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 con⯑tribute 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 incul⯑cate the duty of avoiding deceit. It will exemplify the force of early impreſſions, and ſhow the im⯑meaſurable 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 [2] 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 ſuf⯑fices 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 ex⯑iſtence, is lulled into grim repoſe; but not until the victim was transfixed and mangled; till every obſtacle was diſſipated by its rage; till every rem⯑nant of good was wreſted from our graſp and ex⯑terminated.

How will your wonder, and that of your com⯑panions, 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 mer⯑chant. 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 tra⯑verſing the neighbouring territory. On one occa⯑ſion [3] 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 re⯑jected 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 fa⯑ther, 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 poor of the ſame name is ſprung from the ſame fa⯑mily, and, perhaps, ſurpaſſes but little, in the fruit⯑fulneſs 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, [4] 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 mer⯑cantile 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 pro⯑vided 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 occa⯑ſions for diſcontent. No opportunities of recrea⯑tion 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 mercan⯑tile ſervice, to reſemble his own; yet every en⯑gagement 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 Albi⯑genſes, or French Proteſtants. He entertained no [5] 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 in⯑quire 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 attract⯑ed by a page of this book, which, by ſome acci⯑dent, had been opened and placed full in his view. He was ſeated on the edge of his bed, and was em⯑ployed in repairing a rent in ſome part of his clothes. His eyes were not confined to his work, but occa⯑ſionally wandering, lighted at length upon the page. The words "Seek and ye ſhall find," were thoſe that firſt offered themſelves to his notice. His cu⯑rioſity 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 doc⯑trine of the ſect of Camiſſards, and an hiſtorical account of its origin. His mind was in a ſtate pe⯑culiarly fitted for the reception of devotional ſenti⯑ments. 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 buſi⯑neſs, he roſe at the dawn, and retired to his cham⯑ber not till late at night. He now ſupplied himſelf with candles, and employed his nocturnal and Sun⯑day hours in ſtudying this book. It, of courſe, abounded with alluſions to the Bible. All its con⯑cluſions [6] 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 Ca⯑miſſard 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 alter⯑nately agitated by fear and by ecſtacy. He ima⯑gined 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 model'ed 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 mourn⯑ful 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 [7] 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, ar⯑rived 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 paſ⯑ſions, 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 be⯑nevolence. As ſoon as his ſervitude expired, he converted his little fortune into money, and em⯑barked for Philadelphia. Here his fears were re⯑vived, and a nearer ſurvey of ſavage manners once more ſhook his reſolution. For a while he relin⯑quiſhed his purpoſe, and purchaſing a farm on Schuylkill, within a few miles of the city, ſet him⯑ſelf [8] 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 be⯑came 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 ſa⯑vage tribes, was revived with uncommon energy. To the former obſtacles were now added the plead⯑ings 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 ſuc⯑ceſs. His exhortations had ſometimes a temporary power, but more frequently were repelled with in⯑ſult and deriſion. In purſuit of this object he en⯑countered 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 re⯑lieved from the ſuppoſed obligation to perſevere. [9] With a 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 him⯑ſelf 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 ſoli⯑tude, and ſhut out every ſpecies of ſociety. Ac⯑cording 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 ri⯑ver 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 riſ⯑ing ſcene of cornfields and orchards. The edifice was ſlight and airy. It was no more than a circu⯑lar area, twelve feet in diameter, whoſe flooring was the rock, cleared of moſs and ſhrubs, and ex⯑actly 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 ſtruc⯑ture 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, unaccompa⯑nied by any human being. Nothing but phyſical inability to move was allowed to obſtruct or poſt⯑pone [10] 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 cen⯑ſures 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 per⯑formance of hymns to her Saviour, after the man⯑ner of the diſciples of Zinzendorf. My father re⯑fuſed to interfere in her arrangements. His own ſyſtem was embraced not, accurately ſpeaking, be⯑cauſe it was the beſt, but becauſe it had been ex⯑preſſly preſcribed to him. Other modes, if prac⯑tiſed by other perſons, might be equally acceptable.

His deportment to others was full of charity and mildneſs. A ſadneſs perpetually overſpread his fea⯑tures, but was unmingled with ſternneſs or diſcon⯑tent. The tones of his voice, his geſtures, his ſteps were all in tranquil uniſon. His conduct was cha⯑racteriſed by a certain forbearance and humility, which ſecured the eſteem of thoſe to whom his te⯑nets were moſt obnoxious. They might call him a fanatic and a dreamer, but they could not deny their veneration to his invincible candour and inva⯑riable 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 [11] 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 aſ⯑ſigned 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 ag⯑gravated by the belief that his offence was incapa⯑ble of expiation. No one could contemplate the agonies which he ſeemed to ſuffer without the deep⯑eſt 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 imagina⯑tion did not prefigure the mode or the time of his deceaſe, but was fraught with an incurable per⯑ſuaſion that his death was at hand. He was like⯑wiſe 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 be⯑ing, and devote him to ceaſeleſs anguiſh.

CHAPTER II.

EARLY in the morning of a ſultry day in Au⯑guſt, 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 en⯑gagements at this time exiſted, which would not admit of further delay. He returned in the even⯑ing, but appeared to be greatly oppreſſed with fa⯑tigue. 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. Occaſion⯑ally his countenance exhibited tokens of alarm; he gazed ſtedfaſtly and wildly at the ceiling; and the exertions of his companions were ſcarcely ſuffici⯑ent 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 anx⯑iety.

My uncle perceived, by his pulſe, that he was in⯑diſpoſed, but in no alarming degree, and aſcribed appearances chiefly to the workings of his mind. He exhorted him to recollection and compoſure, but [13] 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 ex⯑poſtulations 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 no⯑thing. Look to your own condition, and pray to God to ſtrengthen you under the calamities that await you." "What am I to fear?" ſhe anſwer⯑ed. "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 in⯑quiries 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 con⯑trived 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 occaſion⯑ed 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. [14] 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 tol⯑led. The ſound appeared to communicate a ſhock to every part of my father's frame. He roſe im⯑mediately, and threw over himſelf a looſe gown. Even this office was performed with difficulty, for his joints trembled, and his teeth chattered with diſ⯑may. At this hour his duty called him to the rock, and my mother naturally concluded that it was thi⯑ther he intended to repair. Yet theſe incidents were ſo uncommon, as to fill her with aſtoniſh⯑ment 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 im⯑pended over her huſband or herſelf. He had pre⯑dicted evils, but profeſſed himſelf ignorant of what nature they were. When were they to come? [15] Was this night, or this hour to witneſs the accom⯑pliſhment? 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 ex⯑pectation of the next hour.

An half hour paſſed away in this ſtate of ſuſ⯑pence. Her eyes were fixed upon the rock; ſud⯑denly 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 diſ⯑charged, 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 un⯑bolting 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 hur⯑ried down ſtairs and acroſs the meadow which lay [16] 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 con⯑ducted 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 bright⯑neſs 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 re⯑covered 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 [17] 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 requi⯑ſite 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 exhi⯑bited 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 en⯑gaged in ſilent oriſons, with thoughts full of con⯑fuſion 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 infor⯑mation which he choſe to give. There was ſome⯑what 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 gene⯑rated, betrayed more terrible ſymptoms. Fever and delirium terminated in lethargic ſlumber, which, [18] 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 charac⯑ter, the place, and the condition of the times, might be ſuppoſed to confer; the purity and cloudleſſ⯑neſs of the atmoſphere, which rended it impoſſible that lightning was the cauſe; what are the conclu⯑ſions 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 detri⯑ment to the ſtructure, though compoſed of com⯑buſtible materials, the ſudden vaniſhing of this cloud at my uncle's approach—what is the in⯑ference to be drawn from theſe facts? Their truth cannot be doubted. My uncle's teſtimony is pe⯑culiarly worthy of credit, becauſe no man's temper is more ſceptical, and his belief is unalterably at⯑tached 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 re⯑vived 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, [19] meditates an end, ſelects, and commiſſions his agents, and enforces, by unequivocal ſanctions, ſubmiſſion to his will? Or, was it merely the irre⯑gular 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?^*

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 tendern [...]ſs 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 tem⯑per of our aunt was mingled with reſolution and ſtedfaſtneſs. She ſeldom deviated into either ex⯑treme of rigour or lenity. Our ſocial pleaſures were ſubject to no unreaſonable reſtraints. We were inſtructed in moſt branches of uſeful know⯑ledge, 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 affec⯑tionate 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 [21] I bore her, and which was amply returned. Be⯑tween 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 educa⯑tion 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 ſuper⯑intendance. 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 ab⯑ſence 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; confeſ⯑ſions were made or extorted, and their union was poſtponed only till my brother had paſſed his mi⯑nority. The previous lapſe of two years was con⯑ſtantly and uſefully employed.

O my brother! But the taſk I have ſet myſelf let me perform with ſteadineſs. The felicity of [22] that period was marred by no gloomy anticipa⯑tions. 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 nup⯑tial day at length arrived. My brother took poſ⯑ſeſſion of the houſe in which he was born, and here the long protracted marriage was ſolemnized.

My father's property was equally divided be⯑tween us. A neat dwelling, ſituated on the bank of the river, three quarters of a mile from my bro⯑ther's, was now occupied by me. Theſe domains were called, from the name of the firſt poſſeſſor, Mettingen. I can ſcarcely account for my re⯑fuſing 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, de⯑ſirous 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 unde⯑lightful prelude to our interviews. I was ſome⯑times their viſitant, and they, as frequently, were my gueſts.

Our education had been modelled by no reli⯑gious 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 gran⯑deur of external nature. We ſought not a baſis [23] 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 be⯑ſtowed on the future. As a conſolation in calamity religion is dear. But calamity was yet at a diſ⯑tance, 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 thought⯑ful. 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 thril⯑ling 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 re⯑gret. [24] 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 import⯑ance 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 em⯑belliſhed with literature.

The temple was no longer aſſigned to its ancient uſe. From an Italian adventurer, who errone⯑ouſly 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 Mo⯑dena. 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 per⯑formance, without waiting for the ſanction of con⯑noiſſeurs. 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 [25] we ſung, and talked, and read, and occaſionally ban⯑queted. Every joyous and tender ſcene moſt dear to my memory, is connected with this edifice. Here the performances of our muſical and poetical anceſ⯑tor were rehearſed. Here my brother's children re⯑ceived the rudiments of their education; here a thouſand converſations, pregnant with delight and improvement, took place; and here the ſocial affec⯑tions 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 pro⯑ductions. To underſtand them was not ſufficient. He was anxious to diſcover the geſtures and ca⯑dences with which they ought to be delivered. He was very ſcrupulous in ſelecting a true ſcheme of pronunciation for the Latin tongue, and in adapt⯑ing 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 ſet⯑tling 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 foſ⯑tered by a ſympathy of taſtes. This young man had been ſome years in Europe. We had ſepa⯑rated [26] 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 con⯑ceptions were ardent but ludicrous, and his me⯑mory, aided, as he honeſtly acknowledged, by his invention, was an inexhauſtible fund of entertain⯑ment.

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 attach⯑ment to the Latin writers; and Pleyel was not be⯑hind his friend in his knowledge of the hiſtory and metaphyſics of religion. Their creeds, however, were in many reſpects oppoſite. Where one diſ⯑covered 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 ma⯑naged with candour as well as with ſkill, they were always liſtened to by us with avidity and be⯑nefit.

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 hap⯑pineſs [27] 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 ap⯑proach.

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 diſ⯑tance as to enhance our enjoyment by affording objects of compariſon. The Indians were repulſ⯑ed on the one ſide, and Canada was conquered on the other. Revolutions and battles, however ca⯑lamitous to thoſe who occupied the ſcene, contri⯑buted 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 charm⯑ing 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 [29] 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 ex⯑citing a kind of enthuſiaſm. Her ſoftneſs, her in⯑telligence, her equanimity, never ſhall I ſee ſur⯑paſſed. 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 colo⯑nies. He remained a conſiderable period at Phila⯑delphia, 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 [30] 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 motion⯑leſs with ſurpriſe. He was unable to conceal his feelings, but ſat ſilently gazing at the ſpectacle be⯑fore 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 for⯑ward, 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 ſeduouſly 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 at⯑tachment. Her father, who poſſeſſed immenſe wealth, treated him with diſtinguiſhed reſpect, libe⯑rally [31] ſupplied his wants, and had made one condi⯑tion 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 wiſe, breathed nothing but anxiety for his ſafety, and impatience of his ab⯑ſence. 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 anſwer⯑ing 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 [32] 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 eluci⯑date this painful myſtery, but they had failed. This diſappointment haſtened his death; in conſe⯑quence 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 involun⯑tary. 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 re⯑mained an impenetrable ſecret. On a nearer view, Major Stuart proved himſelf a man of moſt amiable character. His attachment to Louiſa ap⯑peared 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 in⯑duced 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 ſepara⯑tion from us.

I was not without hopes of prevailing on her father entirely to relinquiſh this unwelcome deſign. [33] 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 correſpond⯑ence had frequently ſupplied us with topics of diſ⯑courſe.

One afternoon in May, the blandneſs of the air, and brightneſs of the verdure, induced us to aſſem⯑ble, 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 chan⯑nel, by a miſquotation. Pleyel accuſed his com⯑panion of ſaying "polliciatur" when he ſhould have ſaid "pollicerctur" 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 pa⯑ternal benedictions on Louiſa, his letter contained [34] 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 par⯑ticular 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 impa⯑tient for his return; yet, as I heard him aſcending the ſtairs, I could not but remark, that he had exe⯑cuted his intention with remarkable diſpatch. My eyes were fixed upon him on his entrance. Me⯑thought he brought with him looks conſiderably different from thoſe with which he departed. Won⯑der, 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 en⯑groſſed.

The moment he ſaw her, his perplexity viſibly [35] increaſed. He quietly ſeated himſelf, and fixing his eyes on the floor, appeared to be abſorbed in meditation. Theſe ſingularities ſuſpended the in⯑quiry which I was preparing to make reſpecting the letter. In a ſhort time, the company relin⯑quiſhed the ſubject which engaged them, and di⯑rected 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?"—"Catha⯑rine, have you not moved from that ſpot ſince I left the room?"—She was affected with the ſolem⯑nity of his manner, and laying down her work, an⯑ſwered 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 aſſur⯑ed 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; [36] 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 tem⯑per, 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 be⯑tween 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 ob⯑ject. 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 [37] i [...] 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 myſte⯑rious. 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 diſcern⯑able. If ſhe had returned to the houſe, ſhe muſt have uſed wonderous 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 ex⯑plained; but you now aſſure me that nothing ex⯑traordinary [38] 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 ſcru⯑ple to regard the whole as a deception of the ſenſes. Perhaps a voice had been heard; but Wieland's ima⯑gination 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 reaſon⯑ing 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 unwar⯑rantably aſſumed, was a ſource of no ſmall diſquie⯑tude. She admitted the plauſibility of the argu⯑ments 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 [39] death. On the latter event, I had frequently re⯑flected; 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 ſolem⯑nity. 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 delu⯑ſion. It argued a diſeaſed condition of his frame, which might ſhow itſelf hereafter in more danger⯑ous ſymptoms. The will is the tool of the under⯑ſtanding, 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, pal⯑pable 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 [40] our intellectual conſtitution. He is, in ſome re⯑ſpects, 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 im⯑preſſion which it made upon him. He never in⯑troduced 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 inveſ⯑tigating 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 ſub⯑ject can be viewed. Here is an effect, but the cauſe is utterly inſcrutable. To ſuppoſe a decep⯑tion will not do. Such is poſſible, but there are [41] twenty other ſuppoſitions more probable. They muſt all be ſet aſide before we reach that point." "What are theſe twenty ſuppoſi⯑tions" "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 an⯑ceſtors were noble Saxons, and poſſeſſed large do⯑mains in Lufatia. The Pruſſian wars had deſtroyed thoſe perſons whoſe right to theſe eſtates pre⯑cluded 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 liv⯑ing. 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 nu⯑merous, and it would argue the utmoſt folly to neglect them. Contrary to his expectation he found my brother averſe to the ſcheme. Slight ef⯑forts, he, at firſt, thought would ſubdue his reluc⯑tance; but he ſound this averſion by no means flight. 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 paint⯑ed, in attractive colours, the ſtate of manners and government in that country, the ſecurity of civil rights, and the freedom of religious ſentiments. He [43] 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 af⯑ford 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 argu⯑ments, and to ſhew that no ſpot on the globe en⯑joyed equal ſecurity and liberty to that which he at preſent inhabited. That if the Saxons had no⯑thing 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 de⯑generate 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 [44] 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 con⯑tingent; 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 re⯑maining for a certain period, ſeparate from his family. He muſt undergo the perils and diſcom⯑forts 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 inſtruct⯑or, and all for what? For the ambiguous advanta⯑ges 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 acquiſi⯑tion, if it were ſure, is neceſſarily diſtant.

Pleyel was enamoured of his ſcheme on account of its intrinſic benefits, but, likewiſe, for other rea⯑ſons. 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 in⯑vited by the lady herſelf to return. This he was of courſe determined to do, but was anxious to ob⯑tain the company of Wieland; he could not bear to think of an eternal ſeparation from his preſent [45] aſſociates. Their intereſt, he thought, would be no leſs promoted by the change than his own. Hence he was importunate and indefatigable in his argu⯑ments 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 reluc⯑tance in Wieland which already was ſufficiently difficult to conquer. He, therefore, anxiouſly con⯑cealed 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 be⯑lieved 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 poſ⯑ſibility of his embracing it, he knew, would conſi⯑derably 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 promiſ⯑ed 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 be⯑fore 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 tor⯑ments of jealouſy, and ſuſpected nothing leſs than the infidelity of her to whom he had devoted his [46] heart. The ſilence muſt have been concerted. Her ſickneſs, or abſence, or death, would have in⯑creaſed the certainty of ſome one's having written. No ſuppoſition could be formed but that his miſ⯑treſs had grown indifferent, or that ſhe had tranſ⯑ferred 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 impa⯑tient than ever to return to Europe. When he reflected that, by his delays, he had probably for⯑feited 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 inform⯑ed, would ſet out in a few weeks on her return.

Meanwhile he determined to make a new at⯑tempt 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 ex⯑cited ſome uneaſy apprehenſions. We were ex⯑preſſing [47] our fears, and comparing our conjectures as to what might be the cauſe, when they entered together. There were indications in their coun⯑tenances that ſtruck me mute. Theſe were un⯑noticed 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 ſigni⯑ficant glances at Wieland, as if to caution him againſt diſcloſing the truth. My brother ſaid no⯑thing, 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 pro⯑poſed, 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 counte⯑nance aſſumed an air of ſeriouſneſs, and even con⯑ſternation, which I had never before beheld in him. The ſteps with which he meaſured the floor betoken⯑ed 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 confu⯑ſion of his thoughts appeared in no degree to abate. At length I mentioned the apprehenſions which [48] 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 faulter⯑ed through the vehemence of his emotions, "How were you employed during our abſence?" "In turning over the Della Cruſca dictionary, and talk⯑ing on different ſubjects; but juſt before your en⯑trance, we were tormenting ourſelves with omens and prognoſticks relative to your abſence." "Ca⯑tharine 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, clenching 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 ſur⯑priſed at the agitations which he betrayed. "But how was the information procured? How was the truth of this news connected with the circum⯑ſtance 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, co⯑vering 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 Ber⯑trand would have given me the earlieſt information. And yet if he knew his maſter, he muſt have eaſily [49] 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 an⯑gel."

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 pro⯑duced 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 [50] 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 diſpo⯑ſition, for ſome time, uninterrupted by him. At length, he ſaid to me, "Suppoſe now that I, whom argument has not convinced, ſhould yield to ridi⯑cule, 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 indiſpen⯑ſable. 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 ne⯑gative was clearly and diſtinctly uttered from ano⯑ther 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? [51] No anſwer was returned. I ſearched the room, and the area before it, but in vain. Your bro⯑ther was motionleſs in his ſeat. I returned to him, and placed-myſelf again by his ſide. My aſtoniſh⯑ment was not leſs than his."

"Well," ſaid he, at length, "What think you of this? This is the ſelf-ſame voice which I for⯑merly 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 contempla⯑tion of my own condition. "Yes," ſaid I aloud, but without particularly addreſſing myſelf to Wie⯑land, "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 Schuyl⯑kill, 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 tid⯑ings?" 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 circum⯑ſtances in which I heard the tidings, and notwith⯑ſtanding the myſtery which environed him by [52] whom they were imparted, I could give an undi⯑vided 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 queſ⯑tions. "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 previ⯑ouſly 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 igno⯑rance 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 un⯑queſtionably ſuper-human.

That there are conſcious beings, beſide ourſelves, in exiſtence, whoſe modes of activity and infor⯑mation [53] 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 imagi⯑nation 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 con⯑trary, the idea of ſuperior virtue had always been aſſociated in my mi [...] with that of ſuperior power. The warnings that h [...]d 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 uncer⯑tainty, 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. Propi⯑tious was the ſpirit that imparted theſe tidings. [54] Propitious he would perhaps have been, if he had been inſtrumental in producing, as well as in com⯑municating 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 unpro⯑pitious 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 com⯑panions. 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 Schuyl⯑kill. 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. Schuyl⯑kill was here a pure and tranſlucid current, broken into wild and ceaſeleſs muſic by rocky points, mur⯑muring on a ſandy margin, and reflecting on its ſurface, banks of all varieties of height and degrees of declivity. Theſe banks were chequered by [55] 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 beau⯑ties 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 abſorb⯑ed 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 de⯑gree, compenſated by meeting with an old acquaint⯑ance 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 re⯑lating 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 in⯑fluence of ſociety. He gave himſelf up once more to our company. His vivacity had indeed been [56] damped; but even in this reſpect he was a more acceptable companion than formerly, ſince his ſeri⯑ouſneſs 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 to⯑pics. 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 learn⯑ing 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 extermi⯑nation.

CHAPTER VI.

I NOW come to the mention of a perſon with whoſe name the moſt turbulent ſenſations are con⯑nected. 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! Hi⯑therto I have proceeded with ſome degree of com⯑poſure, but now I muſt pauſe. I mean not that dire remembrance ſhall ſubdue my courage or baffle my deſign, but this weakneſs cannot be immedi⯑ately 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 ſup⯑port 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 charac⯑ter? How ſhall I detail the means which rendered [58] 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 power⯑leſs. 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 diſtin⯑guiſh a perſon with certain advantages of edu⯑cation from a clown. His gait was ruſtic and aukward. His form was ungainly and diſpropor⯑tioned. Shoulders broad and ſquare, breaſt ſunken, his head drooping, his body of uniform breadth, ſupported by long and lank legs, were the ingre⯑dients 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 appear⯑ances; they were frequently to be met with on the road, and in the harverſt 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 [59] 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 diſap⯑peared. 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 [60] 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 aſſur⯑ances, 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 ſome⯑what ſingular, but what chiefly rendered them re⯑markable, was the tone that accompanied them. It was wholly new. My brother's voice and Pleyel's were muſical and energetic. I had fondly ima⯑gined, 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 diſtinct⯑neſs that was unexampled in my experience. But this was not all. The voice was not only melli⯑fluent 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 in⯑voluntary 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.

