their energy was frequently exerted
in the system of the world.

These ideas connected themselves with the image of Carwin. Where is the
proof, said I, that daemons may not be subjected to the controul of men?
This truth may be distorted and debased in the minds of the ignorant. The
dogmas of the vulgar, with regard to this subject, are glaringly absurd;
but though these may justly be neglected by the wise, we are scarcely
justified in totally rejecting the possibility that men may obtain
supernatural aid.

The dreams of superstition are worthy of contempt. Witchcraft, its
instruments and miracles, the compact ratified by a bloody signature, the
apparatus of sulpherous smells and thundering explosions, are monstrous
and chimerical. These have no part in the scene over which the genius of
Carwin presides. That conscious beings, dissimilar from human, but moral
and voluntary agents as we are, some where exist, can scarcely be denied.
That their aid may be employed to benign or malignant purposes, cannot be
disproved.

Darkness rests upon the designs of this man. The extent of his power is
unknown; but is there not evidence that it has been now exerted?

I recurred to my own experience. Here Carwin had actually appeared upon
the stage; but this was in a human character. A voice and a form were
discovered; but one was apparently exerted, and the other disclosed, not
to befriend, but to counteract Carwin's designs. There were tokens of
hostility, and not of alliance, between them. Carwin was the miscreant
whose projects were resisted by a minister of heaven. How can this be
reconciled to the stratagem which ruined my brother? There the agency was
at once preternatural and malignant.

The recollection of this fact led my thoughts into a new channel. The
malignity of that influence which governed my brother had hitherto been no
subject of doubt. His wife and children were destroyed; they had expired
in agony and fear; yet was it indisputably certain that their murderer was
criminal? He was acquitted at the tribunal of his own conscience; his
behaviour at his trial and since, was faithfully reported to me;
appearances were uniform; not for a moment did he lay aside the majesty of
virtue; he repelled all invectives by appealing to the deity, and to the
tenor of his past life; surely there was truth in this appeal: none but a
command from heaven could have swayed his will; and nothing but unerring
proof of divine approbation could sustain his mind in its present
elevation.

     * Mania Mutabilis. See Darwin's Zoonomia, vol. ii. Class III.
     1.2. where similar cases are stated.

Chapter XXI

Such, for some time, was the course of my meditations. My weakness, and my
aversion to be pointed at as an object of surprize or compassion,
prevented me from going into public. I studiously avoided the visits of
those who came to express their sympathy, or gratify their curiosity. My
uncle was my principal companion. Nothing more powerfully tended to
console me than his conversation.

With regard to Pleyel, my feelings seemed to have undergone a total
revolution. It often happens that one passion supplants another. Late
disasters had rent my heart, and now that the wound was in some degree
closed, the love which I had cherished for this man seemed likewise to
have vanished.

Hitherto, indeed, I had had no cause for despair. I was innocent of that
offence which had estranged him from my presence. I might reasonably
expect that my innocence would at some time be irresistably demonstrated,
and his affection for me be revived with his esteem. Now my aversion to be
thought culpable by him continued, but was unattended with the same
impatience. I desired the removal of his suspicions, not for the sake of
regaining his love, but because I delighted in the veneration of so
excellent a man, and because he himself would derive pleasure from
conviction of my integrity.

My uncle had early informed me that Pleyel and he had seen each other,
since the return of the latter from Europe. Amidst the topics of their
conversation, I discovered that Pleyel had carefully omitted the mention
of those events which had drawn upon me so much abhorrence. I could not
account for his silence on this subject. Perhaps time or some new
discovery had altered or shaken his opinion. Perhaps he was unwilling,
though I were guilty, to injure me in the opinion of my venerable kinsman.
I understood that he had frequently visited me during my disease, had
watched many successive nights by my bedside, and manifested the utmost
anxiety on my account.

