Book: Wieland; or The Transformation, An American Tale

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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withdrawn, but the interior of the edifice was filled with rays.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.

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