[61]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 be⯑fore; but that they ſhould, in an inſtant, as it were, diſſolve me in tears, will not eaſily be be⯑lieved by others, and can ſcarcely be comprehend⯑ed 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 wor⯑thy to accompany ſuch elocution; but this perſon was, in all viſible reſpects, the reverſe of this phan⯑tom. 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 circum⯑ſtance, or ſhould certainly have choſen a different ſeat. He no ſooner ſhewed himſelf, than a con⯑fuſed 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 [62] 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 irre⯑gular, 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 re⯑minded 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 radi⯑ance 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 imme⯑diately flowed from it, I count among the moſt ex⯑traordinary 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 bro⯑ther, 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 in⯑ſpiration, or I was deceived by my own fond con⯑ceptions, this portrait, though haſtily executed, ap⯑peared 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 [63] 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. Tor⯑rents of rain fell during the whole day, attended with inceſſant thunder, which reverberated in ſtun⯑ning echoes from the oppoſite declivity. The in⯑clemency of the air would not allow me to walk out. I had, indeed, no inclination to leave my apartment. I betook myſelf to the contempla⯑tion 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 ſup⯑poſing that its properties were rare and prodigious. Perhaps you will ſuſpect that ſuch were the firſt in⯑roads 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 ſuſ⯑picion, 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 dark⯑ſome hours, as I ſpent the day, contemplative and ſeated at the window. Why was my mind ab⯑ſorbed [64] 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 an⯑guiſh. Something whiſpered that the happineſs we at preſent enjoyed was ſet on mutable founda⯑tions. 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 re⯑flect 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 alle⯑viating 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 re⯑luctance, in theſe gloomy thoughts; but at length, the dejection which they produced became inſup⯑portably painful. I endeavoured to diſſipate it with muſic. I had all my grand-father's melody as well [65] 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 God⯑frey 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 [...] 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 [66] 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 re⯑queſt 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 cur⯑tained 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 com⯑prized a kitchen, and chamber above it for the ſer⯑vant, and communicated, on both ſtories, with the parlour adjoining it below, and the chamber ad⯑joining 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 depo⯑ſitory 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 com⯑municated [67] 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 mid⯑dle 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 ima⯑gination 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 be⯑fore, 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 de⯑ſirous of being heard by ſome one near, but, at the ſame time, ſtudious to avoid being overheard by any other.

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

Such were the words uttered in a tone of eager⯑neſs [68] 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 an⯑ſwer. "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 de⯑ſtruction. One reſolved to ſhoot, and the other menaced ſuffocation. Their means being choſen, they would forthwith break the door. Flight in⯑ſtantly ſuggeſted itſelf as moſt eligible in circum⯑ſtances 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 in⯑quiries [69] as well as I was able. My brother and Pleyel, whom the ſtorm of the preceding day chanced to detain here, informing themſelves of every particular, proceeded with lights and weapons to my deſerted habitation. They entered my cham⯑ber and my cloſet, and found every thing in its pro⯑per 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 cham⯑ber. They then faſtened the doors, and returned.

My friends were diſpoſed to regard this tranſac⯑tion as a dream. That perſons ſhould be actually immured in this cloſet, to which, in the circum⯑ſtances 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 bro⯑ther'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 atten⯑tion of the family had been drawn to my ſituation. [70] 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 bro⯑ken by a voice of moſt piercing ſhrillneſs, that ſeemed to be uttered by one in the hall below his chamber. "Awake! ariſe!" it exclaimed: "haſ⯑ten 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 queſ⯑tion the reality of thoſe accents which had formerly recalled my brother from the hill; which had im⯑parted 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 converſa⯑tion? 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 invio⯑late aſylum, was now beſet with danger to my life. [71] 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 im⯑preſſion 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 dur⯑able impreſſions. His converſation was occaſion⯑ally 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 [73] 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 ſorth 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 indiſpo⯑ſition moleſted my repoſe with dreams of no cheer⯑ful hue. After various incoherences had taken their turn to occupy my fancy, I at length ima⯑gined 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 diſ⯑tance 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!"

[74]The ſound broke my ſleep, and I found myſelf, at the next moment, ſtanding on my feet, and ſur⯑rounded by the deepeſt darkneſs. Images ſo terrific and forcible diſabled me, for a time, from diſtin⯑guiſhing between ſleep and wakefulneſs, and with⯑held from me the knowledge of my actual condi⯑tion. My firſt panics were ſucceeded by the per⯑turbations 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 imme⯑diately 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 [75] 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. Re⯑member 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 pre⯑cipice. 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 ſucceed⯑ed, which was ſtronger, and remained for a paſſing moment. It glittered on the ſhrubs that were ſcat⯑tered at the entrance, and gleam continued to ſuc⯑ceed 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 pre⯑luded the ſtroke by which he fell; the hour, per⯑haps, was the ſame—I ſhuddered as if I had be⯑held, 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 [76] that I had not power to anſwer him till he had fre⯑quently 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 unu⯑ſual 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 re⯑turned. This intelligence was ſomewhat alarming. He waited ſome time; but, my abſence continuing, he had ſet out in ſearch of me. He had explored the neighbourhood with the utmoſt care, but, re⯑ceiving no tidings of me, he was preparing to ac⯑quaint my brother with this circumſtance, when he recollected the ſummer-houſe on the bank, and con⯑ceived it poſſible that ſome accident had detained me there. He again inquired into the cauſe of this detention, and of that confuſion and diſmay which my looks teſtified.

I told him that I had ſtrolled hither in the after⯑noon, 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 impe⯑tuoſity of my thoughts, I was almoſt dubious, whe⯑ther 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 re⯑membered, 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 [77] 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 teſti⯑mony? 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 impe⯑rious. 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 hear⯑ing. 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 venera⯑tion; 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 [78] 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 trea⯑ſon limited to take effect in this ſpot? I was every where equally defenceleſs. My houſe and cham⯑ber were, at all times, acceſſible. Danger ſtill im⯑pended over me; the bloody purpoſe was ſtill en⯑tertained, 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 pro⯑hibit 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 diſ⯑cloſure would pull upon my head, the ſame de⯑ſtruction. Was then the death of my father, por⯑tentous 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. Whe⯑ther 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 dur⯑ing the night, and which effectually deprived me of [79] ſleep. Next morning, at breakfaſt, Pleyel related an event which my diſappearance had hindered him from mentioning the night before. Early the pre⯑ceding 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 Murvie⯑dro, 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 coun⯑try, [80] 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 he 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 pro⯑feſſion, but ſubſiſted on remittances from England.

While Pleyel remained in Valencia, Carwin be⯑trayed 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 accu⯑rate details reſpecting its ancient and preſent ſtate. On topics of religion and of his own hiſtory, pre⯑vious 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 coun⯑tries.

His character excited conſiderable curioſity in this obſerver. It was not eaſy to reconcile his con⯑verſion 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 ſeclu⯑ſion. He appeared to have contracted an affection for Pleyel, who was not ſlow to return it.

[81]My friend, after a month's reſidence in this city, returned into France, and, ſince that period, had heard nothing concerning Carwin till his appear⯑ance 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 de⯑clared 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 una⯑ble 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 magi⯑cal and thrilling power I had already experienced. But with what new images would he then be ac⯑companied?

Carwin was an adherent to the Romiſh faith, yet was an Engliſhman by birth, and, perhaps, a proteſtant by education. He had adopted Spain [...] 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 [...]own! What could have obliterated the impreſ⯑ſions of his youth, and made him abjure his religion [82] and his country? What ſubſequent events had in⯑troduced ſo total a change in his plans? In with⯑drawing 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 dan⯑gers, and the future was a ſcene over which clouds rolled, and thunders muttered. I compared the cauſe with the effect, and they ſeemed diſpropor⯑tioned 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 intro⯑duction to each other, would excite all that con⯑fuſion 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 hap⯑pineſs, his temper would not have allowed him to perſiſt; but this influence, it was my chief endea⯑vour [83] 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 diſco⯑vered by him, my diſtreſs would have been un⯑ſpeakably aggravated.

CHAPTER VIII.

AS ſoon as evening arrived, I performed my vi⯑ſit. Carwin made one of the company, into which I was uſhered. Appearances were the fame as when I before beheld him. His garb was equally negligent and ruſtic. I gazed upon his counte⯑nance with new curioſity. My ſituation was ſuch as to enable me to beſtow upon it a deliberate ex⯑amination. 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 un⯑poliſhed. All topics were handled by him with ſkill, and without pedantry or affectation. He uttered no ſentiment calculated to produce a diſad⯑vantageous impreſſion: on the contrary, his obſer⯑vations denoted a mind alive to every generous and heroic feeling. They were introduced without pa⯑rade, and accompanied with that degree of earneſt⯑neſs which indicates ſincerity.

He parted from us not till late, refuſing an invi⯑tation to ſpend the night here, but readily conſented to repeat his viſit. His viſits were frequently re⯑peated. Each day introduced us to a more intimate [85] 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 un⯑common ſtandard, when, with all our opportuni⯑ties and accuracy of obſervation, we were able, for a long time, to gather no ſatisfactory informa⯑tion. 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 oc⯑caſion than on moſt others, on account of the gra⯑vity and loftineſs of this man's behaviour.

Pleyel, however, began, at length, to employ re⯑gular 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 [86] 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 re⯑ſemblances 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 in⯑ducements.

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 cu⯑rioſity in us, the gloom of his countenance was deepened, his eyes ſunk to the ground, and his wonted air was not reſumed without viſible ſtrug⯑gle. Hence, it was obvious to infer, that ſome in⯑cidents of his life were reflected on by him with [87] 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 ap⯑peared not deſigned to provoke or baffle the inqui⯑ſitive, 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 pre⯑tence 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 en⯑lightened 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 incre⯑dulity and ſecret ridicule. I had formerly heard ſtories that reſembled this in ſome of their myſte⯑rious circumſtances, but they were, commonly, heard by me with contempt. I was doubtful, whe⯑ther the ſame impreſſion would not now be made on the mind of our gueſt; but I was miſtaken in my fears.

[88]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, ad⯑mitted 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 reaſon⯑ings, that ſuch intercourſe was probable; but con⯑feſſed that, though he was acquainted with many inſtances ſomewhat ſimilar to thoſe which had been related by us, none of them were perfectly exempt⯑ed from the ſuſpicion of human agency.

On being requeſted to relate theſe inſtances, he amuſed us with many curious details. His narra⯑tives were conſtructed with ſo much ſkill, and re⯑hearſed 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 fur⯑niſhed. 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 in⯑ſtance 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 proba⯑bility [89] 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 under⯑ſtanding refuſed to acquieſce in our teſtimony. Be⯑ſides, 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 or⯑gans. On this ſuppoſition he was deſired to ex⯑plain 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 over⯑heard the converſation, who conjectured her death, and whoſe conjecture happened to accord with the truth. That the voice appeared to come from the ceiling was to be conſidered as an illuſion of the fancy. The cry for help, heard in the hall on the night of my adventure, was to be aſcribed to an human creature, who actually ſtood in the hall [90] 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 com⯑mend 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 in⯑mate of the houſe. He entered and departed with⯑out ceremony. When he arrived he received an [91] unaffected welcome, and when he choſe to retire, no importunities were uſed to induce him to re⯑main.

The temple was the principal ſcene of our ſocial enjoyments; yet the felicity that we taſted when aſ⯑ſembled 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 in ſadden us.

My heart was the ſeat of growing diſquietudes. This change in one who had formerly been charac⯑terized 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 hap⯑pened to be placed. There was but one whoſe de⯑portment remains to be deſcribed as being of im⯑portance 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 diſſatisfac⯑tion 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.

[92]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 Ger⯑many. 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 ex⯑ploits 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 diſ⯑aſters. 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 re⯑flections relative to my own ſituation. The ſen⯑timent 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 crea⯑tures? 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 com⯑penſated. Is it not time, ſaid I, to rectify this error? But by what means is this to be effected? [94] It can only be done by a change of deportment in me; but how muſt I demean myſelf for this pur⯑poſe?

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 [95] 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 ap⯑proach. 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 ex⯑plicit. Time was, when theſe emotions would be hidden with immeaſurable ſolicitude, from every human eye. Alas! theſe airy and fleeting im⯑pulſes 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 haſ⯑tened to my brother's.

Pleyel was not there. He had not yet come. On ordinary occaſions, he was eminent for punc⯑tuality. 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 elo⯑cution was leſs ſweet than ſonorous; and, there⯑fore, better adapted than the mellifluences of his friend, to the outrageous vehemence of this drama.

[96]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 con⯑ceived that to-morrow, and not to-day, had been ſelected for this purpoſe: but no. A review of pre⯑ceding circumſtances demonſtrated that ſuch miſ⯑apprehenſion 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 de⯑tention, therefore, muſt be owing to ſome unfore⯑ſeen and extraordinary event. Our conjectures were vague, tumultuous, and ſometimes fearful. His ſickneſs and his death might poſſibly have de⯑tained 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 un⯑dertaking till the morrow; and, perhaps, their im⯑patient curioſity would compel them to diſpenſe en⯑tirely with his preſence. No doubt, ſome harmleſs [97] occurrence had diverted him from his purpoſe; and they truſted that they ſhould receive a ſatis⯑factory account of him in the morning.

It may be ſuppoſed that this diſappointment affect⯑ed 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 ob⯑ject 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 may 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 re⯑tired 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, re⯑moved. New dejection ſucceeded, but was now produced by contemplating my late behaviour. Surely that paſſion is worthy to be abhorred which [98] obſcures our underſtanding, and urges us to the commiſſion of injuſtice. What right had I to ex⯑pect 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 hyprocriſy 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 raſh⯑neſs of this ſcheme, and I wondered by what in⯑firmity of mind I could be betrayed into a mo⯑mentary 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 plea⯑ſure, 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 conſe⯑quence of which he had run the moſt imminent hazard of being drowned. Here was a ſecond diſ⯑appointment endured by the ſame perſons, and pro⯑duced by his failure. Might it not originate in the [99] 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 inſe⯑curity 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 circum⯑ſtances combined to beſtow conſiderable plauſibility on this conjecture; but the conſternation with which I began to be ſeized was allayed by reflect⯑ing, that if this diſaſter had happened my brother would have received the ſpeedieſt information of it. The conſolation which this idea imparted was ra⯑viſhed from me by a new thought. This diſaſter might have happened, and his family not be appriz⯑ed 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 cre⯑ation. 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 untime⯑ly 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 tur⯑bulent life and myſterious end of my father. I [100] 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 relation⯑ſhip to the author. Its ſtile had an unaffected and pictureſque ſimplicity. The great variety and cir⯑cumſtantial 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 my⯑ſelf 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, ap⯑peared 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 [101] among the leaves of pines. The words of that myſterious dialogue, then fearful import, and the wild exceſs to which I was tranſported by my ter⯑rors, filled my imagination anew. My ſteps faul⯑tered, 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 weak⯑neſs. 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 preterna⯑tural ſtrength, lifted by human paſſions, and ſelect⯑ing my life for its aim, were parts of this terrific image. All places were alike acceſſible to this foe, or if his empire were reſtricted by local bounds, thoſe bounds were utterly inſcrutable 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 ſub⯑dued by the ſound: it acted on my nerves like an [102] 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 never⯑theleſs human. No articulation was ever more diſtinct. The breath which accompanied it did not fan my hair, yet did every circumſtance com⯑bine to perſuade me that the lips which uttered it touched my very ſhoulder.

"Hold! Hold!" were the words of this tremen⯑dous prohibition, in whoſe tone the whole ſoul ſeemed to be rapt 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 mea⯑ſured, 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 ſen⯑ſations. This condition could not be laſting. Like a tide, which ſuddenly mounts to an overwhelming [103] 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 re⯑ſumed 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 apart⯑ment 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 in⯑ſtantly 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 termi⯑nated my dream in the ſummer-houſe. There are means by which we are able to diſtinguiſh a ſub⯑ſtance 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 be⯑hind, were ſurely imaginary. That theſe incidents were faſhioned in my ſleep, is ſupported by the ſame indubitable evidence that compels me to be⯑lieve myſelf awake at preſent; yet the words and [104] the voice were the ſame. Then, by ſome inexpli⯑cable 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 beto⯑kened 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 deſtruc⯑tion, 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 mon⯑ſtrous conception is this? my brother!

No; protection, and not injury is his province. Strange and terrible chimera! Yet it would not be ſuddenly 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 con⯑tingency 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 endan⯑gered? But what emotion ſhould poſſeſs me when the arm lifted againſt me was Wieland's?

Ideas exiſt in our minds that can be accounted for by no eſtabliſhed laws. Why did I dream that my brother was my foe? Why but becauſe an omen of my fate was ordained to be communi⯑cated? Yet what ſalutary end did it ſerve? Did it arm me with caution to elude, or fortitude to [105] bear the evils to which I was reſerved? My pre⯑ſent 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 expe⯑rienced; 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 dan⯑ger. 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 be⯑ſtowed upon the preſent occaſion. It was my purpoſe to open it with quickneſs, but the exer⯑tion 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 repeat⯑ed 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 [106] 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 perſeve⯑rance ariſe? I have already aſſigned, as diſtinctly as I am able, the cauſe of it. The frantic concep⯑tion that my brother was within, that the reſiſt⯑ance made to my deſign was exerted by him, had rooted itſelf in my mind. You will comprehend the height of this infatuation, when I tell you, that, finding all my exertions vain. I betook myſelf to exclamations. Surely I was utterly bereft of un⯑derſtanding.

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 be⯑ſeech 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 inter⯑ruption of the ſilence. I knew not what to expect or to fear. My eyes would not ſtray from the receſs. Preſently, a deep ſigh was heard. The quarter from which it came heightened the eager⯑neſs of my gaze. Some one approached from the [107] father 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. Aſſaſ⯑ſins 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 du⯑bious 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 in⯑quietude 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 tre⯑pidation, he reſumed, with undiminiſhed ſolemnity: "Be not terrified. Whoever he was, he haſt done [108] 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 know⯑ledge 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, know⯑ing theſe, you perſiſted. Audacious girl! but, per⯑haps, you confided in his guardianſhip. Your con⯑fidence 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 rea⯑ſonably 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 occa⯑ſion [109] 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 whcih 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 ab⯑ſence. 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 con⯑fident that reaſon in this conteſt would be impo⯑tent. I muſt owe my ſafety to his own ſuggeſtions. Whatever purpoſe brought him hither, he had changed it. Why then did he remain? His reſo⯑lutions might fluctuate, and the pauſe of a few mi⯑nutes reſtore to him his firſt reſolutions.

[110]Yet was not this the man whom we had treated with unwearied kindneſs? Whoſe ſociety was en⯑deared to us by his intellectual elevation and ac⯑compliſhments? Who had a thouſand times expa⯑tiated 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 your⯑ſelf 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 crum⯑ble my ſinews, and reduce me to a heap of aſhes in a moment, if I were to harbour a thought hoſ⯑tile 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 obſer⯑vant of every geſture and look. The tranquil ſo⯑lemnity that had lately poſſeſſed his countenance gave way to a new expreſſion. All now was tre⯑pidation and anxiety.

"I muſt be gone," ſaid he in a faltering accent▪ "Why do I linger here? I will not aſk your for⯑giveneſs. I ſee that your terrors are invincible Your pardon will be extorted by fear, and not dic⯑tated by compaſſion. I muſt fly from you forever [111] 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, the 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 re⯑cognition of his perſon, his haſty departure, pro⯑duced a complex impreſſion on my mind which no words can delineate. I ſtrove to give a ſlower mo⯑tion to my thoughts, and to regulate a confuſion which became painful; but my efforts were nuga⯑tory. 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 ab⯑ſolute ſolitude. No thought of perſonal danger had moleſted my tranquillity. I had made no pre⯑paration 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 breath⯑ings 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. No⯑thing [113] 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 at⯑tempt. What was the ſcene of his former conſpi⯑racy? Was it not he whoſe whiſpers betrayed him? Am I deceived; or was there not a faint re⯑ſemblance between the voice of this man and that which talked of graſping my throat, and extinguiſh⯑ing 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 unſpeak⯑ably 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 cog⯑nizance 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 haſ⯑tened 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?

[114]Yet my conduct was wiſe. Carwin, unable to comprehend my folly, aſcribed my behaviour to my knowledge. He conceived himſelf previouſly de⯑tected, 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 achievements are incredible. Why ſhould I be ſelected as the object of his care; or, it 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 endan⯑gered. His aſſurance, as it now appears, was fal⯑lacious. 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 examina⯑tion, by creeping plants, and the branches of cedars. What receſs could be more propitious to ſecrecy? [115] 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. Pur⯑poſes 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 re⯑view. 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, o [...] decided whether they were real or viſionary. He recommended no meaſures of caution or pre⯑vention.

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 with⯑out means of defence. I could not calculate the mo⯑tives 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 [116] 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 ex⯑pedient to enhance my ſafety was eaſily ſeen. Once I reſolved to leave the houſe, and retire to my bro⯑ther's, but was deterred by reflecting on the un⯑ſeaſonableneſs 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 return⯑ing. The poſſibility that his return was prompted by intentions conſiſtent with my ſafety, found no place in my mind. Images of violation and mur⯑der aſſailed me anew, and the terrors which ſuc⯑ceeded 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 ſtand⯑ing, [117] 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 bolt⯑ing after him the outer door! Might he not con⯑ceive 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 deſpera⯑tion. 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, un⯑heſitatingly, 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 prompt⯑ed 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 [118] 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 conſciouſ⯑neſs 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 ſuggeſ⯑tion. If the door ſhould give way, it was my ſudden reſolution to throw myſelf from the win⯑dow. Its height from the ground, which was co⯑vered 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? Pre⯑ſently 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 with⯑drawn, 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 apart⯑ment, my determination was formed to leap f [...]om [119] the window. My ſenſes were ſtill bound to this object. I gazed at the door in momentary expecta⯑tion 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 plau⯑ſibility to this reaſoning. It was preſently more ſtrongly enforced, when I noticed footſteps with⯑drawing 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. In⯑ſtead of deſcending the ſtairs, he paſſed to the door of the oppoſite chamber, opened it, and having en⯑tered, 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 [120] 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 pro⯑foundly 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 [121] 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 was 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 cham⯑ber. 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 mani⯑feſt 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 affraid that Carwin had been ſtill immured in Pleyel's cham⯑ber. The outer door was a-jar. I ſhut, with trembling eagerneſs, and drew every bolt that ap⯑pended to it. I then paſſed with light and leſs cau⯑tious 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 in⯑form [122] him of what had happened was a queſtion which ſeemed to demand ſome conſideration. My ſafety unqueſtionably required that I ſhould aban⯑don my preſent habitation.

As my thoughts began to flow with fewer im⯑pediments, the image of Pleyel, and the dubiouſ⯑neſs 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 mid⯑night 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 endea⯑voured not to reſtrain them. They imparted a re⯑lief which I had not anticipated. The more co⯑piouſly they flowed, the more did my general ſen⯑ſations 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 poſ⯑ſible 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 pre⯑ſence of mind, and, ſtarting up, I involuntarily ex⯑claimed, "Who is there?" An anſwer was im⯑mediately 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 hi⯑therto 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.

[124]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 im⯑port.

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 ap⯑pearances 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 ſup⯑planted 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 im⯑pulſe. I was ſilent.

Preſently he raiſed his eyes and fixed them upon me. I read in them an anguiſh altogether ineffa⯑ble. Never had I witneſſed a like demeanour in Pleyel. Never, indeed, had I obſerved an human countenance in which grief was more legibly in⯑ſcribed. 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 [125] faſhioned—on whom nature ſeemed to have ex⯑hauſted 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 re⯑ſtore 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 con⯑ſummate, 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 im⯑parted.