The journey which he was preparing to take, at the termination of our last
interview, the catastrophe of the ensuing night induced him to delay. The
motives of this journey I had, till now, totally mistaken. They were
explained to me by my uncle, whose tale excited my astonishment without
awakening my regret. In a different state of mind, it would have added
unspeakably to my distress, but now it was more a source of pleasure than
pain. This, perhaps, is not the least extraordinary of the facts contained
in this narrative. It will excite less wonder when I add, that my
indifference was temporary, and that the lapse of a few days shewed me
that my feelings were deadened for a time, rather than finally
extinguished.

Theresa de Stolberg was alive. She had conceived the resolution of seeking
her lover in America. To conceal her flight, she had caused the report of
her death to be propagated. She put herself under the conduct of Bertrand,
the faithful servant of Pleyel. The pacquet which the latter received from
the hands of his servant, contained the tidings of her safe arrival at
Boston, and to meet her there was the purpose of his journey.

This discovery had set this man's character in a new light. I had mistaken
the heroism of friendship for the phrenzy of love. He who had gained my
affections, may be supposed to have previously entitled himself to my
reverence; but the levity which had formerly characterized the behaviour
of this man, tended to obscure the greatness of his sentiments. I did not
fail to remark, that since this lady was still alive, the voice in the
temple which asserted her death, must either have been intended to
deceive, or have been itself deceived. The latter supposition was
inconsistent with the notion of a spiritual, and the former with that of a
benevolent being.

When my disease abated, Pleyel had forborne his visits, and had lately set
out upon this journey. This amounted to a proof that my guilt was still
believed by him. I was grieved for his errors, but trusted that my
vindication would, sooner or later, be made.

Meanwhile, tumultuous thoughts were again set afloat by a proposal made to
me by my uncle. He imagined that new airs would restore my languishing
constitution, and a varied succession of objects tend to repair the shock
which my mind had received. For this end, he proposed to me to take up my
abode with him in France or Italy.

At a more prosperous period, this scheme would have pleased for its own
sake. Now my heart sickened at the prospect of nature. The world of man
was shrowded in misery and blood, and constituted a loathsome spectacle. I
willingly closed my eyes in sleep, and regretted that the respite it
afforded me was so short. I marked with satisfaction the progress of decay
in my frame, and consented to live, merely in the hope that the course of
nature would speedily relieve me from the burthen. Nevertheless, as he
persisted in his scheme, I concurred in it merely because he was entitled
to my gratitude, and because my refusal gave him pain.

No sooner was he informed of my consent, than he told me I must make
immediate preparation to embark, as the ship in which he had engaged a
passage would be ready to depart in three days. This expedition was
unexpected. There was an impatience in his manner when he urged the
necessity of dispatch that excited my surprize. When I questioned him as
to the cause of this haste, he generally stated reasons which, at that
time, I could not deny to be plausible; but which, on the review, appeared
insufficient. I suspected that the true motives were concealed, and
believed that these motives had some connection with my brother's destiny.

I now recollected that the information respecting Wieland which had, from
time to time, been imparted to me, was always accompanied with airs of
reserve and mysteriousness. What had appeared sufficiently explicit at the
time it was uttered, I now remembered to have been faltering and
ambiguous. I was resolved to remove my doubts, by visiting the unfortunate
man in his dungeon.

Heretofore the idea of this visit had occurred to me; but the horrors of
his dwelling-place, his wild yet placid physiognomy, his neglected locks,
the fetters which constrained his limbs, terrible as they were in
description, how could I endure to behold!

Now, however, that I was preparing to take an everlasting farewell of my
country, now that an ocean was henceforth to separate me from him, how
could I part without an interview? I would examine his situation with my
own eyes. I would know whether the representations which had been made to
me were true. Perhaps the sight of the sister whom he was wont to love
with a passion more than fraternal, might have an auspicious influence on
his malady.

Having formed this resolution, I waited to communicate it to Mr.
Cambridge. I was aware that, without his concurrence, I could not hope to
carry it into execution, and could discover no objection to which it was
liable. If I had not been deceived as to his condition, no inconvenience
could arise from this proceeding. His consent, therefore, would be the
test of his sincerity.

