Book: Wieland; or The Transformation, An American Tale

C >> Charles Brockden Brown >> Wieland; or The Transformation, An American Tale



WIELAND; OR THE TRANSFORMATION
An American Tale





by Charles Brockden Brown




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



Advertisement.


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

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

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

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

C. B. B.
September 3, 1798.



Chapter I


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

At the distance of three hundred yards from his house, on the
top of a rock whose sides were steep, rugged, and encumbered
with dwarf cedars and stony asperities, he built what to a
common eye would have seemed a summer-house. The eastern verge
of this precipice was sixty feet above the river which flowed at
its foot. The view before it consisted of a transparent
current, fluctuating and rippling in a rocky channel, and
bounded by a rising scene of cornfields and orchards. The
edifice was slight and airy. It was no more than a circular
area, twelve feet in diameter, whose flooring was the rock,
cleared of moss and shrubs, and exactly levelled, edged by
twelve Tuscan columns, and covered by an undulating dome. My
father furnished the dimensions and outlines, but allowed the
artist whom he employed to complete the structure on his own
plan. It was without seat, table, or ornament of any kind.

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

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

Suddenly the sadness that constantly attended him was
deepened. Sighs, and even tears, sometimes escaped him. To the
expostulations of his wife he seldom answered any thing. When
he designed to be communicative, he hinted that his peace of
mind was flown, in consequence of deviation from his duty. A
command had been laid upon him, which he had delayed to perform.
He felt as if a certain period of hesitation and reluctance had
been allowed him, but that this period was passed. He was no
longer permitted to obey. The duty assigned to him was
transferred, in consequence of his disobedience, to another, and
all that remained was to endure the penalty.

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



Chapter II


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Copyright (c) 2007. knowncrafts.net. All rights reserved.