"Why do I ſummon thee to this conference? Why expoſe myſelf to thy deriſion? Here admo⯑nition 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 diſ⯑appear 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 pre⯑ſence. No doubt thou wilt ſhortly ſee thy deteſted paramour. This ſcene will be again polluted by [126] 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 cha⯑racter 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 in⯑comprehenſible miſtake. After the horrors of the night; after undergoing perils ſo imminent from this man, to be ſummoned to an interview like this; [127] to find Pleyel fraught with a belief that, inſtead of having choſen death as a refuge from the vio⯑lence 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 concep⯑tions 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 appearance, 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 [128] jealouſy, and impelled hither at that late hour by ſome unknown inſtigation, his imagination tranſ⯑formed 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 in⯑juſtice, 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 invigo⯑rates. All my meditations were accompanied with wonder. I rambled with vagueneſs, or clung to one image with an obſtinacy which ſufficiently teſ⯑tified the maddening influence of late tranſactions.

Gradually I proceeded to reflect upon the con⯑ſequences 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 ſub⯑ſide, would he not perceive the flagrancy of his in⯑juſtice, and haſten to atone for it? Did it not be⯑come my character to teſtify reſentiment for lan⯑guage 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 paſ⯑ſive 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 advanc⯑ed, 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 [129] which I had to communicate. Her health was in that condition which rendered a diſaſtrous tale par⯑ticularly unſuitable. I forbore a direct anſwer to her inquiries, and inquired, in my turn, for Wie⯑land.

"Why," ſaid ſhe, "I ſuſpect ſomething myſ⯑terious 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 im⯑portunities, or tell me what had happened. I ga⯑thered from hints which he let fall, that your ſitu⯑ation 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 in⯑formation. 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 in⯑ſight into the character of Carwin, and from ap⯑prehenſions [130] 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 certain⯑ty. 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 ac⯑quainted with the cauſe. There were many rea⯑ſons 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 oc⯑curred to me, but that or 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 cir⯑cumſtance. [131] Without delay I began the converſa⯑tion.

"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 be⯑haviour 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 be⯑lief. [132] You ſpeak before a judge who will profit by any pretence to acquit you: who is ready to queſ⯑tion 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 in⯑vectives, 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 be⯑lieved 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 cir⯑cumſtances an interview took place between Car⯑win and me. He remained for hours in my cloſet, and for ſome minutes in my chamber. He de⯑parted without haſte or interruption. If Pleyel marked him as he left the houſe, and it is not im⯑poſſible that he did, inferences injurious to my character might ſuggeſt themſelves to him. In ad⯑mitting them, he gave proofs of leſs diſcernment and leſs candor than I once aſcribed to him."

"His proofs," ſaid Wieland, after a conſider⯑able pauſe, "are different. That he ſhould be [133] 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 prohi⯑bition, your belief that I was the ruffian, and your ſubſequent conduct, are believed by me, becauſe I have known you from childhood, becauſe a thou⯑ſand inſtances have atteſted your veracity, and be⯑cauſe nothing leſs than my own hearing and viſion would convince me, in oppoſition to her own aſſer⯑tions, 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 accu⯑ſations of you, and his efforts to obtain my con⯑currence 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, in⯑deed, was a tale to fill me with terrible foreboding. I had vainly thought that my ſafety could be ſuffi⯑ciently 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 hap⯑pineſs [134] 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 diſ⯑honor. This is the midnight aſſignation to which he alluded. Thus is the ſilence he maintained when attempting to open the door of my chamber, ac⯑counted 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 ſicerity 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 un⯑tenable? 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 prefer⯑ence 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 out⯑weigh the teſtimony of his ſenſes? I had no wit⯑neſſes 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 tranſcend⯑ant 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 ex⯑tent 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, [135] 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 in⯑terview with Pleyel, and exact from him a minute relation, in which ſomething may be met with ſerv⯑ing 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 in⯑formed me of his intention to ſet out this evening or to-morrow on a long journey."

No intelligence was leſs expected or leſs wel⯑come 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 happi⯑neſs to which he had devoted his thoughts was blaſted by the diſcovery of laſt night. My prefer⯑ence 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 con⯑trary, my heart was the ſhrine of all purity, and [136] 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 engage⯑ments 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 ſenſa⯑tion 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 invigo⯑rate and refreſh me. My diſtracted thoughts would allow me but little reſt. Growing ſomewhat bet⯑ter 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 ſe⯑vers the polluted from the chaſte among women. Yeſterday and to-day I am [...]. 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 wit⯑neſs of my actions, and partaker of my thoughts, [138] I had ceaſed to be the ſame. My integrity was tar⯑niſhed and withered in his eyes. I was the col⯑league 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 remain⯑ed to thee, and this my guardian has permitted. To diſpoſſeſs Pleyel of this prejudice may be im⯑poſſible; but if that be effected, it cannot be ſup⯑poſed that thy wiles are exhauſted; thy cunning will diſcover innumerable avenues to the accom⯑pliſhment of thy malignant purpoſe.

Why ſhould I enter the liſts againſt thee? Would to heaven I could diſarm thy vengeance by my de⯑precations! 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 com⯑paſs, 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 at⯑tempts, [139] ſince nothing leſs than ſupernatural inter⯑ference could check thy career.

Muſing on theſe thoughts, I arrived, towards the cloſe of the day, at Pleyel's houſe. A month be⯑fore, I had traverſed the ſame path; but how dif⯑ferent 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 ap⯑proached the criſis, the more did my confidence de⯑cay. 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 pro⯑jected journey was already undertaken. Theſe ſears 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 un⯑ſpeakable 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 [140] his attention was ſo deeply engaged, I doubted not to be my own. Theſe preparations for his jour⯑ney, 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 pre⯑viouſly overſpread his countenance, gave ſudden way to an attitude and look of the moſt vehement aſtoniſhment. Perceiving me unable to uphold my⯑ſelf, 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 pe⯑culiarly 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 de⯑terred [141] by ſome degree of uncertainty as to the true nature of the ſcene. At length, in faltering ac⯑cents he ſpoke:

"My friend! would to heaven I were ſtill per⯑mitted 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 ap⯑prehenſion, fraught with the ſublimities of recti⯑tude and the illuminations of genius. Deceit has ſome bounds. Your education could not be without influence. A vigorous underſtanding cannot be ut⯑terly devoid of virtue; but you could not counter⯑feit 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 incura⯑bly diſeaſed.

"You come to reſtore me once more to happi⯑neſs; 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 re⯑monſtrances, and the grief which his accents be⯑ſpoke; 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.

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

Theſe words were heard by Pleyel without viſi⯑ble 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 hear⯑ken 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 ſoftered 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 ſa⯑luted your ear, in which you imagine yourſelf to have recognized mine, and that of a detected vil⯑lain. The ſentiments expreſſed were not allowed to outweigh the caſual or concerted reſemblance of voice. Sentiments the reverſe of all thoſe whoſe [143] 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 poſſibi⯑lity that my voice had been counterfeited by ano⯑ther.

"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 pur⯑ſue 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 fobs 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 [144] and terrible—"Thou knoweſt that I was a witneſs of your interview, yet thou comeſt hither to up⯑braid me for injuſtice! Thou canſt look me in the face and ſay that I am deceived!—An inſcruta⯑ble 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 workman⯑ſhip, 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 my⯑ſelf 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 motionle [...] and ſpeechleſs with agony. I ſat with my han [...] claſped, mutely gazing after him as he withdrew I deſired to detain him, but was unable to ma [...] any effort for that purpoſe, till he had paſſed o [...] of the room. I then uttered an involuntary an [...] piercing cry—"Pleyel! Art thou gone? Go [...] forever?"

At this ſummons he haſtily returned. He behe [...] me wild, pale, gaſping for breath, and my head a [...] ⯑ready ſinking on my boſom. A painful dizzine [...] ſeized me, and I fainted away.

When I recovered, I found myſelf ſtretched o [...] a bed in the outer apartment, and Pleyel, with [...] [145] 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 per⯑ceived 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. For⯑give 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 pro⯑duced 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 ſuggeſtions 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 be⯑lieve that my efforts to make my innocence mani⯑feſt, would be fruitleſs. Adverſe appearances might [147] be numerous and ſpecious, but they were unqueſ⯑tionably falſe. I was willing to believe him ſin⯑cere, 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 fal⯑lacy. 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 ac⯑cents died away ere they were formed. This con⯑flict 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 unpro⯑fitably conſumed. The cleareſt narrative will add nothing to your preſent knowledge. You are ac⯑quainted 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 enume⯑rate the diſcoveries which I have made reſpecting him? Yet, ſince it is your requeſt; ſince, conſider⯑ing 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 [...]he firſt of women, and how fully realized were [...]he expectations that I had formed!

[148]"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 con⯑nected 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 facili⯑tate the performance of the moſt arduous and com⯑plicated duties; what daily acceſſions of ſtrength your judicious diſcipline beſtowed upon your me⯑mory; what correctneſs and abundance of know⯑ledge was daily experienced by your unwearied ap⯑plication to books, and to writing. It 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 ex⯑ample 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 [149] 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, inca⯑pable 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 in⯑vention, 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 de⯑void 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 imita⯑tion. 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 judgment, however, I relied to keep this [150] admiration within diſcreet and ſcrupulous bounds. I aſſured myſelf, that the ſtrangeneſs of his deport⯑ment, 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 ap⯑pearance; you were bewitched by his countenance and his tones; your deſcription was ardent and pa⯑thetic: I liſtened to you with ſome emotions of ſur⯑prize. 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 underſtand⯑ing 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 contem⯑plations have ever been cheered by your image. Every object in competition with you, was worth⯑leſs 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 deport⯑ment 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 va⯑rious converſations in which the topics of love and marriage had been diſcuſſed. As a woman, young, [151] beautiful, and independent, it behoved you to have fortified your mind with juſt principles on this ſub⯑ject. Your principles were eminently juſt. Had not their rectitude and their firmneſs been atteſted by your treatment of that ſpecious ſeducer Daſh⯑wood? 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 witch⯑craft 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 con⯑cealment which he ſtudied; and concluded you to be ſafe. I denied the obvious conſtruction to ap⯑pearances. I referred your conduct to ſome prin⯑ciple which had not been hitherto diſcloſed, but which was reconcileable with thoſe already known.

"I was not ſuffered to remain long in this ſuſ⯑pence. 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 en⯑trance; and I advanced ſoftly till I was able to overlook your ſhoulder.

[152]"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 re⯑pelled me; but my eye glanced almoſt ſpontane⯑ouſly upon the paper. I caught only parts of ſen⯑tences; 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 ex⯑ceſſive. 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 [153] ſurprize. Could this be the ſummer-houſe alluded to? A certain timidity and conſciouſneſs had gene⯑rally attended you, when this incident and this re⯑ceſs had been the ſubjects of converſation. Nay, I imagined that the laſt time that adventure was mentioned, which happened in the preſence of Car⯑win, 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 endea⯑voured 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 recon⯑ciled you to concealment and nocturnal 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 pre⯑ferred his ſuit to you, we ſhould have been impow⯑ered 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 improbabi⯑lity that you ſhould commit a deed of ſuch raſh⯑neſs, made me reflect anew upon the inſufficiency of thoſe grounds on which my ſuſpicions had been built, and almoſt to condemn myſelf for harbour⯑ing them.

"Though it was mere conjecture that the in⯑terview ſpoken of had taken place with Carwin, [154] 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 ſug⯑geſted. If it were true, no benefit would follow from the mention of it. You had choſen to con⯑ceal 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 acqui⯑eſced 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 occur⯑rence. I have been haunted by perpetual inquie⯑tude. 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, con⯑trary 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 unfor⯑tunate 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 no⯑thing, than to be deceived by an artful tale. What he was unwilling to communicate, and this unwil⯑lingneſs had been repeatedly manifeſted, could never be extorted from him. Importunity might be ap⯑peaſed, or impoſture effected by fallacious repre⯑ſentations. To the reſt of the world he was un⯑known. I had often made him the ſubject of diſ⯑courſe; 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.

[156]"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 mo⯑tive 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 qua⯑lified 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, diſ⯑tracted [157] me with contradictory opinions, and repug⯑nant 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 ſenſa⯑tions. One idea poſſeſſed me wholly; the inex⯑preſſible importance of unveiling the deſigns and character of Carwin, and the utter improba⯑bility that this ever would be effected. Some in⯑ſtinct induced me to lay my hand upon a newſ⯑paper. 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 fea⯑tures, his aukward and diſproportionate form, his geſture and gait, correſponded perfectly with thoſe of our myſterious viſitant. He had been found guil⯑ty in two indictments. One for the murder of the Lady Jane Conway, and the other for a robbery com⯑mitted on the perſon of the honorable Mr. Ludloe.

"I repeatedly peruſed this paſſage. The ideas [158] which flowed in upon my mind, affected me like an inſtant tranſition from death to life. The pur⯑poſe 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? Car⯑win 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 clandeſ⯑tine 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 con⯑ference 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 poſ⯑ſeſſed was, in one ſenſe, ſufficient, yet if more could be obtained, more was deſirable. This paſ⯑ſage 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 re⯑publiſh that advertiſement."

[159]"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 in into my hands, and pointed out the paſſages which re⯑lated 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 incomprehen⯑ſible 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 internal 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 [160] 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 haſ⯑tening, 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 be⯑ſpoke him to have juſt alighted from a toilſome and long journey. I was not wholly without expecta⯑tion 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 be⯑ſtowed a brief peruſal on theſe papers, and having given ſome directions to Bertrand, reſumed my pur⯑poſe 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 circum⯑ſtances only added to my expedition.

"As I paſſed ſwiftly along, I reviewed all the incidents accompanying the appearance and deport⯑ment 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 depend⯑ance; but I do not, on that account, believe them to have a ſupernatural original. Is not this man [161] the agent? Some of them ſeem to be propitious; but what ſhould I think of thoſe threats of aſſaſſina⯑tion with which you were lately alarmed? Blood⯑ſhed 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 thou⯑ſand times exemplified in human beings. There are no devils but thoſe which are begotten upon ſelfiſh⯑neſs, 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 bro⯑ther'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 [162] were probably at reſt. How ſhould I communi⯑cate without alarming you, the intelligence of my arrival? An immediate interview was to be pro⯑cured. 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 delect⯑able, 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 [163] 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 tem⯑peſtuous reſolution to break in upon your inter⯑view, 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 al⯑lowed me to deſcend into a cavity beſide the build⯑ing 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 compaſ⯑ſion for the anguiſh which the countenance of my friend betrayed. I reflected on his force of under⯑ſtanding. I reflected on the powers of my enemy. I could eaſily divine the ſubſtance of the converſa⯑tion 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 for⯑bore 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 in⯑vincible 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?"

[164]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 con⯑ference will end only with affording me a clearer foreſight of my deſtiny; but that will be ſome ſa⯑tisfaction, and I will not part without it."

Why, on hearing theſe words, did Pleyel heſi⯑tate? 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 recol⯑lected 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 accuſ⯑tomed vehemence—

"I hate myſelf for this folly. I can find no apology for this tale. Yet I am irreſiſtibly im⯑pelled 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 im⯑poſſible to repeat your avowals of love, your ap⯑peals 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 re⯑ceſs. 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 wit⯑neſſedſt [165] my efforts to repel the teſtimony of my ears! It was in vain that you dwelt upon the con⯑fuſion which my unlooked-for ſummons excited in you: the tardineſs with which a ſuitable excuſe occurred to you; your reſentment that my imper⯑tinent intruſion had put an end to that charming interview: A diſappointment for which you endea⯑voured 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 oc⯑curred 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 to⯑kens. 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. Hear⯑ing 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 con⯑fuſion and diſmay? I ſought my chamber, and en⯑deavoured 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 fluctua⯑tion of my thoughts between grief and revenge, be⯑tween rage and deſpair? Why ſhould I repeat my [166] 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 edu⯑cation 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 ſen⯑timent 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 my⯑ſelf 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 refreſh⯑ment. 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 open⯑ed and read as follows:

[168]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 mid⯑night interview! To admit him alone into my pre⯑ſence! Could he make this requeſt with the ex⯑pectation 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 flight incivility, and the interview requeſted to take place in the midſt of my friends, there would have been no extrava⯑gance 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 con⯑ſent 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 hap⯑pineſs 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.

[169]Such were the ideas which firſt ſuggeſted them⯑ſelves 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 decep⯑tion, 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 omni⯑preſence was impoſſible, this diſcovery, and the art⯑leſs 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 diſtin⯑guiſhed. Now he thought was the guilty inter⯑view 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 Wie⯑land would have taught him to ſuſpect me of im⯑poſture; 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 vio⯑lence, [170] 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 de⯑monſtrated.

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 peni⯑tence. 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. A 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 tremen⯑dous and inſcrutable attributes, this performer o [...] horrid deeds, and whoſe preſence was predicted to call down unheard-of and unutterable horrors.

What was it that ſwayed me? I felt myſelf di⯑veſted of the power to will contrary to the motive that determined me to ſeek his preſence. My mind [171] ſeemed to be ſplit into ſeparate parts, and theſe parts to have entered into furious and implacable con⯑tention. Theſe tumults gradually ſubſided. The reaſons why I ſhould confide in that interpoſi⯑tion which had hitherto defended me; in thoſe tokens of compunction which this letter contained; in the efficacy of this interview to reſtore its ſpot⯑leſſneſs 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 untouch⯑ed, 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 an⯑ticipated 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 [...]oſt to me. I ſtrove in vain to aſſume his perſon, and ſuppreſs my reſentment; I ſtrove in vain to be⯑lieve 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 [...] to his treaſon. Inſtead of flying from his pre⯑ſence, [172] 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 pur⯑poſes; are not the means of defence and reſiſtance in my power?

In the progreſs of ſuch thoughts, was the reſolu⯑tion 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 ex⯑perienced. 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 [173] myſelf to his direction? But I knew in what way he would decide. He would ſervently 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 fa⯑cilitate 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 unhe⯑ſitatingly rejected. The views with which I ſhould return to my own houſe, it would therefore be ne⯑ceſſary to conceal. Yet ſome pretext muſt be in⯑vented. 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 endanger⯑ed, 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 [174] 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 man⯑ſion. The path to the manſion was planted by a double row of walnuts. Along this path I pro⯑ceeded 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 be⯑come 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 encoun⯑tered not a human being.

I imagined that, perhaps, the lapſe of a few mi⯑nutes would explain theſe appearances. Mean⯑while 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 con⯑dition 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. [175] 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 per⯑fectly at eaſe on that head, but entertained no diſ⯑tinct 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. Mean⯑while the deſireableneſs of an interview with Car⯑win 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 under⯑ſtanding. Whoever has pointed ſteel is not with⯑out 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 my⯑ſelf 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 cham⯑ber, 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 ad⯑vancing. 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 loud⯑neſs. My ſignals were unnoticed. I ſtepped back and looked, but the light was no longer diſcernible. [177] 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 wo⯑man'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 ſu⯑preme 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, there⯑fore, 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 gui⯑dance and protection of light.

What purpoſe did I meditate? Should I explore [178] 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 cir⯑cumvent my incautious ſteps? Yet was it not more probable that he deſired my abſence by thus encou⯑raging the ſuppoſition that the houſe was unoccu⯑pied? I would ſee this man in ſpite of all impedi⯑ments; 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 ex⯑perienced 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 whe⯑ther 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 ener⯑vated; my ideas are vivid, but my language is faint; now know I what it is to entertain incommunica⯑ble 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 [179] 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 tran⯑ſitions, 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 ob⯑ject 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 undu⯑lation, 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 at⯑tached 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 imme⯑diate 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 corruſcations of a meteor. The ſound and the viſion were pre⯑ſent, 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 per⯑formances exceeded the ſtandard of humanity, and [180] 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 de⯑monſtrated the uſefulneſs of that interpoſition. Now was I again warned to forbear. I was hurry⯑ing to the verge of the ſame gulf, and the ſame power was exerted to recall my ſteps. Was it poſ⯑ſible for me not to obey? Was I capable of hold⯑ing 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 cau⯑tion. 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 perma⯑nent, and viſited more frequently my ſober medita⯑tions 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 [181] former, and began to aſcend the ſtairs. The ſilence underwent no ſecond interruption. My chamber door was cloſed, but unlocked, and, aided by ve⯑hement efforts of my courage, I opened and look⯑ed 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 ſuper⯑natural viſage; a meteorous refulgence producible at the will of him to whom that viſage belonged, and partaking of the nature of that which accom⯑panied my father's death?

The cloſet was near, and I remembered the com⯑plicated 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 ſuſ⯑pended in thought: when glancing my eye on a table, I perceived a written paper. Carwin's hand was inſtantly recognized, and ſnatching up the pa⯑per, I read as follows:—

"There was folly in expecting your compliance with my invitation. Judge how I was diſappoint⯑ed, in finding another in your place. I have wait⯑ed, but to wait any longer would be perilous. I ſhall ſtill ſeek an interview, but it muſt be at a dif⯑ferent time and place: meanwhile, I will write this [182] —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 Car⯑win. 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 indi⯑cated 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 pre⯑dicted! This was the event which my underſtand⯑ing 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. Vio⯑lation and death awaited my entrance into this [183] 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 encoun⯑ter 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 re⯑flection 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 happi⯑neſs remains to thy offspring and thy ſpouſe? To loſe thee by a common fate would have been ſuffi⯑ciently hard; but thus ſuddenly to periſh—to be⯑come 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 [184] entertained no enmity againſt thee: I was the ob⯑ject of his treaſon; but by ſome tremendous miſ⯑take 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 breatleſs. Her flowing drapery was diſcompoſed. I reſtored it to order, and ſeating myſelf on the bed, again fixed ſtedfaſt eyes upon her countenance. I can⯑not diſtinctly recollect the ruminations of that mo⯑ment. I ſaw confuſedly, but forcibly, that every hope was extinguiſhed with the life of Catharine. All happineſs and dignity muſt henceforth be ba⯑niſhed 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 cloſ⯑ing 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 ſen⯑timent, that notwithſtanding the ſeeming fulfil⯑ment 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 re⯑cognized 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 ap⯑pearance confirmed this perſuaſion. A brow ex⯑panding 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 hap⯑pened, but ſome joyous occurrence had betided. What a reverſe was preparing to annihilate his tran⯑ſitory 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 [186] 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 con⯑tinent. 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 un⯑converſant with the altitudes and energies of ſenti⯑ment, 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 [187] accents exclaimed, "This is too much! Any vic⯑am but this, and thy will be done. Have I not ſuf⯑ficiently 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 ex⯑cellence 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, ex⯑cept 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 mad⯑man. He advanced towards me. Some hollow noiſes were wafted by the breeze. Confuſed cla⯑mours 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 [188] pregnant with motives to aſtoniſhment. My ſiſ⯑ter'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 diſ⯑tant kinſman of my mother, venerable for his age, his uprightneſs, and ſagacity. He had long diſ⯑charged the functions of a magiſtrate and good citi⯑zen. If any terrors remained, his preſence was ſufficient to diſpel them.

He approached, took my hand with a compaſſion⯑ate 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 cir⯑cumſtances require."