I seized this opportunity to state my wishes on this head. My suspicions
were confirmed by the manner in which my request affected him. After some
pause, in which his countenance betrayed every mark of perplexity, he said
to me, "Why would you pay this visit? What useful purpose can it serve?"

"We are preparing," said I, "to leave the country forever: What kind of
being should I be to leave behind me a brother in calamity without even a
parting interview? Indulge me for three minutes in the sight of him. My
heart will be much easier after I have looked at him, and shed a few tears
in his presence."

"I believe otherwise. The sight of him would only augment your distress,
without contributing, in any degree, to his benefit."

"I know not that," returned I. "Surely the sympathy of his sister, proofs
that her tenderness is as lively as ever, must be a source of satisfaction
to him. At present he must regard all mankind as his enemies and
calumniators. His sister he, probably, conceives to partake in the general
infatuation, and to join in the cry of abhorrence that is raised against
him. To be undeceived in this respect, to be assured that, however I may
impute his conduct to delusion, I still retain all my former affection for
his person, and veneration for the purity of his motives, cannot but
afford him pleasure. When he hears that I have left the country, without
even the ceremonious attention of a visit, what will he think of me? His
magnanimity may hinder him from repining, but he will surely consider my
behaviour as savage and unfeeling. Indeed, dear Sir, I must pay this
visit. To embark with you without paying it, will be impossible. It may be
of no service to him, but will enable me to acquit myself of what I cannot
but esteem a duty. Besides," continued I, "if it be a mere fit of insanity
that has seized him, may not my presence chance to have a salutary
influence? The mere sight of me, it is not impossible, may rectify his
perceptions."

"Ay," said my uncle, with some eagerness; "it is by no means impossible
that your interview may have that effect; and for that reason, beyond all
others, would I dissuade you from it."

I expressed my surprize at this declaration. "Is it not to be desired that
an error so fatal as this should be rectified?"

"I wonder at your question. Reflect on the consequences of this error. Has
he not destroyed the wife whom he loved, the children whom he idolized?
What is it that enables him to bear the remembrance, but the belief that
he acted as his duty enjoined? Would you rashly bereave him of this
belief? Would you restore him to himself, and convince him that he was
instigated to this dreadful outrage by a perversion of his organs, or a
delusion from hell?

"Now his visions are joyous and elate. He conceives himself to have
reached a loftier degree of virtue, than any other human being. The merit
of his sacrifice is only enhanced in the eyes of superior beings, by the
detestation that pursues him here, and the sufferings to which he is
condemned. The belief that even his sister has deserted him, and gone over
to his enemies, adds to his sublimity of feelings, and his confidence in
divine approbation and future recompense.

"Let him be undeceived in this respect, and what floods of despair and of
horror will overwhelm him! Instead of glowing approbation and serene hope,
will he not hate and torture himself? Self-violence, or a phrenzy far more
savage and destructive than this, may be expected to succeed. I beseech
you, therefore, to relinquish this scheme. If you calmly reflect upon it,
you will discover that your duty lies in carefully shunning him."

Mr. Cambridge's reasonings suggested views to my understanding, that had
not hitherto occurred. I could not but admit their validity, but they
shewed, in a new light, the depth of that misfortune in which my brother
was plunged. I was silent and irresolute.

Presently, I considered, that whether Wieland was a maniac, a faithful
servant of his God, the victim of hellish illusions, or the dupe of human
imposture, was by no means certain. In this state of my mind it became me
to be silent during the visit that I projected. This visit should be
brief: I should be satisfied merely to snatch a look at him. Admitting
that a change in his opinions were not to be desired, there was no danger
from the conduct which I should pursue, that this change should be
wrought.

But I could not conquer my uncle's aversion to this scheme. Yet I
persisted, and he found that to make me voluntarily relinquish it, it was
necessary to be more explicit than he had hitherto been. He took both my
hands, and anxiously examining my countenance as he spoke, "Clara," said
he, "this visit must not be paid. We must hasten with the utmost
expedition from this shore. It is folly to conceal the truth from you,
and, since it is only by disclosing the truth that you can be prevailed
upon to lay aside this project, the truth shall be told.