[189]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 bro⯑ther'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 ſtrug⯑gled with his tears, but my laſt intimation called them forth with freſh violence. Meanwhile, his attendants ſtood round in mournful ſilence, gaz⯑ing on me and at each other. I repeated my reſo⯑lution, and roſe to execute it; but he took my hand to detain me. His countenance betrayed irreſolu⯑tion and reluctance. I requeſted him to ſtate the reaſon of his oppoſition to this meaſure. I entreat⯑ed him to be explicit. I told him that my his 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 ob⯑lige 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 [190] motives in making this requeſt: perhaps I think your age, your ſex, or the diſtreſs which this diſ⯑aſter muſt occaſion, incapacitates you for the office. Surely you have no doubt of Mrs. Baynton's ten⯑derneſs 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 per⯑fectly ſafe."

"Fear no effeminate weekneſs 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 per⯑forming my duty to theſe helpleſs innocents? I am willing to divide the care of them with Mrs. Bayn⯑ton; 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 aud⯑ience [191] 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 whiſ⯑pered 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 ſince 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 mo⯑ther"

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

"All!" replied he: "he ſpared not one!"

Allow me, my friends, to cloſe my eyes upon he after-ſcene. Why ſhould I protract a tale which [...] already begin to feel is too long? Over this ſcene [...] leaſt let me paſs lightly. Here, indeed, my nar⯑ [...]ative would be imperfect. All was tempeſtuous commotion in my heart and in my brain. I have to memory for ought but unconſcious tranſitions and rueful ſights. I was ingenious and indefatiga⯑ [...]e in the invention of torments. I would not diſ⯑penſe 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 [...] paſſion, was denied to me at firſt, but my obſti⯑ [...]acy conquered their reluctance.

They led the way into a darkened hall. A lamp [...]endant from the ceiling was uncovered, and they [...]ointed to a table. The aſſaſſin had defrauded me [...]f my laſt and miſerable conſolation. I ſought not [192] 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 deli⯑rium? 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 lift⯑ed. Then I heaped upon my guards the moſt vehe⯑ment reproaches, or betook myſelf to wailings of the hapleſſneſs of my condition.

This malady, at length, declined, and my weep⯑ing friends began to look for my reſtoration. Slow⯑ly, and with intermitted beams, memory reviſite [...] me. The ſcenes that I had witneſſed were revived became the theme of deliberation and deduction and called forth the effuſions of more rational ſor⯑row.

CHAPTER XVIII.

I HAD imperfectly recovered my ſtrength, when I was informed of the arrival of my mother's bro⯑ther, 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 re⯑tire 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 ſo⯑ciety. 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 in⯑quiries. I had vehemently interrogated Mrs. Hallet and her huſband, and ſolicited an interview with this unfortunate man; but they myſteriouſly in⯑ſinuated 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 un⯑certainty. [194] In this ſtate of things my uncle's arri⯑val 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 counte⯑nance. 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 reaſon⯑able to expect ſome information on this head, from my uncle. I therefore waited his coming with impatience. At length, in the duſk of the even⯑ing, 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 overflow⯑ing tenderneſs and gloomy joy. He rather en⯑couraged 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 admiſ⯑ſion of another. At length, I mentioned and de⯑plored the ignorance in which I had been kept re⯑ſpecting my brother's deſtiny, and the circum⯑ſtances of our misfortunes. I entreated him to tell me what was Wieland's condition, and what pro⯑greſs had been made in detecting or puniſhing the author of this unheard of devaſtation.

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

[195]"Alas!" I anſwered, "I am too well acquainted with him. The ſtory of the grounds of my ſuſ⯑picions 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 warn⯑ings and inexplicable viſion, and the letter found upon the table. I waited for his comments.

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

"Is it not," anſwered I, "an unavoidable in⯑ference? 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 [196] 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. Car⯑win may have plotted, but the execution was ano⯑ther's. That other is found, and his deed is aſcer⯑tained."

"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 per⯑formance 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 re⯑turned from your dwelling to your brother's. He was employed in hearing and recording the teſti⯑mony of the only witneſs, when the criminal him⯑ſelf, 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 ru⯑mours of this wonderful event had attracted from the greateſt diſtance. A long and impartial ex⯑amination 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.

[197]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 miniſter⯑ing to malice like this. Again I reſorted to im⯑portunity. 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 forti⯑tude.

"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 [198] made with ſignificance of geſture, and a tranquil majeſty, which denoted leſs of humanity than god⯑head. 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 dia⯑bolical malice; I am accuſed of the murder of my wife and my children!

"It is true, they were ſlain by me; they all pe⯑riſhed by my hand. The taſk of vindication is ig⯑noble. 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 mo⯑tives? 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 fa⯑miliar to your apprehenſion; yet you perſiſt in this charge! You lead me hither manacled as a fe⯑lon, you deem me worthy of a vile and tormenting death!

[200]"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 pre⯑ſence, 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 glimmer⯑ings of light could be diſcovered. I have not been wholly uninformed; but my knowledge has always ſtopped ſhort of certainty. Diſſatisfaction has in⯑ſinuated itſelf into all my thoughts. My purpoſes have been pure; my wiſhes indefatigable; but not till lately were theſe purpoſes thoroughly accom⯑pliſhed, and theſe wiſhes fully gratified.

"I thank thee, my father, for thy bounty, that [201] thou didſt not aſk a leſs ſacrifice than this; that thou placedſt me in a condition to teſtify my ſub⯑miſſion 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 pro⯑poſed to return. It was in expectation of her re⯑turn that my wife and I delayed going to bed be⯑yond the uſual hour; the reſt of the family, how⯑ever, 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 from in our im⯑agination, 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 for⯑getfulneſs, or the occurrence of unforeſeen emer⯑gencies, 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 re⯑lated 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 with⯑out [202] 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 be⯑ing 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 in⯑debted 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 pri⯑vation 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 ema⯑nation 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 [203] 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 ex⯑ternal 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 de⯑ſcending 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 mo⯑ment, 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 name⯑leſs 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 lu⯑minous 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 pour⯑tray.

"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.

[204]"What demand was this? The blood of Ca⯑tharine 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 commiſ⯑ſion 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 ab⯑ſence, in anxious expectation of my return with ſome tidings of her ſiſter. I had none to commu⯑nicate. 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 im⯑mediately 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 mo⯑ment: time will be loſt, and the deed will be omit⯑ted. 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 [205] 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 ex⯑plain 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 unwilling⯑neſs 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 ceaſe⯑leſs and vehement.

"It was the ſcope of my efforts not to think; to keep up a conflict and uproar in my mind in [206] 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 con⯑viction 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 bro⯑ken and inarticulate. Her fears naturally acquired force from the obſervation of theſe ſymptoms; bu [...] theſe fears were miſplaced. The only inference ſhe deduced from my conduct was, that ſome ter⯑rible miſhap had befallen Clara.

"She wrung her hands, and exclaimed in a [...] agony, "O tell me, where is ſhe? What has be⯑come of her? Is ſhe ſick? Dead? Is ſhe in he [...] chamber? O let me go thither and know th [...] worſt!"

[207]"This propoſal ſet my thoughts one 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, lin⯑ger not. I will await for your return.

"While ſhe was gone, I ſtrode along the entry. The ſellneſs of a gloomy hurricane but faintly re⯑ſembled 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 [...]ſarm 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 [...]y will, and waſted away ſorrow.

[208]"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 em⯑brace, 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 fea⯑tures 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 com⯑mand. I am appointed thy deſtroyer, and deſtroy thee I muſt." Saying this I ſeized her wriſts. She [209] 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, [...]er 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 im⯑agined I had ſet myſelf forever beyond the reach of [210] ſelfiſhneſs; but my imaginations were falſe. This rapture quickly ſubſided. I looked again at my wife. My joyous ebullitions vaniſhed, and I aſk⯑ed myſelf who it was whom I ſaw? Methought it could not be Catharine. It could not be the wo⯑man 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 un⯑like 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 tran⯑ſient, 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 conſo⯑lation was cloſed, yet others were ſtill open. It 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 [211] 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 man⯑date 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 incom⯑plete—thy children muſt be offered—they muſt pe⯑riſh with their mother!—'

CHAPTER XX.

WILL you wonder that I read no farther? Will you not rather he 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 perſever⯑ance. In vain the ſolemn introduction of my un⯑cle, his appeals to my fortitude, and alluſions to ſomething monſtrous in the events he was about to diſcloſe; in vain the diſtreſsful perplexity, the myſ⯑terious ſilence and ambiguous anſwers of my atten⯑dants, eſpecially when the condition of my brother was the theme of my inquiries, were remembered I recalled the interview with Wieland in my cham⯑ber, his preternatural tranquillity ſucceeded by burſts of paſſion and menacing actions. All theſe coin⯑cided 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 ſava⯑ges 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 benign [...]ty▪ 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.

[213]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 aſ⯑ſiſtance 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 ma⯑lady was much more difficult to ſubdue than at firſt.

I will not dwell upon the long train of dreary ſenſations, and the h [...]deous confuſion of my under⯑ſtanding. Time ſlowly reſtored its cuſtomary firm⯑neſs 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 impetuo⯑ſity ſome times compelled him to have reſort to miſrepreſentations and untruths.

Time effected that end, perhaps, in a more be⯑neficial manner. In the courſe of my meditations the recollections of the paſt gradually became more diſtinct. I revolved them, however, in ſilence, [214] 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 employ⯑ed no means to effect my purpoſe. I deſired know⯑ledge, 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 cloth⯑ing uſed to be kept. I opened it, and this fatal pa⯑per ſaluted my ſight. I ſnatched it involuntarily, and withdrew to a chair. I debated, for a few mi⯑nutes, whether I ſhould open and read. Now that my fortitude was put to trial, it failed. I felt my⯑ſelf 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 deter⯑mined to peruſe ſome part of it. I turned over the leaves till I came near the concluſion. The nar⯑rative 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 inten⯑tions, or to credit the ſtatement of them, which I have juſt made; if they ſee not that my deed was [215] 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 en⯑truſt 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 por⯑tion 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 condi⯑tion of my mind.

His fears, however, were ſuperfluous. What I [216] 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 doub [...] 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 ſtimu⯑late 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 be⯑lieve 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?"

[217]"I know not. All is wildering conjecture. I cannot forget Carwin. I cannot baniſh the ſuſpi⯑cion 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 grandfa⯑ther's death I have underſtood to have been extra⯑ordinary, but I know not in what reſpect. A bro⯑ther, 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 enter⯑tained the belief that his own death would be ine⯑vitably 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 aſ⯑cended on the land ſide. The company frequently [218] 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, chanc⯑ed 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 ſur⯑prize 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 oc⯑curred. Unqueſtionably the illuſions were mania⯑cal, though the vulgar thought otherwiſe. They are all reducible to one claſs,^* and are not more dif⯑ficult 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 reaſon⯑ings and illuſtrations with ſilent reſpect. My aſto⯑niſhment was great on finding proofs of an influ⯑ence of which I had ſuppoſed there were no exam⯑ples; 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 [219] 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 irre⯑ſiſtable?

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 bro⯑ther's condition. Now was I ſtupified with ten⯑fold 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 con⯑ſigned 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 ſtop⯑ped. Death is a cure which nature or ourſelves muſt adminiſter: To this cure I now looked for⯑ward 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 fa⯑culties, [220] was once more revived. I was able to de⯑vote 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 re⯑jecting the poſſibility that men may obtain ſuper⯑natural aid.

The dreams of ſuperſtition are worthy of con⯑tempt. Witchcraft, its inſtruments and miracles, the compact ratified by a bloody ſignature, the ap⯑paratus of ſulpherous ſmells and thundering ex⯑ploſions, 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 their not evidence that it has been now exerted?

I recurred to my own experience. Here Car⯑win [221] 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 coun⯑teract Carwin's deſigns. There were tokens of hoſtility, and not of alliance, between them. Car⯑win was the miſcreant whoſe projects were reſiſted by a miniſter of heaven. How can this be re⯑conciled 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 de⯑ſtroyed; 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 ap⯑pealing 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 approba⯑tion could ſuſtain his mind in its preſent elevation.

CHAPTER XXI.

SUCH, for ſome time, was the courſe of my me⯑ditations. 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 the [...] ſympathy, or gratify their curioſity. My uncle was my principal companion. Nothing more power⯑fully tended to conſole me than his converſation.

With regard to Pleyel, my feelings ſeemed to have undergone a total revolution. It often hap⯑pens that one paſſion ſupplants another. Late diſ⯑aſters 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 va⯑niſhed.

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 though [...] 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 [223] from Europe. Amidſt the topics of their conver⯑ſation, 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 dur⯑ing my diſeaſe, had watched many ſucceſſive nights by my beſide, 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 miſ⯑taken. They were explained to me by my uncle, whoſe tale excited my aſtoniſhment without awa⯑kening 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 tem⯑porary, 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 con⯑ceived the reſolution of ſeeking her lover in Ame⯑rica. To conceal her flight, ſhe had cauſed the report of her death to be propagated. She put her⯑ſelf under the conduct of Bertrand, the faithful ſer⯑vant of Pleyel. The pacquet which the latter re⯑ceived 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.

[224]This diſcovery had ſet this man's character in a new light. I had miſtaken the heroiſm of friend⯑ſhip 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 languiſh⯑ing conſtitution, and a varied ſucceſſion of objects tend to repair the ſhock which my mind had re⯑ceived. 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 con⯑ſtituted a loathſome ſpectacle. I willingly cloſed my eyes in ſleep, and regretted that the reſpite it afforded me was ſo ſhort. I marked with ſatis⯑faction the progreſs of decay in my frame, and con⯑ſented to live, merely in the hope that the courſe of nature would ſpeedily relieve me from the bur⯑then. [225] 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 ne⯑ceſſity 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 mo⯑tives 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 im⯑parted 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 letters 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 [226] 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 in⯑fluence on his malady.

Having formed this reſolution, I waited to com⯑municate 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, pro⯑bably, conceives to partake in the general infatua⯑tion, and to join in the cry of abhorrence that is [227] raiſed againſt him. To be undeceived in this re⯑ſpect, 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 pu⯑rity of his motives, cannot but afford him pleaſure. When he hears that I have left the country, with⯑out even the ceremonious attention of a viſit, what will he think of me? His magnanimity may hin⯑der 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 no ſervice to him, but will enable me to acquit myſelf of what I cannot but eſteem a duty. Be⯑ſides," 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 con⯑ceives [228] 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 ſupe⯑rior 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 goes over to his enemies, adds to his ſublimity of feel⯑ings, 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 ſhew⯑ed, 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 con⯑duct which I ſhould purſue, that this change ſhould be wrought.

But I could not conquer my uncle's averſion to [229] 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.

"O my dear girl!" continued he with increaſing energy in his accent, "your brother's phrenzy is, indeed, ſtupendous and frightful. The ſoul that formerly actuated his frame has diſappeared. The ſame form remains; but the wiſe and benevolent Wieland is no more. A fury that is rapacious of blood, that lifts his ſtrength almoſt above that of mortals, that bends all his energies to the deſtruc⯑tion of whatever was once dear to him, poſſeſſes him wholly.

"You muſt not enter his dungeon; his eyes will no ſooner be fixed upon you, than an exertion of his force will be made. He will ſhake off his fetters in a moment, and ruſh upon you. No interpoſition will then be ſtrong or quick enough to ſave you.

"The phantom that has urged him to the mur⯑der of Catharine and her children is not yet ap⯑peaſed. Your life, and that of Pleyel, are exacted from him by this imaginary being. He is eager to comply with this demand. Twice he has eſcaped from his priſon. The firſt time, he no ſooner found himſelf at liberty, than he haſted to Pleyel's houſe. It being midnight, the latter was in bed. Wieland penetrated unobſerved to his chamber, and opened [230] his curtain. Happily, Pleyel awoke at the critical moment, and eſcaped the fury of his kinſman, by leaping from his chamber-window into the court. Happily, he reached the ground without injury. Alarms were given, and after diligent ſearch, your brother was found in a chamber of your houſe, whither, no doubt, he had ſought you.

"His chains, and the watchfulneſs of his guards, were redoubled; but again, by ſome miracle, he re⯑ſtored himſelf to liberty. He was now incautiouſly apprized of the place of your abode: and had not information of his eſcape been inſtantly given, your death would have been added to the number of his atrocious acts.

"You now ſee the danger of your project. You muſt not only forbear to viſit him, but if you would ſave him from the crime of embruing his hands in your blood, you muſt leave the country. There is no hope that his malady will end but with his life, and no precaution will enſure your ſafety, but that of placing the ocean between you.

"I confeſs I came over with an intention to re⯑ſide among you, but theſe diſaſters have changed my views. Your own ſafety and my happineſs require that you ſhould accompany me in my re⯑turn, and I entreat you to give your cheerful con⯑currence to this meaſure."

After theſe repreſentations from my uncle, it was impoſſible to retain my purpoſe. I readily conſented to ſeclude myſelf from Wieland's preſence. I like⯑wiſe acquieſced in the propoſal to go to Europe; not that I ever expected to arrive there, but be⯑cauſe, ſince my principles forbad me to aſſail my own life, change had ſome tendency to make ſup⯑portable the few days which diſeaſe ſhould ſpare to me.

[231]What a tale had thus been unfolded! I was hunted to death, not by one whom my miſconduct had exaſperated, who was conſcious of illicit mo⯑tives, and who ſought his end by circumvention and ſurprize; but by one who deemed himſelf commiſ⯑ſioned for this act by heaven; who regarded this ca⯑reer of horror as the laſt refinement of virtue; whoſe implacability was proportioned to the reverence and love which he felt for me, and who was inacceſſible to the fear of puniſhment and ignominy!

In vain ſhould I endeavour to ſtay his hand by urging the claims of a ſiſter or friend: theſe were his only reaſons for purſuing my deſtruction. Had I been a ſtranger to his blood; had I been the moſt worthleſs of human kind; my ſafety had not been endangered.

Surely, ſaid I, my fate is without example. The phrenzy which is charged upon my brother, muſt belong to myſelf. My foe is manacled and guarded; but I derive no ſecurity from theſe reſtraints. I live not in a community of ſavages; yet, whether I ſit or walk, go into crouds, or hide myſelf in ſolitude, my life is marked for a prey to inhuman violence; I am in perpetual danger of periſhing; of periſhing under the graſp of a brother!

I recollected the omens of this deſtiny; I remem⯑bered the gulf to which my brother's invitation had conducted me; I remembered that, when on the brink of danger, the author of my peril was de⯑picted by my fears in his form: Thus realized, were the creatures of prophetic ſleep, and of wake⯑ful terror!

Theſe images were unavoidably connected with that of Carwin. In this paroxyſm of diſtreſs, my attention faſtened on him as the grand deceiver; the [232] author of this black conſpiracy; the intelligence that governed in this ſtorm.

Some relief is afforded in the midſt of ſuffering, when its author is diſcovered or imagined; and an object found on which we may pour out our indig⯑nation and our vengeance. I ran over the events that had taken place ſince the origin of our intercourſe with him, and reflected on the tenor of that deſcrip⯑tion which was received from Ludloe. Mixed up with notions of ſupernatural agency, were the vehe⯑ment ſuſpicions which I entertained, that Carwin was the enemy whoſe machinations had deſtroyed us.

I thirſted for knowledge and for vengeance. I regarded my haſty departure with reluctance, ſince it would remove me from the means by which this knowledge might be obtained, and this vengeance gratified. This departure was to take place in two days. At the end of two days I was to bid an eternal adieu to my native country. Should I not pay a parting viſit to the ſcene of theſe diſaſters? Should I not bedew with my tears the graves of my ſiſter and her children? Should I not explore their deſolate habitation, and gather from the ſight of its walls and furniture food for my eternal melan⯑choly?

This ſuggeſtion was ſucceeded by a ſecret ſhud⯑dering. Some diſaſtrous influence appeared to overhang the ſcene. How many memorials ſhould I meet with ſerving to recall the images of thoſe I had loſt!

I was tempted to relinquiſh my deſign, when it occurred to me that I had left among my papers a journal of tranſactions in ſhort-hand. I was em⯑ployed in this manuſcript on that night when Pleyel's incautious curioſity tempted him to look over my [233] ſhoulder. I was then recording my adventure in the receſs, an imperfect ſight of which led him into ſuch fatal errors.

I had regulated the diſpoſition of all my proper⯑ty. This manuſcript, however, which contained the moſt ſecret tranſactions of my life, I was deſi⯑rous of deſtroying. For this end I muſt return to my houſe, and this I immediately determined to do.

I was not willing to expoſe myſelf to oppoſition from my friends, by mentioning my deſign; I there⯑fore beſpoke the uſe of Mr. Hallet's chaiſe, under pretence of enjoying an airing, as the day was re⯑markably bright.

This requeſt was gladly complied with, and I directed the ſervant to conduct me to Mettingen. I diſmiſſed him at the gate, intending to uſe, in re⯑turning, a carriage belonging to my brother.

CHAPTER XXII.

THE inhabitants of the HUT received me with a mixture of joy and ſurprize. Their homely wel⯑come, and their artleſs ſympathy, were grateful to my feelings. In the midſt of their inquiries, as to my health, they avoided all alluſions to the ſource of my malady. They were honeſt creatures, and I loved them well. I participated in the tears which they ſhed when I mentioned to them my ſpeedy de⯑parture for Europe, and promiſed to acquaint them with my welfare during my long abſence.

They expreſſed great ſurprize when I informed them of my intention to viſit my cottage. Alarm and foreboding overſpread their features, and they attempted to diſſuade me from viſiting an houſe which they firmly believed to be haunted by a thou⯑ſand ghaſtly apparitions.

Thoſe apprehenſions, however, had no power over my conduct. I took an irregular path which led me to my own houſe. All was vacant and for⯑lorn. A ſmall encloſure, near which the path led, was the burying-ground belonging to the family. This I was obliged to paſs. Once I had intended to enter it, and ponder on the emblems and inſcrip⯑tions which my uncle had cauſed to be made on the tombs of Catharine and her children; but now my heart faltered as I approached, and I haſtened forward, that diſtance might conceal it from my view.

When I approached the receſs, my heart again ſunk. I averted my eyes, and left it behind me as [235] quickly as poſſible. Silence reigned through my habitation, and a darkneſs which cloſed doors and ſhutters produced. Every object was connected with mine or my brother's hiſtory. I paſſed the entry, mounted the ſtair, and unlocked the door of my chamber. It was with difficulty that I curbed my fancy and ſmothered my fears. Slight movements and caſual ſounds were transformed into beckoning ſhadows and calling ſhapes.

I proceeded to the cloſet. I opened and looked round it with fearfulneſs. All things were in their accuſtomed order. I ſought and found the manu⯑ſcript where I was uſed to depoſit it. This being ſecured, there was nothing to detain me; yet I ſtood and contemplated awhile the furniture and walls of my chamber. I remembered how long this apart⯑ment had been a ſweet and tranquil aſylum; I com⯑pared its former ſtate with its preſent drearineſs, and reflected that I now beheld it for the laſt time.

Here it was that the incomprehenſible behaviour of Carwin was witneſſed: this the ſtage on which that enemy of man ſhewed himſelf for a moment unmaſked. Here the menaces of murder were wafted to my ear; and here theſe menaces were executed.

Theſe thoughts had a tendency to take from me my ſelf-command. My feeble limbs refuſed to ſup⯑port me, and I ſunk upon a chair. Incoherent and half-articulate exclamations eſcaped my lips. The name of Carwin was uttered, and eternal woes, woes like that which his malice had entailed upon us, were heaped upon him. I invoked all-ſeeing heaven to drag to light and to puniſh this betrayer, and accuſed its providence for having thus long delayed the retribution that was due to ſo enormous a guilt.

[236]I have ſaid that the window ſhutters were cloſed. A feeble light, however, found entrance through the orevices. A ſmall window illuminated the cloſet, and the door being cloſed, a dim ray ſtreamed through the key-hole. A kind of twilight was thus created, ſufficient for the purpoſes of viſion; but, at the ſame time, involving all minuter objects in obſcurity.

This darkneſs ſuited the colour of my thoughts. I ſickened at the remembrance of the paſt. The proſpect of the future excited my loathing. I mut⯑tered in a low voice, Why ſhould I live longer? Why ſhould I drag a miſerable being? All, for whom I ought to live, have periſhed. Am I not myſelf hunted to death?

At that moment, my deſpair ſuddenly became vigorous. My nerves were no longer unſtrung. My powers, that had long been deadened, were re⯑vived. My boſom ſwelled with a ſudden energy, and the conviction darted through my mind, that to end my torments was, at once, practicable and wiſe.

I knew how to find way to the receſſes of life. I could uſe a lancet with ſome ſkill, and could diſ⯑tinguiſh between vein and artery. By piercing deep into the latter, I ſhould ſhun the evils which the future had in ſtore for me, and take refuge from my woes in quiet death.

I ſtarted on my feet, for my feebleneſs was gone, and haſted to the cloſet. A lancet and other ſmall inſtruments were preſerved in a caſe which I had depoſited here. Inattentive as I was to foreign con⯑ſiderations, my ears were ſtill open to any ſound of myſterious import that ſhould occur. I thought I heard a ſtep in the entry. My purpoſe was ſuſ⯑pended, and I caſt an eager glance at my chamber [237] door, which was open. No one appeared, unleſs the ſhadow which I diſcerned upon the floor, was the outline of a man. If it were, I was authorized to ſuſpect that ſome one was poſted cloſe to the en⯑trance, who poſſibly had overheard my exclama⯑tions.

My teeth chattered, and a wild confuſion took place of my momentary calm. Thus it was when a terrifie viſage had diſcloſed itſelf on a former night. Thus it was when the evil deſtiny of Wieland aſ⯑ſumed the lineaments of ſomething human. What horrid apparition was preparing to blaſt my ſight?

Still I liſtened and gazed. Not long, for the ſhadow moved; a foot, unſhapely and huge, was thruſt forward; a form advanced from its conceal⯑ment, and ſtalked into the room. It was Carwin!

While I had breath I ſhrieked. While I had power over my muſcles, I motioned with my hand that he ſhould vaniſh. My exertions could not laſt long; I ſunk into a fit.

O that this grateful oblivion had laſted for ever! Too quickly I recovered my ſenſes. The power of diſtinct viſion was no ſooner reſtored to me, than this hateful form again preſented itſelf, and I once more relapſed.

A ſecond time, untoward nature recalled me from the ſleep of death. I found myſelf ſtretched upon the bed. When I had power to look up, I re⯑membered only that I had cauſe to fear. My diſ⯑tempered fancy faſhioned to itfelf no diſtinguiſhable image. I threw a languid glance round me; once more my eyes lighted upon Carwin.

He was ſeated on the floor, his back reſted againſt the wall, his knees were drawn up, and his face was buried in his hands. That his ſtation was at ſome diſtance, that his attitude was not menacing, that [238] his ominous viſage was concealed, may account for my now eſcaping a ſhock, violent as thoſe which were paſt. I withdrew my eyes, but was not again deſerted by my ſenſes.

On perceiving that I had recovered my ſenſibility, he lifted his head. This motion attracted my attention. His countenance was mild, but ſorrow and aſtoniſhment ſat upon his features. I averted my eyes and feebly exclaimed—"O! fly—fly far and for ever!—I cannot behold you and live!"

He did not riſe upon his feet, but olaſped his hands, and ſaid in a tone of deprecation—" I will fly. I am become a fiend, the ſight of whom de⯑ſtroys. Yet tell me my offence! You have linked curſes with my name; you aſcribe to me a malice monſtrous and infernal. I look around; all is lonelineſs and deſert! This houſe and your bro⯑ther's are ſolitary and diſmantled! You die away at the ſight of me! My fear whiſpers that ſome deed of horror has been perpetrated; that I am the undeſigning cauſe."

What language was this? Had he not avowed himſelf a raviſher? Had not this chamber witneſſed his atrocious purpoſes? I beſought him with new vehemence to go.

He lifted his eyes—"Great heaven! what have I done? I think I know the extent of my offences. I have acted, but my actions have poſſibly effect⯑ed more than I deſigned. This fear has brought me back from my retreat. I come to repair the evil of which my raſhneſs was the cauſe, and to prevent more evil. I come to confeſs my errors."

"Wretch!" I cried when my ſuffocating emo⯑tions would permit me to ſpeak, "the ghoſts of my ſiſter and her children, do they not riſe to accuſe thee? Who was it that blaſted the intellects of [239] Wieland? Who was it that urged him to fury, and guided him to murder? Who, but thou and the devil, with whom thou art confederated?"

At theſe words a new ſpirit pervaded his coun⯑tenance. His eyes once more appealed to heaven. "If I have memory, if I have being, I am inno⯑cent. I intended no ill; but my folly, indirectly and remotely, may have cauſed it; but what words are theſe! Your brother lunatic! His children dead!"

What ſhould I infer from this deportment? Was [...]he ignorance which theſe words implied real or pretended?—Yet how could I imagine a mere hu⯑man agency in theſe events? But if the influence was preternatural or maniacal in my brother's caſe, they muſt be equally ſo in my own. Then I re⯑membered that the voice exerted, was to ſave me from Carwin's attempts. Theſe ideas tended to abate my abhorrence of this man, and to detect the abſurdity of my accuſations.

"Alas!" ſaid I, "I have no one to accuſe. Leave me to my fate. Fly from a ſcene ſtained with cruelty; devoted to deſpair."

Carwin ſtood for a time muſing and mournful. At length he ſaid, "What has happened? I came to expiate my crimes: let me know them in their full extent. I have horrible forebodings! What has happened?"

I was ſilent; but recollecting the intimation gi⯑ven by this man when he was detected in my clo⯑ſet, which implied ſome knowledge of that power which interfered in my favor, I eagerly inquired, "What was that voice which called upon me to hold when. I attempted to open the cloſet? What face was that which I ſaw at the bottom of the ſtairs? Anſwer me truly."

[240]"I came to confeſs the truth. Your alluſions are horrible and ſtrange. Perhaps I have but faint conceptions of the evils which my infatuation has produced; but what remains I will perform. It was my voice that you heard! It was my face that you ſaw!"

For a moment I doubted whether my remem⯑brance of events were not confuſed. How could he be at once ſtationed at my ſhoulder and ſhut up in my cloſet? How could he ſtand near me and yet be inviſible? But if Carwin's were the thril⯑ling voice and the fiery viſage which I had heard and ſeen, then was he the prompter of my brother▪ and the author of theſe diſmal outrages.

Once more I averted my eyes and ſtruggled for ſpeech. "Begone! thou man of miſchief! Re⯑morſeleſs and implacable miſcreant! begone!"

"I will obey," ſaid he in a diſconſolate voice; "yet, wretch as I am, am I unworthy to repair the evils that I have committed? I came as a re⯑pentant criminal. It is you whom I have injured, and at your bar am I willing to appear, and confeſs and expiate my crimes. I have deceived you: I have ſported with your terrors: I have plotted to deſtroy your reputation. I come now to remove your errors; to ſet you beyond the reach of ſimilar fears; to rebuild your fame as far as I am able.

"This is the amount of my guilt, and this the fruit of my remorſe. Will you not hear me? Liſ⯑ten to my confeſſion, and then denounce puniſh⯑ment. All I aſk is a patient audience."

"What!" I replied, "was not thine the voice that commanded my brother to imbrue his hands in the blood of his children—to ſtrangle that angel of ſweetneſs his wife? Has he not vowed my death, and the death of Pleyel, at thy bidding? Haſt thou [241] not made him the butcher of his family; changed him who was the glory of his ſpecies into worſe than brute; robbed him of reaſon, and conſigned the reſt of his days to fetters and ſtripes?"

Carwin's eyes glared, and his limbs were petri⯑fied at this intelligence. No words were requiſite to prove him guiltleſs of theſe enormities: at the time, however, I was nearly inſenſible to theſe ex⯑culpatory tokens. He walked to the further end of the room, and having recovered ſome degree of compoſure, he ſpoke—

"I am not this villain; I have ſlain no one; I have prompted none to ſlay; I have handled a tool of wonderful efficacy without malignant intentions, but without caution; ample will be the puniſhment of my temerity, if my conduct has contributed to this evil." He pauſed.—

I likewiſe was ſilent. I ſtruggled to command myſelf ſo far as to liſten to the tale which he ſhould tell. Obſerving this, he continued—

"You are not apprized of the exiſtence of a power which I poſſeſs. I know not by what name to call it.^* It enables me to mimic exactly the [242] voice of another, and to modify the ſound ſo that it ſhall appear to come from what quarter, and be uttered at what diſtance I pleaſe.

"I know not that every one poſſeſſes this power. Perhaps, though a caſual poſition of my organs in my youth ſhewed me that I poſſeſſed it, it is an art which may be taught to all. Would to God I had died unknowing of the ſecret! It has produced no⯑thing but degradation and calamity.

"For a time the poſſeſſion of ſo potent and ſtu⯑pendous an endowment elated me with pride. Un⯑fortified by principle, ſubjected to poverty, ſtimu⯑lated by headlong paſſions, I made this powerful engine ſubſervient to the ſupply of my wants, and the gratification of my vanity. I ſhall not mention how diligently I cultivated this gift, which ſeemed capable of unlimited improvement; nor detail the various occaſions on which it was ſucceſsfully ex⯑erted to lead ſuperſtition, conquer avarice, or excite awe.

"I left America, which is my native ſoil, in my youth. I have been engaged in various ſcenes of life, in which my peculiar talent has been exerciſ⯑ed with more or leſs ſucceſs. I was finally betray⯑ed by one who called himſelf my friend, into acts which cannot be juſtified, though they are ſuſcep⯑tible of apology.

[243]"The perfidy of this man compelled me to with⯑draw from Europe. I returned to my native coun⯑try, uncertain whether ſilence and obſcurity would ſave me from his malice. I reſided in the purlieus of the city. I put on the garb and aſſumed the manners of a clown.

"My chief recreation was walking. My prin⯑cipal haunts were the lawns and gardens of Met⯑tingen. In this delightful region the luxuriances of nature had been chaſtened by judicious art, and each ſucceſſive contemplation unfolded new en⯑chantments.

"I was ſtudious of ſecluſion: I was ſatiated with the intercourſe of mankind, and diſcretion re⯑quired me to ſhun their intercourſe. For theſe rea⯑ſons I long avoided the obſervation of your family, and chiefly viſited theſe precincts at night.

"I was never weary of admiring the poſition and ornaments of the temple. Many a night have I paſſed under its roof, revolving no pleaſing me⯑ditations. When, in my frequent rambles, I per⯑ceived this apartment was occupied, I gave a dif⯑ferent direction to my ſteps. One evening, when a ſhower had juſt paſſed, judging by the ſilence that no one was within, I aſcended to this building. Glancing careleſſly round, I perceived an open let⯑ter on the pedeſtal. To read it was doubtleſs an offence againſt politeneſs. Of this offence, how⯑ever, I was guilty.

"Scarcely had I gone half through when I was alarmed by the approach of your brother. To ſcramble down the cliff on the oppoſite ſide was impracticable. I was unprepared to meet a ſtran⯑ger. Beſides the aukwardneſs attending ſuch an interview in theſe circumſtances, concealment was neceſſary to my ſafety. A thouſand times had I [244] vowed never again to employ the dangerous talent which I poſſeſſed; but ſuch was the force of habit and the influence of preſent convenience, that I uſed this method of arreſting his progreſs and lead⯑ing him back to the houſe, with his errand, what⯑ever it was, unperformed. I had often caught parts, from my ſtation below, of your converſation in this place, and was well acquainted with the voice of your ſiſter.

"Some weeks after this I was again quietly ſeat⯑ed in this receſs. The lateneſs of the hour ſecured me, as I thought, from all interruption. In this, however, I was miſtaken, for Wieland and Pleyel, as I judged by their voices, earneſt in diſpute, aſ⯑cended the hill.

"I was not ſenſible that any inconvenience could poſſibly have flowed from my former exertion; yet it was followed with compunction, becauſe it was a deviation from a path which I had aſſigned to myſelf. Now my averſion to this means of eſcape was enforced by an unauthorized curioſity, and by the knowledge of a buſhy hollow on the edge of the hill, where I ſhould be ſafe from diſcovery. Into this hollow I thruſt myſelf.

"The propriety of removal to Europe was the queſtion eagerly diſcuſſed. Pleyel intimated that his anxiety to go was augmented by the ſilence of Thereſa de Stolberg. The temptation to interfere in this diſpute was irreſiſtible. In vain I contended with inveterate habits. I diſguiſed to myſelf the impropriety of my conduct, by recollecting the benefits which it might produce. Pleyel's propoſal was unwiſe, yet it was enforced with plauſible ar⯑guments and indefatigable zeal. Your brother might be puzzled and wearied, but could not be con⯑vinced. I conceived that to terminate the contro⯑verſy [245] in favor of the latter was conferring a benefit on all parties. For this end I profited by an open⯑ing in the converſation, and aſſured them of Ca⯑tharine's irreconcilable averſion to the ſcheme, and of the death of the Saxon baroneſs. The latter event was merely a conjecture, but rendered ex⯑tremely probable by Pleyel's repreſentations. My purpoſe, you need not be told, was effected.

"My paſſion for myſtery, and a ſpecies of im⯑poſture, which I deemed harmleſs, was thus awak⯑ened afreſh. This ſecond lapſe into error made my recovery more difficult. I cannot convey to you an adequate idea of the kind of gratification which I derived from theſe exploits; yet I meditat⯑ed nothing. My views were bounded to the paſſing moment, and commonly ſuggeſted by the momen⯑tary exigence.

"I muſt not conceal any thing. Your princi⯑ples teach you to abhor a voluptuous temper; but, with whatever reluctance, I acknowledge this tem⯑per to be mine. You imagine your ſervant Judith to be innocent as well as beautiful; but you took her from a family where hypocriſy, as well as licen⯑tiouſneſs, was wrought into a ſyſtem. My atten⯑tion was captivated by her charms, and her princi⯑ples were eaſily ſeen to be flexible.

"Deem me not capable of the iniquity of ſeduc⯑tion. Your ſervant is not deſtitute of feminine and virtuous qualities; but ſhe was taught that the beſt uſe of her charms conſiſts in the ſale of them. My nocturnal viſits to Mettingen were now prompted by a double view, and my correſpondence with your ſervant gave me, at all times, acceſs to your houſe.

"The ſecond night after our interview, ſo brief and ſo little foreſeen by either of us, ſome daemon [246] of miſchief ſeized me. According to my compa⯑nion's report, your perfections were little leſs than divine. Her uncouth but copious narratives con⯑verted you into an object of worſhip. She chiefly dwelt upon your courage, becauſe ſhe herſelf was deficient in that quality. You held apparitions and goblins in contempt. You took, no precautions againſt robbers. You were juſt as tranquil and ſecure in this lonely dwelling, as if you were in the midſt of a crowd.

"Hence a vague project occurred to me, to put this courage to the teſt. A woman capable of recollection in danger, of warding off groundleſs panics, of diſcerning the true mode of proceeding, and profiting by her beſt reſources, is a prodigy. I was deſirous of aſcertaining whether you were ſuch an one.

"My expedient was obvious and ſimple: I was to counterfeit a murderous dialogue; but this was to be ſo conducted that another, and not yourſelf, ſhould appear to be the object. I was not aware of the poſſibility that you ſhould appropriate theſe menaces to yourſelf. Had you been ſtill and liſ⯑tened, you would have heard the ſtruggles and prayers of the victim, who would likewiſe have appeared to be ſhut up in the cloſet, and whoſe voice would have been Judith's. This ſcene would have been an appeal to your compaſſion; and the proof of cowardice or courage which I expected from you, would have been your remaining inac⯑tive in your bed, or your entering the cloſet with a view to aſſiſt the ſufferer. Some inſtances which Judith related of your fearleſneſs and promptitude made me adopt the latter ſuppoſition with ſome de⯑gree of confidence.

"By the girl's direction I found a ladder, and [247] mounted to your cloſet window. This is ſcarcely large enough to admit the head, but it anſwered my purpoſe too well.

"I cannot expreſs my confuſion and ſurprize at your abrupt and precipitate flight. I haſtily re⯑moved the ladder; and, after ſome pauſe, curioſity and doubts of your ſafety induced me to follow you. I found you ſtretched on the turf before your bro⯑ther's door, without ſenſe or motion. I felt the deepeſt regret at this unlooked for conſequence of my ſcheme. I knew not what to do to procure you relief. The idea of awakening the family na⯑turally preſented itſelf. This emergency was cri⯑tical, and there was no time to deliberate. It was a ſudden thought that occurred. I put my lips to the key-hole, and ſounded an alarm which effec⯑tually rouſed the ſleepers. My organs were natu⯑rally forcible, and had been improved by long and aſſiduous exerciſe.

"Long and bitterly did I repent of my ſcheme. I was ſomewhat conſoled by reflecting that my pur⯑poſe had not been evil, and renewed my fruitleſs vows never to attempt ſuch dangerous experiments. For ſome time I adhered, with laudable forbear⯑ance, to this reſolution.

"My life has been a life of hardſhip and expo⯑ſure. In the ſummer I prefer to make my bed of the ſmooth turf, or, at moſt, the ſhelter of a ſum⯑mer-houſe ſuffices. In all my rambles I never found a ſpot in which ſo many pictureſque beauties and rural delights were aſſembled as at Mettingen. No corner of your little domain unites fragrance and ſecrecy in ſo perfect a degree as the receſs in the bank. The odour of its leaves, the coolneſs of its ſhade, and the muſic of its water-fall, had attracted my attention. Here my ſadneſs was [248] converted into peaceful melancholy—here my ſlumbers were ſound, and my pleaſures enhanced.

"As moſt free from interruption, I choſe this as the ſcene of my midnight interviews with Judith. One evening, as the ſun declined, I was ſeated here, when I was alarmed by your approach. It was with difficulty that I effected my eſcape unno⯑ticed by you.

"At the cuſtomary hour, I returned to your habitation, and was made acquainted by Judith, with your unuſual abſence. I half ſuſpected the true cauſe, and felt uneaſineſs at the danger there was that I ſhould be deprived of my retreat; or, at leaſt, interrupted in the poſſeſſion of it. The girl, likewiſe, informed me, that among your other ſin⯑gularities, it was not uncommon for you to leave your bed, and walk forth for the ſake of night-airs and ſtarlight contemplations.

"I deſired to prevent this inconvenience. I found you eaſily ſwayed by fear. I was influenced, in my choice of means, by the facility and certainty of that to which I had been accuſtomed. All that I forſaw was, that, in future, this ſpot would be cautiouſly ſhunned by you.

"I entered the receſs with the utmoſt caution, and diſcovered, by your breathings, in what con⯑dition you were. The unexpected interpretation which you placed upon my former proceeding, ſug⯑geſted my conduct on the preſent occaſion. The mode in which heaven is ſaid by the poet, to inter⯑fere for the prevention of crimes,^* was ſomewhat analogous to my province, and never failed to occur to me at ſeaſons like this. It was requiſite to break [249] your ſlumbers, and for this end I uttered the power⯑ful monoſyllable, "hold! hold!" My purpoſe was not preſcribed by duty, yet ſurely it was far from being atrocious and inexpiable. To effect it, I uttered what was falſe, but it was well ſuited to my purpoſe. Nothing leſs was intended than to injure you. Nay, the evil reſulting from my former act, was partly removed by aſſuring you that in all places but this you were ſafe.

CHAPTER XXIII.

"MY morals will appear to you far from rigid, yet my conduct will fall ſhort of your ſuſpicions. I am now to confeſs actions leſs excuſable, and yet ſurely they will not entitle me to the name of a deſperate or ſordid criminal.

"Your houſe was rendered, by your frequent and long abſences, eaſily acceſſible to my curioſity. My meeting with Pleyel was the prelude to direct intercourſe with you. I had ſeen much of the world, but your character exhibited a ſpecimen of human powers that was wholly new to me. My intercourſe with your ſervant furniſhed me with curious details of your domeſtic management. I was of a different ſex: I was not your huſband; I was not even your friend; yet my knowledge of you was of that kind, which conjugal intimacies can give, and, in ſome reſpects, more accurate. The obſervation of your domeſtic was guided by me.

"You will not be ſurprized that I ſhould ſome⯑times profit by your abſence, and adventure to exa⯑mine with my own eyes, the interior of your cham⯑ber. Upright and ſincere, you uſed no watchfulneſs, and practiſed no precautions. I ſcrutinized every thing, and pried every where. Your cloſet was uſually locked, but it was once my fortune to find the key on a bureau. I opened and found new ſcope for my curioſity in your books. One of theſe was manuſcript, and written in characters which eſſen⯑tially [251] agreed with a ſhort-hand ſyſtem which I had learned from a Jeſuit miſſionary.

"I cannot juſtify my conduct, yet my only crime was curioſity. I peruſed this volume with eagerneſs. The intellect which it unveiled, was brighter than my limited and feeble organs could bear. I was naturally inquiſitive as to your ideas reſpecting my deportment, and the myſteries that had lately occurred.

"You know what you have written. You know that in this volume the key to your inmoſt ſoul was contained. If I had been a profound and malignant impoſtor, what plenteous materials were thus furniſhed me of ſtratagems and plots!

"The coincidence of your dream in the ſum⯑mer-houſe with my exclamation, was truly won⯑derful. The voice which warned you to forbear was, doubtleſs, mine; but mixed by a common proceſs of the fancy, with the train of viſionary incidents.

"I ſaw in a ſtronger light than ever, the dan⯑gerouſneſs of that inſtrument which I employed, and renewed my reſolutions to abſtain from the uſe of it in future; but I was deſtined perpetually to violate my reſolutions. By ſome perverſe fate, I was led into circumſtances in which the exertion of my powers was the ſole or the beſt means of eſcape.

"On that memorable night on which our laſt interview took place, I came as uſual to Mettin⯑gen. I was apprized of your engagement at your brother's, from which you did not expect to return till late. Some incident ſuggeſted the deſign of viſit⯑ing your chamber. Among your books which I had not examined, might be ſomething tending to illuſtrate your character, or the hiſtory of your fa⯑mily. [252] Some intimation had been dropped by you in diſcourſe, reſpecting a performance of your father in which ſome important tranſaction in his life wa [...] recorded.

"I was deſirous of ſeeing this book; and ſuch was my habitual attachment to myſtery, that I pre⯑ferred the clandeſtine peruſal of it. Such were th [...] motives that induced me to make this attempt. Ju⯑dith had diſappeared, and finding the houſe unoc⯑cupied, I ſupplied myſelf with a light, and proceede [...] to your chamber.

"I found it eaſy, on experiment, to lock an [...] unlock your cloſet door without the aid of a key▪ I ſhut myſelf in this receſs, and was buſily ex⯑ploring your ſhelves, when I heard ſome one ente [...] the room below. I was at a loſs who it could be, whether you or your ſervant. Doubtful, how⯑ever, as I was, I conceived it prudent to extinguiſh the light. Scarcely was this done, when ſome on entered the chamber. The footſteps were eaſil [...] diſtinguiſhed to be yours.

"My ſituation was now full of danger and per⯑plexity. For ſome time, I cheriſhed the hope tha [...] you would leave the room ſo long as to afford m [...] an opportunity of eſcaping. As the hours paſſed this hope gradually deſerted me. It was plain tha [...] you had retired for the night.

"I knew not how ſoon you might find occaſion to enter the cloſet. I was alive to all the horror of detection, and ruminated without ceaſing, o [...] the behaviour which it would be proper, in caſe o [...] detection, to adopt. I was unable to diſcover an [...] conſiſtent method of accounting for my being thu [...] immured.

"It occurred to me that I might withdraw you from your chamber for a few minutes, by counter⯑feiting [253] a voice from without. Some meſſage from your brother might be delivered, requiring your pre⯑ſence at his houſe. I was deterred from this ſcheme by reflecting on the reſolution I had formed, and on the poſſible evils that might reſult from it. Beſides, it was not improbable that you would ſpeedily retire to bed, and then, by the exerciſe of ſufficient cau⯑tion, I might hope to eſcape unobſerved.

"Meanwhile I liſtened with the deepeſt anxiety to every motion from without. I diſcovered no⯑thing which betokened preparation for ſleep. In⯑ſtead of this I heard deep-drawn ſighs, and occaſion⯑ally an half-expreſſed and mournful ejaculation. Hence I inferred that you were unhappy. The true ſtate of your mind with regard to Pleyel your own pen had diſcloſed; but I ſuppoſed you to be framed of ſuch materials, that, though a momentary ſadneſs might affect you, you were impregnable to any per⯑manent and heartfelt grief. Inquietude for my own ſafety was, for a moment, ſuſpended by ſympathy with your diſtreſs.

"To the former conſideration I was quickly recalled by a motion of yours which indicated I knew not what. I foſtered the perſuaſion that you would now retire to bed; but preſently you ap⯑proached the cloſet, and detection ſeemed to be in⯑evitable. You put your hand upon the lock. I had formed no plan to extricate myſelf from the dilemma in which the opening of the door would involve me. I felt an irreconcilable averſion to de⯑tection. Thus ſituated, I involuntarily ſeized the door with a reſolution to reſiſt your efforts to open it.

"Suddenly you receded from the door. This de⯑portment was inexplicable, but the relief it afforded me was quickly gone. You returned, and I once [254] more was thrown into perplexity. The expedient that ſuggeſted itſelf was precipitate and inartificial. I exerted my organs and called upon you to hold.

"That you ſhould perſiſt in ſpite of this admo⯑nition, was a ſubject of aſtoniſhment. I again re⯑ſiſted your efforts; for the firſt expedient having failed, I knew not what other to reſort to. In this ſtate, how was my aſtoniſhment increaſed when I heard your exclamations!

"It was now plain that you knew me to be within. Further reſiſtance was unavailing and uſe⯑leſs. The door opened, and I ſhrunk backward. Seldom have I felt deeper mortification, and more painful perplexity. I did not conſider that the truth would be leſs injurious than any lie which I could haſtily frame. Conſcious as I was of a certain de⯑gree of guilt, I conceived that you would form the moſt odious ſuſpicions. The truth would be im⯑perfect, unleſs I were likewiſe to explain the myſ⯑terious admonition which had been given; but that explanation was of too great moment, and involved too extenſive conſequences to make me ſuddenly reſolve to give it.

"I was aware that this diſcovery would aſſociate itſelf in your mind, with the dialogue formerly heard in this cloſet. Thence would your ſuſpicions be aggravated, and to eſcape from theſe ſuſpicions would be impoſſible. But the mere truth would be ſufficiently opprobrious, and deprive me for ever of your good opinion.

"Thus was I rendered deſperate, and my mind rapidly paſſed to the contemplation of the uſe that might be made of previous events. Some good genius would appear to you to have interpoſed to ſave you from injury intended by me. Why, I ſaid, ſince I muſt ſink in her opinion, ſhould I not cheriſh [255] this belief? Why not perſonate an enemy, and pretend that celeſtial interference has fruſtrated my ſchemes? I muſt fly, but let me leave wonder and fear behind me. Elucidation of the myſtery will always be practicable. I ſhall do no injury, but merely talk of evil that was deſigned, but is now paſt.

"Thus I extenuated my conduct to myſelf, but I ſcarcely expect that this will be to you a ſufficient explication of the ſcene that followed. Thoſe habits which I have imbibed, the rooted paſſion which poſſeſſes me for ſcattering around me amazement and fear, you enjoy no opportunities of knowing. That a man ſhould wantonly impute to himſelf the moſt flagitious deſigns, will hardly be credited, even though you reflect that my reputation was already, by my own folly, irretrievably ruined; and that it was always in my power to communicate the truth, and rectify the miſtake.

"I left you to ponder on this ſcene. My mind was full of rapid and incongruous ideas. Com⯑punction, ſelf-upbraiding, hopeleſneſs, ſatisfaction at the view of thoſe effects likely to flow from my new ſcheme, miſgivings as to the beneficial reſult of this ſcheme took poſſeſſion of my mind, and ſeemed to ſtruggle for the maſtery.

"I had gone too far to recede. I had painted myſelf to you as an aſſaſſin and raviſher, withheld from guilt only by a voice from heaven. I had thus reverted into the path of error, and now, hav⯑ing gone thus far, my progreſs ſeemed to be irre⯑vocable. I ſaid to myſelf, I muſt leave theſe pre⯑cincts for ever. My acts have blaſted my fame in the eyes of the Wielands. For the ſake of creating a myſterious dread, I have made myſelf a villain. I may complete this myſterious plan by ſome new [256] impoſture, but I cannot aggravate my ſuppoſed guilt.

"My reſolution was formed, and I was ſwiftly ruminating on the means for executing it, when Pleyel appeared in ſight. This incident decided my conduct. It was plain that Pleyel was a devoted lover, but he was, at the ſame time, a man of cold reſolves and exquiſite ſagacity. To deceive him would be the ſweeteſt triumph I had ever enjoyed. The deception would be momentary, but it would likewiſe be complete. That his deluſion would ſo ſoon be rectified, was a recommendation to my ſcheme, for I eſteemed him too much to deſire to entail upon him laſting agonies.

"I had no time to reflect further, for he pro⯑ceeded, with a quick ſtep, towards the houſe. I was hurried onward involuntarily and by a mecha⯑nical impulſe. I followed him as he paſſed the re⯑ceſs in the bank, and ſhrowding myſelf in that ſpot, I counterfeited ſounds which I knew would arreſt his ſteps.

"He ſtopped, turned, liſtened, approached, and overheard a dialogue whoſe purpoſe was to van⯑quiſh his belief in a point where his belief was moſt difficult to vanquiſh. I exerted all my powers to imitate your voice, your general ſentiments, and your language. Being maſter, by means of your journal, of your perſonal hiſtory and moſt ſecret thoughts, my efforts were the more ſucceſsful. When I reviewed the tenor of this dialogue, I can⯑not believe but that Pleyel was deluded. When I think of your character, and of the inferences which this dialogue was intended to ſuggeſt, it ſeems incredible that this deluſion ſhould be pro⯑duced.

"I ſpared not myſelf. I called myſelf murderer, [257] thief, guilty of innumerable perjuries and miſdeeds: that you had debaſed yourſelf to the level of ſuch an one, no evidence, methought, would ſuffice to convince him who knew you ſo thoroughly as Pleyel; and yet the impoſture amounted to proof which the moſt jealous ſcrutiny would find to be unexceptionable.

"He left his ſtation precipitately and reſumed his way to the houſe. I ſaw that the detection of his error would be inſtantaneous, ſince, not having gone to bed, an immediate interview would take place between you. At firſt this circumſtance was conſidered with regret; but as time opened my eyes to the poſſible conſequences of this ſcene, I regard⯑ed it with pleaſure.

"In a ſhort time the infatuation which had led me thus far began to ſubſide. The remembrance of former reaſonings and tranſactions was renewed. How often I had repented this kind of exertion; how many evils were produced by it which I had not foreſeen; what occaſions for the bittereſt re⯑morſe it had adminiſtered, now paſſed through my mind. The black catalogue of ſtratagems was now increaſed. I had inſpired you with the moſt vehe⯑ment terrors: I had filled your mind with faith in ſhadows and confidence in dreams: I had depraved the imagination of Pleyel: I had exhibited you to his underſtanding as devoted to brutal gratifications and conſummate in hypocriſy. The evidence which accompanied this deluſion would be irreſiſtible to one whoſe paſſion had perverted his judgment, whoſe jealouſy with regard to me had already been excited, and who, therefore, would not fail to overrate the force of this evidence. What fatal act of deſpair or of vengeance might not this error produce?

[258]"With regard to myſelf, I had acted with a phrenzy that ſurpaſſed belief. I had warred againſt my peace and my fame: I had baniſhed myſelf from the fellowſhip of vigorous and pure minds: I was ſelf-expelled from a ſcene which the munificence of nature had adorned with unrivalled beauties, and from haunts in which all the muſes and humanities had taken refuge.

"I was thus torn by conflicting fears and tu⯑multuous regrets. The night paſſed away in this ſtate of confuſion, and next morning in the gazette left at my obſcure lodging, I read a deſcription and an offer of reward for the apprehenſion of my per⯑ſon. I was ſaid to have eſcaped from an Iriſh pri⯑ſon, in which I was confined as an offender con⯑victed of enormous and complicated crimes.

"This was the work of an enemy, who, by falſehood and ſtratagem, had procured my condem⯑nation. I was indeed, a priſoner, but eſcaped, by the exertion of my powers, the fate to which I was doomed, but which I did not deſerve. I had hoped that the malice of my foe was exhauſted; but I now perceived that my precautions had been wiſe, for that the intervention of an ocean was inſuffici⯑ent for my ſecurity.

"Let me not dwell on the ſenſations which this diſcovery produced. I need not tell by what ſteps I was induced to ſeek an interview with you, for the purpoſe of diſcloſing the truth, and repairing, as far as poſſible, the effects of my miſconduct. It was unavoidable that this gazette would fall into your hands, and that it would tend to confirm every erroneous impreſſion.

"Having gained this interview, I purpoſed to ſeek ſome retreat in the wilderneſs, inacceſſible to your inquiry and to the malice of my foe, where [259] I might henceforth employ myſelf in compoſing a faithtul narrative of my actions. I deſigned it as my vindication from the aſperſions that had reſted on my character, and as a leſſon to mankind on the evils of credulity on the one hand, and of im⯑poſture on the other.

"I wrote you a billet, which was left at the houſe of your friend, and which I knew would, by ſome means, ſpeedily come to your hands. I en⯑tertained a faint hope that my invitation would be complied with. I knew not what uſe you would make of the opportunity which this propoſal afford⯑ed you of procuring the ſeizure of my perſon; but this fate I was determined to avoid, and I had no doubt but due circumſpection, and the exerciſe of the faculty which I poſſeſſed, would enable me to avoid it.

"I lurked, through the day, in the neighbour⯑hood of Mettingen: I approached your habitation at the appointed hour: I entered it in ſilence, by a trap-door which led into the cellar. This had for⯑merly been bolted on the inſide, but Judith had, at an early period in our intercourſe, removed this impediment. I aſcended to the firſt floor, but met with no one, nor any thing that indicated the pre⯑ſence of an human being.

"I crept ſoftly up ſtairs, and at length perceived your chamber door to be opened, and a light to be within. It was of moment to diſcover by whom this light was accompanied. I was ſenſible of the inconveniencies to which my being diſcovered at your chamber door by any one within would ſub⯑ject me; I therefore called out in my own voice, but ſo modified that it ſhould appear to aſcend from the court below, 'Who is in the chamber? Is it Miſs Wieland?'

[260]"No anſwer was returned to this ſummons. I liſtened, but no motion could be heard. After a pauſe I repeated my call, but no leſs ineffectually.

"I now approached nearer the door, and adven⯑tured to look in. A light ſtood on the table, but nothing human was diſcernible. I entered cauti⯑ouſly, but all was ſolitude and ſtillneſs.

"I knew not what to conclude. If the houſe were inhabited, my call would have been noticed; yet ſome ſuſpicion inſinuated itſelf that ſilence was ſtudiouſly kept by perſons who intended to ſurprize me. My approach had been wary, and the ſilence that enſued my call had likewiſe preceded it; a cir⯑cumſtance that tended to diſſipate my fears.

"At length it occurred to me that Judith might poſſibly be in her own room. I turned my ſteps thither; but ſhe was not to be found. I paſſed into other rooms, and was ſoon convinced that the houſe was totally deſerted. I returned to your chamber, agitated by vain ſurmiſes and oppoſite conjectures. The appointed hour had paſſed, and I diſmiſſed the hope of an interview.

"In this ſtate of things I determined to leave a few lines on your toilet, and proſecute my journey to the mountains. Scarcely had I taken the pen when I laid it aſide, uncertain in what manner to addreſs you. I roſe from the table and walked acroſs the floor. A glance thrown upon the bed acquaint⯑ed me with a ſpectacle to which my conceptions of horror had not yet reached.

"In the midſt of ſhuddering and trepidation, the ſignal of your preſence in the court below recalled me to myſelf. The deed was newly done: I only was in the houſe: what had lately happened juſti⯑fied any ſuſpicions, however enormous. It was plain that this cataſtrophe was unknown to you: I [261] thought upon the wild commotion which the diſco⯑very would awaken in your breaſt: I found the confuſion of my own thoughts unconquerable, and perceived that the end for which I ſought an inter⯑view was not now to be accompliſhed.

"In this ſtate of things it was likewiſe expedient to conceal my being within. I put out the light and hurried down ſtairs. To my unſpeakable ſur⯑prize, notwithſtanding every motive to fear, you lighted a candle and proceeded to your chamber.

"I retired to that room below from which a door leads into the cellar. This door concealed me from your view as you paſſed. I thought upon the ſpec⯑tacle which was about to preſent itſelf. In an ex⯑igence ſo abrupt and ſo little foreſeen, I was again ſubjected to the empire of mechanical and habitual impulſes. I dreaded the effects which this ſhock⯑ing exhibition, burſting on your unprepared ſenſes, might produce.

"Thus actuated, I ſtept ſwiftly to the door, and thruſting my head forward, once more pronounced the myſterious interdiction. At that moment, by ſome untoward fate, your eyes were caſt back, and you ſaw me in the very act of utterance. I fled through the darkſome avenue at which I entered, covered with the ſhame of this detection.

"With diligence, ſtimulated by a thouſand in⯑effable emotions, I purſued my intended journey. I have a brother whoſe farm is ſituated in the bo⯑ſom of a fertile deſert, near the ſources of the Le⯑heigh, and thither I now repaired.

CHAPTER XXIV.

"DEEPLY did I ruminate on the occurrences that had, juſt paſſed. Nothing excited my wonder ſo much as the means by which you diſcovered my being in the cloſet. This diſcovery appeared to be made at the moment when you attempted to open it. How could you have otherwiſe remained ſo long in the chamber apparently fearleſs and tran⯑quil? And yet, having made this diſcovery, how could you perſiſt in dragging me forth: perſiſt in defiance of an interdiction ſo emphatical and ſo⯑lemn?

"But your ſiſter's death was an event deteſtable and ominous. She had been the victim of the moſt dreadful ſpecies of aſſaſſination. How, in a ſtate like yours, the murderous intention could be gene⯑rated, was wholly inconceivable.

"I did not relinquiſh my deſign of confeſſing to you the part which I had ſuſtained in your family, but I was willing to defer it till the taſk which I had ſet myſelf was finiſhed. That being done, I reſumed the reſolution. The motives to incite me to this continually acquired force. The more I re⯑volved the events happening at Mettingen, the more inſupportable and ominous my terrors became. My waking hours and my ſleep were vexed by diſmal preſages and frightful intimations.

"Catharine was dead by violence. Surely my malignant ſtars had not made me the cauſe of her death; yet had I not raſhly ſet in motion a machine, [263] over whoſe progreſs I had no controul, and which experience had ſhewn me was infinite in power? Every day might add to the catalogue of horrors of which this was the ſource, and a ſeaſonable diſclo⯑ſure of the truth might prevent numberleſs ills.

"Fraught with this conception, I have turned my ſteps hither. I find your brother's houſe deſo⯑late: the furniture removed, and the walls ſtained with damps. Your own is in the ſame ſituation. Your chamber is diſmantled and dark, and you exhibit an image of incurable grief, and of rapid decay.

"I have uttered the truth. This is the extent of my offences. You tell me an horrid tale of Wieland being led to the deſtruction of his wife and children, by ſome myſterious agent. You charge me with the guilt of this agency; but I repeat that the amount of my guilt has been truly ſtated. The perpetrator of Catharine's death was unknown to me till now; nay, it is ſtill unknown to me."

At that moment, the cloſing of a door in the kitchen was diſtinctly heard by us. Carwin ſtarted and pauſed. "There is ſome one coming. I muſt not be found here by my enemies, and need not, ſince my purpoſe is anſwered."

I had drunk in, with the moſt vehement attention, every word that he had uttered. I had no breath to interrupt his tale by interrogations or comments. The power that he ſpoke of was hitherto unknown to me: its exiſtence was incredible; it was ſuſcep⯑tible of no direct proof.

He owns that his were the voice and face which I heard and ſaw. He attempts to give an human explanation of theſe phantaſms; but it is enough that he owns himſelf to be the agent; his tale is a lie, and his nature deviliſh. As he deceived me, [264] he likewiſe deceived my brother, and now do I be⯑hold the author of all our calamities!

Such were my thoughts when his pauſe allowed me to think. I ſhould have bad him begone if the ſilence had not been interrupted; but now I feared no more for myſelf; and the milkineſs of my nature was curdled into hatred and rancour. Some one was near, and this enemy of God and man might poſſibly be brought to juſtice. I reflected not that the preternatural power which he had hitherto ex⯑erted, would avail to reſcue him from any toils in which his feet might be entangled. Meanwhile, looks, and not words of menace and abhorrence, were all that I could beſtow.

He did not depart. He ſeemed dubious, whether, by paſſing out of the houſe, or by remaining ſome⯑what longer where he was, he ſhould moſt endan⯑ger his ſafety. His confuſion increaſed when ſteps of one barefoot were heard upon the ſtairs. He threw anxious glances ſometimes at the cloſet, ſome⯑times at the window, and ſometimes at the chamber door, yet he was detained by ſome inexplicable faſ⯑cination. He ſtood as if rooted to the ſpot.

As to me, my ſoul was burſting with deteſtation and revenge. I had no room for ſurmiſes and fears reſpecting him that approached. It was doubtleſs a human being, and would befriend me ſo far as to aid me in arreſting this offender.

The ſtranger quickly entered the room. My eyes and the eyes of Carwin were, at the ſame mo⯑ment, darted upon him. A ſecond glance was not needed to inform us who he was. His locks were tangled, and fell confuſedly over his forehead and ears. His ſhirt was of coarſe ſtuff, and open at the neck and breaſt. His coat was once of bright and fine texture, but now torn and tarniſhed [265] with duſt. His feet, his legs, and his arms were bare. His features were the ſeat of a wild and tranquil ſolemnity, but his eyes beſpoke inquietude and curioſity.

He advanced with firm ſtep, and looking as in ſearch of ſome one. He ſaw me and ſtopped. He bent his ſight on the floor, and clenching his hands, appeared ſuddenly abſorbed in meditation. Such were the figure and deportment of Wieland! Such, in his fallen ſtate, were the aſpect and guiſe of my brother!

Carwin did not fail to recognize the viſitant. Care for his own ſafety was apparently ſwallowed up in the amazement which this ſpectacle produc⯑ed. His ſtation was conſpicuous, and he could not have eſcaped the roving glances of Wieland; yet the latter ſeemed totally unconſcious of his pre⯑ſence.

Grief at this ſcene of ruin and blaſt was at firſt the only ſentiment of which I was conſcious. A fearful ſtillneſs enſued. At length Wieland, lifting his hands, which were locked in each other, to his breaſt, exclaimed, "Father! I thank thee. This is thy guidance. Hither thou haſt led me, that I might perform thy will: yet let me not err: let me hear again thy meſſenger!"

He ſtood for a minute as if liſtening; but reco⯑vering from his attitude, he continued—"It is not needed. Daſtardly wretch! thus eternally queſ⯑tioning the beheſts of thy Maker! weak in reſolu⯑tion! wayward in faith!"

He advanced to me, and, after another pauſe, re⯑ſumed: "Poor girl! a diſmal fate has ſet its mark upon thee. Thy life is demanded as a ſacrifice. Prepare thee to die. Make not my office difficult by fruitleſs oppoſition. Thy prayers might ſubdue [266] ſtones; but none but he who enjoined my purpoſe can ſhake it."

Theſe words were a ſufficient explication of the ſcene. The nature of his phrenzy, as deſcribed by my uncle, was remembered. I who had ſought death, was now thrilled with horror becauſe it was near. Death in this form, death from the hand of a brother, was thought upon with undeſcribable repugnance.

In a ſtate thus verging upon madneſs, my eye glanced upon Carwin. His aſtoniſhment appeared to have ſtruck him motionleſs and dumb. My life was in danger, and my brother's hand was about to be embrued in my blood. I firmly believed that Carwin's was the inſtigation. I could reſcue me from this abhorred fate; I could diſſipate this tre⯑mendous illuſion; I could ſave my brother from the perpetration of new horrors, by pointing out the devil who ſeduced him; to heſitate a moment was to periſh. Theſe thoughts gave ſtrength to my limbs, and energy to my accents: I ſtarted on my feet.

"O brother! ſpare me, ſpare thyſelf: There is thy betrayer. He counterfeited the voice and face of an angel, for the purpoſe of deſtroying thee and me. He has this moment confeſſed it. He is able to ſpeak where he is not. He is leagued with hell, but will not avow it; yet he confeſſes that the agency was his."

My brother turned ſlowly his eyes, and fixed them upon Carwin. Every joint in the frame of the latter trembled. His complexion was paler than a ghoſt's. His eye dared not meet that of Wieland, but wandered with an air of diſtraction from one ſpace to another.

"Man," ſaid my brother, in a voice totally un⯑like that which he had uſed to me, "what art [267] thou? The charge has been made. Anſwer it. The viſage—the voice—at the bottom of theſe ſtairs—at the hour of eleven—To whom did they belong? To thee?"

Twice did Carwin attempt to ſpeak, but his words died away upon his lips. My brother re⯑ſumed in a tone of greater vehemence—

"Thou faltereſt; faltering is ominous; ſay yes or no: one word will ſuffice; but beware of falſe⯑hood. Was it a ſtratagem of hell to overthrow my family? Waſt thou the agent?"

I now ſaw that the wrath which had been pre⯑pared for me was to be heaped upon another. The tale that I heard from him, and his preſent trepida⯑tions, were abundant teſtimonies of his guilt. But what if Wieland ſhould be undeceived! What if he ſhall find his acts to have proceeded not from an heavenly prompter, but from human treachery! Will not his rage mount into whirlwind? Will not he tare limb from limb this devoted wretch?

Inſtinctively I recoiled from this image, but it gave place to another. Carwin may be innocent, but the impetuoſity of his judge may miſconſtrue his anſwers into a confeſſion of guilt. Wieland knows not that myſterious voices and appearances were likewiſe witneſſed by me. Carwin may be ignorant of thoſe which miſled my brother. Thus may his anſwers unwarily betray himſelf to ruin.

Such might be the conſequences of my frantic precipitation, and theſe, it was neceſſary, if poſſible, to prevent. I attempted to ſpeak, but Wieland, turning ſuddenly upon me, commanded ſilence, in a tone furious and terrible. My lips cloſed, and my tongue refuſed its office.

"What art thou?" he reſumed, addreſſing himſelf to Carwin. "Anſwer me; whoſe form— [268] whoſe voice—was it thy contrivance? Anſwer me."

The anſwer was now given, but confuſedly and ſcarcely articulated. "I meant nothing—I intended no ill—if I underſtand—if I do not miſtake you—it is too true—I did appear—in the entry—did ſpeak. The contrivance was mine, but—"

Theſe words were no ſooner uttered, than my brother ceaſed to wear the ſame aſpect. His eyes were downcaſt: he was motionleſs: his reſpiration became hoarſe, like that of a man in the agonies of death. Carwin ſeemed unable to ſay more. He might have eaſily eſcaped, but the thought which occupied him related to what was horrid and unin⯑telligible in this ſcene, and not to his own danger.

Preſently the faculties of Wieland, which, for a time, were chained up, were ſeized with reſtleſſneſs and trembling. He broke ſilence. The ſtouteſt heart would have been appalled by the tone in which he ſpoke. He addreſſed himſelf to Carwin.

"Why art thou here? Who detains thee? Go and learn better. I will meet thee, but it muſt be at the bar of thy Maker. There ſhall I bear wit⯑neſs againſt thee."

Perceiving that Carwin did not obey, he con⯑tinued; "Doſt thou wiſh me to complete the cata⯑logue by thy death? Thy life is a worthleſs thing. Tempt me no more. I am but a man, and thy preſence may awaken a fury which may ſpum my controul. Begone!"

Carwin, irreſolute, ſtriving in vain for utterance, his complexion pallid as death, his knees beating one againſt another, ſlowly obeyed the mandate and withdrew.

CHAPTER XXV.

A Few words more and I lay aſide the pen for ever. Yet why ſhould I not relinquiſh it now? All that I have ſaid is preparatory to this ſcene, and my fingers, tremulous and cold as my heart, refuſe any further exertion. This muſt not be. Let my laſt energies ſupport me in the finiſhing of this taſk. Then will I lay down my head in the lap of death. Huſhed will be all my murmurs in the ſleep of the grave.

Every ſentiment has periſhed in my boſom. Even friendſhip is extinct. Your love for me has prompted me to this taſk; but I would not have complied if it had not been a luxury thus to feaſt upon my woes. I have juſtly calculated upon my remnant of ſtrength. When I lay down the pen the taper of life will expire: my exiſtence will ter⯑minate with my tale.

Now that I was left alone with Wieland, the perils of my ſituation preſented themſelves to my mind. That this paroxyſm ſhould terminate in havock and rage it was reaſonable to predict. The firſt ſuggeſtion of my fears had been diſproved by my experience. Carwin had acknowledged his of⯑fences, and yet had eſcaped. The venge [...]nce which I had harboured had not been admitted by Wieland, and yet the evils which I had endured, compared with thoſe inflicted on my brother, were as nothing. I thirſted for his blood, and was tormented with an inſatiable appetite for his deſtruction; yet my bro⯑ther [270] was unmoved, and had diſmiſſed him in ſafety. Surely thou waſt more than man, while I am ſunk below the beaſts.

Did I place a right conſtruction on the conduct of Wieland? Was the error that miſled him ſo eaſily rectified? Were views ſo vivid and faith ſo ſtrenuous thus liable to fading and to change? Was there not reaſon to doubt the accuracy of my per⯑ceptions? With images like theſe was my mind thronged, till the deportment of my brother called away my attention.

I ſaw his lips move and his eyes caſt up to hea⯑ven. Then would he liſten and look back, as if in expectation of ſome one's appearance. Thrice he repeated theſe geſticulations and this inaudible prayer. Each time the miſt of confuſion and doubt ſeemed to grow darker and to ſettle on his under⯑ſtanding. I gueſſed at the meaning of theſe tokens. The words of Carwin had ſhaken his belief, and he was employed in ſummoning the meſſenger who had formerly communed with him, to atteſt the value of thoſe new doubts. In vain the ſummons was repeated, for his eye met nothing but vacancy, and not a ſound ſaluted his ear.

He walked to the bed, gazed with eagerneſs at the pillow which had ſuſtained the head of the breathleſs Catharine, and then returned to the place where I ſat. I had no power to lift my eyes to his face: I was dubious of his purpoſe: this purpoſe might aim at my life.

Alas! nothing but ſubjection to danger, and ex⯑poſure to temptation, can ſhow us what we are. By this teſt was I now tried, and found to be cow⯑ardly and raſh. Men can deliberately untie the thread of life, and of this I had deemed myſelf ca⯑pable; yet now that I ſtood upon the brink of fate, [271] that the knife of the ſacrificer was aimed at my heart, I ſhuddered and betook myſelf to any means of eſcape, however monſtrous.

Can I bear to think—can I endure to relate the outrage which my heart meditated? Where were my means of ſafety? Reſiſtance was vain. Not even the energy of deſpair could ſet me on a level with that ſtrength which his terrifie prompter had beſtowed upon Wieland. Terror enables us to perform incredible feats; but terror was not then the ſtate of my mind: where then were my hopes of reſcue?

Methinks it is too much. I ſtand aſide, as it were, from myſelf; I eſtimate my own deſervings; a hatred, immortal and inexorable, is my due. I liſten to my own pleas, and find them empty and falſe: yes, I acknowledge that my guilt ſurpaſſes that of all mankind: I confeſs that the curſes of a world, and the frowns of a deity, are inadequate to my demerits. Is there a thing in the world wor⯑thy of infinite abhorrence? It is I.

What ſhall I ſay! I was menaced, as I thought, with death, and, to elude this evil, my hand was ready to inflict death upon the menacer. In viſit⯑ing my houſe, I had made proviſion againſt the machinations of Carwin. In a fold of my dreſs an open penknife was concealed. This I now ſeized and drew forth. It lurked out of view; but I now ſee that my ſtate of mind would have rendered the deed inevitable if my brother had lifted his hand. This inſtrument of my preſervation would have been plunged into his heart.

O, inſupportable remembrance! hide thee from my view for a time; hide it from me that my heart was black enough to meditate the ſtabbing of a [272] brother! a brother thus ſupreme in miſery; thus towering in virtue!

He was probably unconſcious of my deſign, but preſently drew back. This interval was ſufficient to reſtore me to myſelf. The madneſs, the iniquity of that act which I had purpoſed ruſhed upon my apprehenſion. For a moment I was breathleſs with agony. At the next moment I recovered my ſtrength, and threw the knife with violence on the floor.

The ſound awoke my brother from his reverie. He gazed alternately at me and at the weapon, With a movement equally ſolemn he ſtooped and took it up. He placed the blade in different poſi⯑tions, ſcrutinizing it accurately, and maintaining, at the ſame time, a profound ſilence.

Again he looked at me, but all that vehemence and loftineſs of ſpirit which had ſo lately charac⯑terized his features, were flown. Fallen muſcles, a forehead contracted into folds, eyes dim with un⯑bidden drops, and a ruefulneſs of aſpect which no words can deſcribe, were now viſible.

His looks touched into energy the ſame ſympa⯑thies in me, and I poured forth a flood of tears. This paſſion was quickly checked by fear, which had now, no longer, my own, but his ſafety for their object. I watched his deportment in ſilence. At length he ſpoke:

"Siſter," ſaid he, in an accent mournful and mild, "I have acted poorly my part in this world. What thinkeſt thou? Shall I not do better in the next?"

I could make no anſwer. The mildneſs of his tone aſtoniſhed and encouraged me. I continued to regard him with wiſtful and anxious looks.

[273]"I think," reſumed he, "I will try. My wife and my babes have gone before. Happy wretches! I have ſent you to repoſe, and ought not to linger behind."

Theſe words had a meaning ſufficiently intelli⯑gible. I looked at the open knife in his hand and ſhuddered, but knew not how to prevent the deed which I dreaded. He quickly noticed my fears, and comprehended them. Stretching towards me his hand, with an air of increaſing mildneſs: "Take it," ſaid he: "Fear not for thy own ſake, nor for mine. The cup is gone by, and its tranſient inebriation is ſucceeded by the ſoberneſs of truth.

"Thou angel whom I was wont to worſhip! feareſt thou, my ſiſter, for thy life? Once it was the ſcope of my labours to deſtroy thee, but I was prompted to the deed by heaven; ſuch, at leaſt, was my belief. Thinkeſt thou that thy death was ſought to gratify malevolence? No. I am pure from all ſtain. I believed that my God was my mover!

"Neither thee nor myſelf have I cauſe to injure. I have done my duty, and ſurely there is merit in having ſacrificed to that, all that is dear to the heart of man. If a devil has deceived me, he came in the habit of an angel. If I erred, it was not my judgment that deceived me, but my ſenſes. In thy ſight, being of beings! I am ſtill pure. Still will I look for my reward in thy juſtice!"

Did my ears truly report theſe ſounds? If I did not err, my brother was reſtored to juſt perceptions. He knew himſelf to have been betrayed to the mur⯑der of his wife and children, to have been the victim of internal artifice; yet he found conſolation in the rectitude of his motives. He was not devoid of ſorrow, for this was written on his countenance; but his ſoul was tranquil and ſublime.

[274]Perhaps this was merely a tranſition of his former madneſs into a new ſhape. Perhaps he had not yet awakened to the memory of the horrors which he had perpetrated. Infatuated wretch that I was! To ſet myſelf up as a model by which to judge of my heroic brother! My reaſon taught me that his concluſions were right; but conſcious of the impo⯑tence of reaſon over my own conduct; conſcious of my cowardly raſhneſs and my criminal deſpair, I doubted whether any one could be ſtedfaſt and wiſe.

Such was my weakneſs, that even in the midſt of theſe thoughts, my mind glided into abhorrence of Carwin, and I uttered in a low voice, O! Car⯑win! Carwin! What haſt thou to anſwer for?

My brother immediately noticed the involuntary exclamation: "Clara!" ſaid he, "be thyſelf. Equity uſed to be a theme for thy eloquence. Re⯑duce its leſſons to practice, and be juſt to that un⯑fortunate man. The inſtrument has done its work, and I am ſatisfied.

"I thank thee, my God, for this laſt illumina⯑tion! My enemy is thine alſo. I deemed him to be man, the man with whom I have often com⯑muned; but now thy goodneſs has unveiled to me his true nature. As the performer of thy beheſts, he is my friend."

My heart began now to miſgive me. His mourn⯑ful aſpect had gradually yielded place to a ſerene brow. A new ſoul appeared to actuate his frame, and his eyes to beam with preternatural luſtre. Theſe ſymptoms did not abate, and he continued:

"Clara! I muſt not leave thee in doubt. I know not what brought about thy interview with the being whom thou calleſt Carwin. For a time, I was guilty of thy error, and deduced from his in⯑coherent confeſſions that I had been made the victim [275] of human malice. He left us at my bidding, and I put up a prayer that my doubts ſhould be removed. Thy eyes were ſhut, and thy ears ſealed to the viſion that anſwered my prayer.

"I was indeed deceived. The form thou haſt ſeen was the incarnation of a daemon. The viſage and voice which urged me to the ſacrifice of my family, were his. Now he perſonates a human form: then he was invironed with the luſtre of heaven.—

"Clara," he continued, advancing cloſer to me, "thy death muſt come. This miniſter is evil, but he from whom his commiſſion was received is God. Submit then with all thy wonted reſignation to a decree that cannot be reverſed or reſiſted. Mark the clock. Three minutes are allowed to thee, in which to call up thy fortitude, and prepare thee for thy doom." There he ſtopped.

Even now, when this ſcene exiſts only in me⯑mory, when life and all its functions have ſunk into torpor, my pulſe throbs, and my hairs upriſe: my brows are knit, as then; and I gaze around me in diſtraction. I was unconquerably averſe to death; but death, imminent and full of agony as that which was threatened, was nothing. This was not the only or chief inſpirer of my fears.

For him, not for myſelf, was my ſoul tormented. I might die, and no crime, ſurpaſſing the reach of mercy, would purſue me to the preſence of my Judge; but my aſſaſſin would ſurvive to contem⯑plate his deed, and that aſſaſſin was Wieland!

Wings to bear me beyond his reach I had not. I could not vaniſh with a thought. The door was open, but my murderer was interpoſed between that and me. Of ſelf-defence I was incapable. The [276] phrenzy that lately prompted me to blood was gone; my ſtate was deſperate; my reſcue was impoſſible.

The weight of theſe accumulated thoughts could not be borne. My ſight became confuſed; my limbs were ſeized with convulſion; I ſpoke, but my words were half-formed:—

"Spare me, my brother! Look down, righte⯑ous, Judge! ſnatch me from this fate! take away this fury from him, or turn it elſewhere!"

Such was the agony of my thoughts, that I no⯑ticed not ſteps entering my apartment. Supplicating eyes were caſt upward, but when my prayer was breathed, I once more wildly gazed at the door. A form met my ſight: I ſhuddered as if the God whom I invoked were preſent. It was Carwin that again intruded, and who ſtood before me, erect in atti⯑tude, and ſtedfaſt in look!

The ſight of him awakened new and rapid thoughts. His recent tale was remembered: his magical tranſitions and myſterious energy of voice: Whether he were infernal or miraculous, or hu⯑man, there was no power and no need to decide. Whether the contriver or not of this ſpell, he was able to unbind it, and to check the fury of my bro⯑ther. He had aſcribed to himſelf intentions not ma⯑lignant. Here now was afforded a teſt of his truth. Let him interpoſe, as from above; revoke the ſavage decree which the madneſs of Wieland has aſſigned to heaven, and extinguiſh for ever this paſſion for blood!

My mind detected at a glance this avenue to ſafety. The recommendations it poſſeſſed throng⯑ed as it were together, and made but one impreſ⯑ſion on my intellect. Remoter effects and colla⯑teral dangers I ſaw not. Perhaps the pauſe of an [277] inſtant had ſufficed to call them up. The impro⯑bability that the influence which governed Wieland was external or human; the tendency of this ſtra⯑tagem to ſanction ſo fatal an error, or ſubſtitute a more deſtructive rage in place of this; the ſuf⯑ficiency of Carwin's mere muſcular forces to coun⯑teract the efforts, and reſtrain the fury of Wieland, might, at a ſecond glance, have been diſcovered; but no ſecond glance was allowed. My firſt thought hurried me to action, and, fixing my eyes upon Car⯑win I exclaimed—

"O wretch! once more haſt thou come? Let it be to abjure thy malice; to counterwork this helliſh ſtratagem; to turn from me and from my brother, this deſolating rage!

"Teſtify thy innocence or thy remorſe: exert the powers which pertain to thee, whatever they be, to turn aſide this ruin. Thou art the author of theſe horrors! What have I done to deſerve thus to die? How have I merited this unrelenting per⯑ſecution? I adjure thee, by that God whoſe voice thou haſt dared to counterfeit, to ſave my life!

"Wilt thou then go? leave me! Succourleſs!"

Carwin liſtened to my intreaties unmoved, and turned from me. He ſeemed to heſitate a moment: then glided through the door. Rage and deſpair ſtifled my utterance. The interval of reſpite was paſſed; the pangs reſerved for me by Wieland, were not to be endured; my thoughts ruſhed again into anarchy. Having received the knife from his hand, I held it looſely and without regard; but now it ſeized again my attention, and I graſped it with force.

He ſeemed to notice not the entrance or exit of Carwin. My geſture and the murderous weapon appeared to have eſcaped his notice. His ſilence [278] was unbroken; his eye, fixed upon the clock for a time, was now withdrawn; fury kindled in every feature; all that was human in his face gave way to an expreſſion ſupernatural and tremendous. I felt my left arm within his graſp.—

Even now I heſitated to ſtrike. I ſhrunk from his aſſault, but in vain.—

Here let me deſiſt. Why ſhould I reſcue this event from oblivion? Why ſhould I paint this de⯑teſtable conflict? Why not terminate at once this ſeries of horrors?—Hurry to the verge of the pre⯑cipice, and caſt myſelf for ever beyond remem⯑brance and beyond hope?

Still I live: with this load upon my breaſt; with this phantom to purſue my ſteps; with adders lodged in my boſom, and ſtinging me to madneſs: ſtill I conſent to live!

Yes, I will riſe above the ſphere of mortal paſ⯑ſions: I will ſpurn at the cowardly remorſe that bids me ſeek impunity in ſilence, or comfort in for⯑getfulneſs. My nerves ſhall be new ſtrung to the taſk. Have I not reſolved? I will die. The gulph before me is inevitable and near. I will die, but then only when my tale is at an end.

CHAPTER XXVI.

MY right hand, graſping the unſeen knife, was ſtill diſengaged. It was lifted to ſtrike. All my ſtrength was exhauſted, but what was ſufficient to the performance of this deed. Already was the energy awakened, and the impulſe given, that ſhould bear the fatal ſteel to his heart, when— Wieland ſhrunk back: his hand was withdrawn. Breathleſs with affright and deſperation, I ſtood, freed from his graſp; unaſſailed; untouched.

Thus long had the power which controuled the ſcene forborne to interfere; but now his might was irreſiſtible, and Wieland in a moment was diſarm⯑ed of all his purpoſes. A voice, louder than hu⯑man organs could produce, ſhriller than language can depict, burſt from the ceiling, and commanded him—to hold!

Trouble and diſmay ſucceeded to the ſtedfaſtneſs that had lately been diſplayed in the looks of Wie⯑land. His eyes roved from one quarter to another, with an expreſſion of doubt. He ſeemed to wait for a further intimation.

Carwin's agency was here eaſily recognized. I had beſought him to interpoſe in my defence. He had flown. I had imagined him deaf to my prayer, and reſolute to ſee me periſh: yet he diſappeared merely to deviſe and execute the means of my re⯑lief.

Why did he not forbear when this end was ac⯑compliſhed? Why did his misjudging zeal and ac⯑curſed [280] precipitation overpaſs that limit? Or meant he thus to crown the ſcene, and conduct his inſcru⯑table plots to this conſummation?

Such ideas were the fruit of ſubſequent contem⯑plation. This moment was pregnant with fate. I had no power to reaſon. In the career of my tem⯑peſtuous thoughts, rent into pieces, as my mind was, by accumulating horrors, Carwin was unſeen and unſuſpected. I partook of Wieland's creduli⯑ty, ſhook with his amazement, and panted with his awe.

Silence took place for a moment; ſo much as allowed the attention to recover its poſt. Then new ſounds were uttered from above.

"Man of errors! ceaſe to cheriſh thy deluſion: not heaven or hell, but thy ſenſes have miſled thee to commit theſe acts. Shake off thy phrenzy, and aſcend into rational and human. Be lunatic no longer."

My brother opened his lips to ſpeak. His tone was terrific and faint. He muttered an appeal to heaven. It was difficult to comprehend the theme of his inquiries. They implied doubt as to the na⯑ture of the impulſe that hitherto had guided him, and queſtioned whether he had acted in conſequence of inſane perceptions.

To theſe interrogatories the voice, which now ſeemed to hover at his ſhoulder, loudly anſwered in the affirmative. Then uninterrupted ſilence en⯑ſued.

Fallen from his loſty and heroic ſtation; now finally reſtored to the perception of truth; weighed to earth by the recollection of his own deeds; con⯑ſoled no longer by a conſciouſneſs of rectitude, for the loſs of offspring and wife—a loſs for which he was indebted to his own miſguided hand; Wie⯑land [281] was transformed at once into the man of ſor⯑rows!

He reflected not that credit ſhould be as reaſon⯑ably denied to the laſt, as to any former intimation; that one might as juſtly be aſcribe to erring or diſeaſed ſenſes as the other. He ſaw not that this diſcovery in no degree affected the integrity of his conduct; that his motives had loſt none of their claims to the homage of mankind; that the prefe⯑rence of ſupreme good, and the boundleſs energy of duty, were undiminiſhed in his boſom.

It is not for me to purſue him through the ghaſtly changes of his countenance. Words he had none. Now he ſat upon the floor, motionleſs in all his limbs, with his eyes glazed and fixed; a monument of woe.

Anon a ſpirit of tempeſtuous but undeſigning activity ſeized him. He roſe from his place and ſtrode acroſs the floor, tottering and at random. His eyes were without moiſture, and gleamed with the fire that conſumed his vitals. The muſcles of his face were agitated by convulſion. His lips moved, but no ſound eſcaped him.

That nature ſhould long ſuſtain this conflict was not to be believed. My ſtate was little different from that of my brother. I entered, as it were, into his thought. My heart was viſited and rent by his pangs—Oh that thy phrenzy had never been cured! that thy madneſs, with its bliſsful viſions, would return! or, if that muſt not be, that thy ſcene would haſten to a cloſe! that death would cover thee with his oblivion!

What can I wiſh for thee? Thou who haſt vied with the great preacher of thy faith in ſanctity of motives, and in elevation above ſenſual and ſelf⯑iſh! Thou whom thy fate has changed into pari⯑cide [282] and ſavage! Can I wiſh for the continuance of thy being? No.

For a time his movements ſeemed deſtitute of purpoſe. If he walked; if he turned; if his fingers were entwined with each other; if his hands were preſſed againſt oppoſite ſides of his head with a force ſufficient to cruſh it into pieces; it was to tear his mind from ſelf-contemplation; to waſte his thoughts on external objects.

Speedily this train was broken. A beam ap⯑peared to be darted into h [...]s mind, which gave a purpoſe to his efforts. An avenue to eſcape pre⯑ſented itſelf: and now he eagerly gazed about him: when my thoughts became engaged by his demea⯑nour, my fingers were ſtretched as by a mechani⯑cal force, and the knife, no longer heeded or of uſe, eſcaped from my graſp, and fell unperceived on the floor. His eye now lighted upon it; he ſeized it with the quickneſs of thought.

I ſhrieked aloud, but it was too late. He plunged it to the hilt in his neck; and his life inſtantly eſcaped with the ſtream that guſhed from the wound. He was ſtretched at my feet; and my hands were ſprinkled with his blood as he fell.

Such was thy laſt deed, my brother! For a ſpec⯑tacle like this was it my fate to be reſerved! Thy eyes were cloſed—thy face ghaſtly with death— thy arms, and the ſpot where thou liedeſt, floated in thy life's blood! Theſe images have not, for a moment, forſaken me. Till I am breathleſs and cold, they muſt continue to hover in my ſight.

Carwin, as I ſaid, had left the room, but he ſtill lingered in the houſe. My voice ſummoned him to my aid, but I ſcarcely noticed his re-entrance, and now faintly recollect his terrified looks, his broken exclamations, his vehement avowals of in⯑nocence, [283] the effuſions of his pity for me, and his offers of aſſiſtance.

I did not liſten—I anſwered him not—I ceaſed to upbraid or accuſe. His guilt was a point to which I was indifferent. Ruffian or devil, black as hell or bright as angels, thenceforth he was no⯑thing to me. I was incapable of ſparing a look or a thought from the ruin that was ſpread at my feet.

When he left me, I was ſcarcely conſcious of any variation in the ſcene. He informed the inha⯑bitants of the hut of what had paſſed, and they flew to the ſpot. Careleſs of his own ſafety, he haſted to the city to inform my friends of my con⯑dition.

My uncle ſpeedily arrived at the houſe. The body of Wieland was removed from my preſence, and they ſuppoſed that I would follow it; but no, my home is aſcertained; here I have taken up my reſt, and never will I go hence, till, like Wieland, I am borne to my grave.

Importunity was tried in vain: they threatened to remove me by violence—nay, violence was uſed; but my ſoul prizes too dearly this little roof to en⯑dure to be bereaved of it. Force ſhould not pre⯑vail when the hoary locks and ſupplicating tears of my uncle were ineffectual. My repugnance to move gave birth to ferociouſneſs and phrenzy when force was employed, and they were obliged to con⯑ſent to my return.

They beſought me—they remonſtrated—they appealed to every duty that connected me with him that made me, and with my fellow-men—in vain. While I live I will not go hence. Have I not ful⯑filled my deſtiny?

Why will ye torment me with your reaſonings and reproofs? Can ye reſtore to me the hope of [284] my better days? Can ye give me back Catharine and her babes? Can ye recall to life him who died at my feet?

I will eat — I will drink— I will lie down and riſe up at your bidding—all I aſk is the choice of my abode. What is there unreaſonable in this de⯑mand? Shortly will I be at peace. This is the ſpot which I have choſen in which to breathe my laſt ſigh. Deny me not, I beſeech you, ſo flight a boon.

Talk not to me, O my revered friend! of Car⯑win. He has told thee his tale, and thou excul⯑pateſt him from all direct concern in the fate of Wieland. This ſcene of havock was produced by an illuſion of the ſenſes. Be it ſo: I care not from what ſource theſe diſaſter have flowed; it ſuffices that they have ſwallowed up our hopes and our exiſtence.

What his agency began, his agency conducted to a cloſe. He intended, by the final effort of his power, to reſcue me and to baniſh his illuſions from my brother. Such is his tale, concerning the truth of which I care not. Henceforth I foſter but one wiſh—I aſk only quick deliverance from [...] and all the ills that attend it.—

Go wretch! torment me n [...] with thy preſence and thy prayers,—Forgive thee? Will that avail thee when thy fateful hour ſhall arrive? Be thou acquitted at thy own tribunal, and thou needeſt not fear the verdict of others, if thy guilt be capable of blacker hues, if hitherto thy conſcience be with⯑out ſtain, thy crime will be made more flagrant by thus violating my retreat. Take thyſelf away from my ſight if thou wouldeſt not behold my death!

Thou art gone! murmuring and reluctant! And now my repoſe is coming —my work is done!

CHAPTER XXVII.
[Written three years after the foregoing, and dated at Montpellier.]

I Imagined that I had forever laid aſide the pen; and that I ſhould take up my abode in this part of the world, was of all events the leaſt probable. My deſtiny I believed to be accompliſhed, and I looked forward to a ſpeedy termination of my life with the fulleſt confidence.

Surely I had reaſon to be weary of exiſtence, to be impatient of every tie which held me from the grave. I experienced this impatience in its fulleſt extent. I was not only enamoured of death, but conceived, from the condition of my frame, that to ſhun it was impoſſible, even though I had ar⯑dently deſired it; yet here am I, a thouſand leagues from my native ſoil, in full poſſeſſion of life and of health, and not deſtitute of happineſs.

Such is man. Time will obliterate the deepeſt impreſſions. Grief the moſt vehement and hope⯑leſs, will gradually decay and wear itſelf out. Ar⯑guments may be employed in vain: every moral preſcription may be ineffectually tried: remon⯑ſtrances, however cogent or pathetic, ſhall have no power over the attention, or ſhall be repelled with diſdain; yet, as day follows day, the turbulence of our emotions ſhall ſubſide, and our fluctuations be finally ſucceeded by a calm.

Perhaps, however, the conqueſt of deſpair was chiefly owing to an accident which rendered my [286] continuance in my own houſe impoſſible. At the concluſion of my long, and, as I then ſuppoſed, my laſt letter to you, I mentioned my reſolution to wait for death in the very ſpot which had been the principal ſcene of my misfortunes. From this reſolution my friends exerted themſelves with the utmoſt zeal and perſeverance to make me depart. They juſtly imagined that to be thus ſurrounded by memorials of the fate of my family, would tend to foſter my diſeaſe. A ſwift ſucceſſion of new ob⯑jects, and the excluſion of every thing calculated to remind me of my loſs, was the only method of cure.

I refuſed to liſten to their exhortations. Great as my calamity was, to be torn from this aſylum was regarded by me as an aggravation of it. By a per⯑verſe conſtitution of mind, he was conſidered as my greateſt enemy who ſought to withdraw me from a ſcene which ſupplied eternal food to my melancho⯑ly, and kept my deſpair from languiſhing.

In relating the hiſtory of theſe diſaſters I derived a ſimilar ſpecies of gratification. My uncle ear⯑neſtly diſſuaded me from this taſk; but his remon⯑ſtrances were as fruitleſs on this head as they had been on others. They would have withheld from me the implements of writing; but they quickly perceived that to withſtand would be more injurious than to comply with my wiſhes. Having finiſhed my tale, it ſeemed as if the ſcene were cloſing. A fever lurked in my veins, and my ſtrength was gone. Any exertion, however ſlight, was attended with difficulty, and, at length, I refuſed to riſe from my bed.

I now ſee the infatuation and injuſtice of my conduct in its true colours. I reflect upon the ſenſations and reaſonings of that period with won⯑der [287] and humiliation. That I ſhould be inſenſible to the claims and tears of my friends; that I ſhould overlook the ſuggeſtions of duty, and fly from that poſt in which only I could be inſtrumental to the benefit of others; that the exerciſe of the ſocial and beneficent affections, the contemplation of na⯑ture and the acquiſition of wiſdom ſhould not be ſeen to be means of happineſs ſtill within my reach, is, at this time, ſcarcely credible.

It is true that I am now changed; but I have not the conſolation to reflect that my change was owing to my fortitude or to my capacity for in⯑ſtruction. Better thoughts grew up in my mind imperceptibly. I cannot but congratulate myſelf on the change, though, perhaps, it merely argues a fickleneſs of temper, and a defect of ſenſibility.

After my narrative was ended I betook myſelf to my bed, in the full belief that my career in this world was on the point of finiſhing. My uncle took up his abode with me, and performed for me every office of nurſe, phyſician and friend. One night, after ſome hours of reſtleſſneſs and pain, I ſunk into deep ſleep. Its tranquillity, however, was of no long duration. My fancy became ſuddenly diſ⯑tempered, and my brain was turned into a theatre of uproar and confuſion. It would not be eaſy to deſcribe the wild and phantaſtical incongruities that peſtered me. My uncle, Wieland, Pleyel and Carwin were ſucceſſively and momently diſcerned amidſt the ſtorm. Sometimes I was ſwallowed up by whirlpools, or caught up in the air by half-ſeen and gigantic forms, and thrown upon pointed rocks, or caſt among the billows. Sometimes gleams of light were ſhot into a dark abyſs, on the verge of which I was ſtanding, and enabled me to diſcover, for a moment, its enormous depth and hideous pre⯑cipices. [288] Anon, I was tranſported to ſome ridge of Aetna, and made a terrified ſpectator of its fiery torrents and its pillars of ſmoke.

However ſtrange it may ſeem, I was conſcious, even during my dream, of my real ſituation. I knew myſelf to be aſleep, and ſtruggled to break the ſpell, by muſcular exertions. Theſe did not avail, and I continued to ſuffer theſe abortive cre⯑ations till a loud voice, at my bed ſide, and ſome one ſhaking me with violence, put an end to my reverie. My eyes were unſealed, and I ſtarted from my pillow.

My chamber was filled with ſmoke, which, though in ſome degree luminous, would permit me to ſee nothing, and by which I was nearly ſuffocat⯑ed. The crackling of flames, and the deafening clamour of voices without, burſt upon my ears. Stunned as I was by this hubbub, ſcorched with heat, and nearly choaked by the accumulating va⯑pours, I was unable to think or act for my own preſervation; I was incapable, indeed, of compre⯑hending my danger.

I was caught up, in an inſtant, by a pair of ſinewy arms, borne to the window, and carried down a ladder which had been placed there. My uncle ſtood at the bottom and received me. I was not fully aware of my ſituation till I found myſelf ſheltered in the Hut, and ſurrounded by its inha⯑bitants.

By neglect of the ſervant, ſome unextinguiſhed embers had been placed in a barrel in the cellar of the building. The barrel had caught fire; this was communicated to the beams of the lower floor, and thence to the upper part of the ſtructure. It was firſt diſcovered by ſome perſons at a diſtance, who haſtened to the ſpot and alarmed my uncle and the [289] ſervants. The flames had already made conſider⯑able progreſs, and my condition was overlooked till my eſcape was rendered nearly impoſſible.

My danger being known, and a ladder quickly procured, one of the ſpectators aſcended to my chamber, and effected my deliverance in the man⯑ner before related.

This incident, diſaſtrous as it may at firſt ſeem, had, in reality, a beneficial effect upon my feel⯑ings. I was, in ſome degree, rouſed from the ſtupor which had ſeized my faculties. The monotonous and gloomy ſeries of my thoughts was broken. My habitation was levelled with the ground, and I was obliged to ſeek a new one. A new train of images, diſconnected with the fate of my family, forced itſelf on my attention, and a belief inſenſi⯑bly ſprung up, that tranquillity, if not happineſs, was ſtill within my reach. Notwithſtanding the ſhocks which my frame had endured, the anguiſh of my thoughts no ſooner abated than I recovered my health.

I now willingly liſtened to my uncle's ſolicita⯑tions to be the companion of his voyage. Prepa⯑rations were eaſily made, and after a tedious paſ⯑ſage, we ſet our feet on the ſhore of the ancient world. The memory of the paſt did not forſake me; but the melancholy which it generated, and the tears with which it filled my eyes, were not un⯑profitable. My curioſity was revived, and I con⯑templated, with ardour, the ſpectacle of living manners and the monuments of paſt ages.

In proportion as my heart was reinſtated in the poſſeſſion of its ancient tranquillity, the ſentiment which I had cheriſhed with regard to Pleyel re⯑turned. In a ſhort time he was united to the Saxon woman, and made his reſidence in the neighbour⯑hood [290] of Boſton. I was glad that circumſtances would not permit an interview to take place be⯑tween us. I could not deſire their miſery; but I reaped no pleaſure from reflecting on their happi⯑neſs. Time, and the exertions of my fortitude, cured me, in ſome degree, of this folly. I conti⯑nued to love him, but my paſſion was diguiſed to myſelf; I conſidered it merely as a more tender ſpecies of friendſhip, and cheriſhed it without com⯑punction.

Through my uncle's exertions a meeting was brought about between Carwin and Pleyel, and explanations took place which reſtored me at once to the good opinion of the latter. Though ſeparated ſo widely our correſpondence was punctual and fre⯑quent, and paved the way for that union which can only end with the death of one of us.

In my letters to him I made no ſecret of my for⯑mer ſentiments. This was a theme on which I could talk without painful, though not without de⯑licate emotions. That knowledge which I ſhould never have imparted to a lover, I felt little ſcruple to communicate to a friend.

A year and an half elapſed when Thereſa was ſnatched from him by death, in the hour in which ſhe gave him the firſt pledge of their mutual affec⯑tion. This event was borne by him with his cuſ⯑tomary fortitude. It induced him, however, to make a change in his plans. He diſpoſed of his property in America, and joined my uncle and me, who had terminated the wanderings of two years at Montpellier, which will henceforth, I believe, be our permanent abode.

If you reflect upon that entire confidence which had ſubſiſted from our infancy between Pleyel and myſelf; on the paſſion that I had contracted, and [291] which was merely ſmothered for a time; and on the eſteem which was mutual, you will not, per⯑haps, be ſurprized that the renovation of our in⯑tercourſe ſhould give birth to that union which at preſent ſubſiſts. When the period had elapſed ne⯑ceſſary to weaken the remembrance of Thereſa, to whom he had been bound by ties more of honor than of love, he tendered his affections to me. I need not add that the tender was eagerly accepted.

Perhaps you are ſomewhat intereſted in the fate of Carwin. He ſaw, when too late, the danger of impoſture. So much affected was he by the cataſtrophe to which he was a witneſs, that he laid aſide all regard to his own ſafety. He ſought my uncle, and confided to him the tale which he had juſt related to me. He found a more impartial and indulgent auditor in Mr. Cambridge, who im⯑puted to maniacal illuſion the conduct of Wieland, though he conceived the previous and unſeen agency of Carwin, to have indirectly but powerfully pre⯑diſpoſed to this deplorable perverſion of mind.

It was eaſy for Carwin to elude the perſecutions of Ludloe. It was merely requiſite to hide him⯑ſelf in a remote diſtrict of Pennſylvania. This, when he parted from us, he determined to do. He is now probably engaged in the harmleſs purſuits of agriculture, and may come to think, without in⯑ſupportable remorſe, on the evils to which his fatal talents have given birth. The innocence and uſe⯑fulneſs of his future life may, in ſome degree, atone for the miſeries ſo raſhly or ſo thoughtleſſly in⯑flicted.

More urgent conſiderations hindered me from mentioning, in the courſe of my former mournful recital, any particulars reſpecting the unfortunate father of Louiſa Conway. That man ſurely was [292] reſerved to be a monument of capricious fortune. His ſouthern journies being finiſhed, he returned to Philadelphia. Before he reached the city he left the highway, and alighted at my brother's door. Contrary to his expectation, no one came forth to welcome him, or hail his approach. He attempted to enter the houſe, but bolted doors, barred win⯑dows, and a ſilence broken only by unanſwered calls, ſhewed him that the manſion was deſerted.

He proceeded thence to my habitation, which he found, in like manner, gloomy and tenantleſs. His ſurprize may be eaſily conceived. The ruſtics who occupied the hut told him an imperfect and incre⯑dible tale. He haſted to the city, and extorted from Mrs. Baynton a full diſcloſure of late diſ⯑aſters.

He was inured to adverſity, and recovered, after no long time, from the ſhocks produced by this diſappointment of his darling ſcheme. Our inter⯑courſe did not terminate with his departure from America. We have ſince met with him in France, and light has at length been thrown upon the mo⯑tives which occaſioned the diſappearance of his wife, in the manner which I formerly related to you.

I have dwelt upon the ardour of their conjugal attachment, and mentioned that no ſuſpicion had ever glanced upon her purity. This, though the belief was long cheriſhed, recent diſcoveries have ſhewn to be queſtionable. No doubt her integrity would have ſurvived to the preſent moment, if an extraordinary fate had not befallen her.

Major Stuart had been engaged, while in Ger⯑many, in a conteſt of honor with an Aid de Camp of the Marquis of Granby. His adverſary had propagated a rumour injurious to his character. A challenge was ſent: a meeting enſued▪ and Stuart [293] wounded and diſarmed the calumniator. The of⯑fence was atoned for, and his life ſecured by ſuit⯑able conceſſions.

Maxwell, that was his name, ſhortly after, in conſequence of ſucceeding to a rich inheritance, ſold his commiſſion and returned to London. His fortune was ſpeedily augmented by an opulent mar⯑riage. Intereſt was his ſole inducement to this marriage, though the lady had been ſwayed by a credulous affection. The true ſtate of his heart was quickly diſcovered, and a ſeparation, by mu⯑tual conſent, took place. The lady withdrew to an eſtate in a diſtant county, and Maxwell con⯑tinued to conſume his time and fortune in the diſ⯑ſipation of the capital.

Maxwell, though deceitful and ſenſual, poſſeſſed great force of mind and ſpecious accompliſhments. He contrived to miſlead the generous mind of Stu⯑art, and to regain the eſteem which his miſconduct, for a time, had forfeited. He was recommended by her huſband to the confidence of Mrs. Stuart. Maxwell was ſtimulated by revenge, and by a law⯑leſs paſſion, to convert this confidence into a ſource of guilt.

The education and capacity of this woman, the worth of her huſband, the pledge of their alliance which time had produced, her maturity in age and knowledge of the world—all combined to render this attempt hopeleſs. Maxwell, however, was not eaſily diſcouraged. The moſt perfect being, he believed, muſt owe his exemption from vice to the abſence of temptation. The impulſes of love are ſo ſubtile, and the influence of falſe reaſoning, when enforced by eloquence and paſſion, ſo unbounded, that no human virtue is ſecure from degeneracy. [294] All arts being tried, every temptation being ſum⯑moned to his aid, diſſimulation being carried to its utmoſt bound, Maxwell, at length, nearly accom⯑pliſhed his purpoſe. The lady's affections were withdrawn from her huſband and transferred to him. She could not, as yet, be reconciled to diſhonor. All efforts to induce her to elope with him were in⯑effectual. She permitted herſelf to love, and to avow her love; but at this limit ſhe ſtopped, and was immoveable.

Hence this revolution in her ſentiments was pro⯑ductive only of deſpair. Her rectitude of principle preſerved her from actual guilt, but could not re⯑ſtore to her her ancient affection, or ſave her from being the prey of remorſeful and impracticable wiſhes. Her huſband's abſence produced a ſtate of ſuſpence. This, however, approached to a pe⯑riod, and ſhe received tidings of his intended return. Maxwell, being likewiſe apprized of this event, and having made a laſt and unſucceſsful effort to con⯑quer her reluctance to accompany him in a journey to Italy, whither he pretended an invincible neceſſity of going, left her to purſue the meaſures which deſpair might ſuggeſt. At the ſame time ſhe re⯑ceived a letter from the wife of Maxwell, unveiling the true character of this man, and revealing facts which the artifices of her ſeducer had hitherto con⯑cealed from her. Mrs. Maxwell had been prompted to this diſcloſure by a knowledge of her huſband's practices, with which his own impetuoſity had made her acquainted.

This diſcovery, joined to the delicacy of her ſcru⯑ples and the anguiſh of remorſe, induced her to abſcond. This ſcheme was adopted in haſte, but effected with conſummate prudence. She fled, on [295] the eve of her huſband's arrival, in the diſguiſe of a boy, and embarked at Falmouth in a packet bound for America.

The hiſtory of her diſaſtrous intercourſe with Maxwell, the motives inducing her to forſake her country, and the meaſures ſhe had taken to effect her deſign▪ were related to Mrs. Maxwell, in reply to her communication. Between theſe women an ancient intimacy and conſiderable ſimilitude of cha⯑racter ſubſiſted. This diſcloſure was accompanied with ſolemn injunctions of ſecrecy, and theſe in⯑junctions were, for a long time, faithfully obſerved.

Mrs. Maxwell's abode was ſituated on the banks of the Wey. Stuart was her kinſman; their youth had been ſpent together; and Maxwell was in ſome degree indebted to the man whom he be⯑trayed, for his alliance with this unfortunate lady. Her eſteem for the character of Stuart had never been diminiſhed. A meeting between them was occaſioned by a tour which the latter had underta⯑ken, in the year after his return from America, to Wales and the weſtern counties. This interview produced pleaſure and regret in each. Their own tranſactions naturally became the topics of their converſation; and the untimely fate of his wife and daughter were related by the gueſt.

Mrs. Maxwell's regard for her friend, as well as for the ſafety of her huſband, perſuaded her to con⯑cealment; but the former being dead, and the latter being out of the kingdom, ſhe ventured to produce Mrs. Stuart's letter, and to communicate her own knowledge of the treachery of Maxwell. She had previouſly extorted from her gueſt a promiſe not to purſue any ſcheme of vengeance; but this promiſe was made while ignorant of the full extent of Max⯑well's [296] depravity, and his paſſion refuſed to adhere to it.

At this time my uncle and I reſided at Avignon. Among the Engliſh reſident there, and with whom we maintained a ſocial intercourſe, was Maxwell. This man's talents and addreſs rendered him a fa⯑vorite both with my uncle and myſelf. He had even tendered me his hand in marriage; but this being refuſed, he had ſought and obtained permiſſion to continue with us the intercourſe of friendſhip. Since a legal marriage was impoſſible, no doubt, his views were flagitious. Whether he had relin⯑quiſhed theſe views I was unable to judge.

He was one in a large circle at a villa in the en⯑virons, to which I had likewiſe been invited, when Stuart abruptly entered the apartment. He was recognized with genuine ſatisfaction by me, and with ſeeming pleaſure by Maxwell. In a ſhort time, ſome affair of moment being pleaded, which required an immediate and excluſive interview, Maxwell and he withdrew together. Stuart and my uncle had been known to each other in the German army; and the purpoſe contemplated by the former in this long and haſty journey, was con⯑fided to his old friend.

A defiance was given and received, and the banks of a rivulet, about a league from the city, was ſe⯑lected as the ſcene of this conteſt. My uncle, hav⯑ing exerted himſelf in vain to prevent an hoſtile meeting, conſented to attend them as a ſurgeon.— Next morning, at ſun-riſe, was the time ch [...]en.

I returned early in the evening to my lodgings. Preliminaries being ſettled between the combatants, Stuart had conſented to ſpend the evening with us, and did not retire till late. On the way to his hotel [297] he was expoſed to no moleſtation, but juſt as he ſtepped within the portico, a ſwarthy and malignant figure ſtarted from behind a column, and plunged a ſtiletto into his body.

The author of this treaſon could not certainly be diſcovered; but the details communicated by Stuart, reſpecting the hiſtory of Maxwell, naturally pointed him out as an object of ſuſpicion. No one expreſ⯑ſed more concern, on account of this diſaſter, than he; and he pretended an ardent zeal to vindicate his character from the aſperſions that were caſt upon it. Thenceforth, however, I denied myſelf to his viſits; and ſhortly after he diſappeared from this ſcene.

Few poſſeſſed more eſtimable qualities, and a better title to happineſs and the tranquil honors of long life, than the mother and father of Louiſa Conway: yet they were cut off in the bloom of their days; and their deſtiny was thus accompliſhed by the ſame hand. Maxwell was the inſtrument of their deſtruction, though the inſtrument was ap⯑plied to this end in ſo different a manner.

I leave you to moralize on this tale. That vir⯑tue ſhould become the victim of treachery is, no doubt, a mournful conſideration; but it will not eſcape your notice, that the evils of which Car⯑win and Maxwell were the authors, owed their exiſtence to the errors of the ſufferers. All ef⯑forts would have been ineffectual to ſubvert the happineſs or ſhorten the exiſtence of the Stuarts, if their own frailty had not ſeconded theſe efforts. If the lady had cruſhed her diſaſtrous paſſion in the bud, and driven the ſeducer from her preſence, when the tendency of his artifices was ſeen; if Stuart had not admitted the ſpirit of abſurd revenge, we [298] ſhould not have had to deplore this cataſtrophe. If Wieland had framed juſter notions of moral duty, and of the divine attributes; or if I had been gifted with ordinary equanimity or foreſight, the double-tongued deceiver would have been baffled and re⯑pelled.