WIELAND; OR THE TRANSFORMATION
An American Tale
by Charles Brockden Brown
From Virtue's blissful paths away
The double-tongued are sure to stray;
Good is a forth-right journey still,
And mazy paths but lead to ill.
Advertisement.
The following Work is delivered to the world as the first of a series
of performances, which the favorable reception of this will induce the
Writer to publish. His purpose is neither selfish nor temporary,
but aims at the illustration of some important branches of the moral
constitution of man. Whether this tale will be classed with the ordinary
or frivolous sources of amusement, or be ranked with the few productions
whose usefulness secures to them a lasting reputation, the reader must
be permitted to decide.
The incidents related are extraordinary and rare. Some of them, perhaps,
approach as nearly to the nature of miracles as can be done by that
which is not truly miraculous. It is hoped that intelligent readers will
not disapprove of the manner in which appearances are solved, but that
the solution will be found to correspond with the known principles of
human nature. The power which the principal person is said to possess
can scarcely be denied to be real. It must be acknowledged to be
extremely rare; but no fact, equally uncommon, is supported by the same
strength of historical evidence.
Some readers may think the conduct of the younger Wieland impossible. In
support of its possibility the Writer must appeal to Physicians and to
men conversant with the latent springs and occasional perversions of
the human mind. It will not be objected that the instances of similar
delusion are rare, because it is the business of moral painters to
exhibit their subject in its most instructive and memorable forms. If
history furnishes one parallel fact, it is a sufficient vindication of
the Writer; but most readers will probably recollect an authentic case,
remarkably similar to that of Wieland.
It will be necessary to add, that this narrative is addressed, in an
epistolary form, by the Lady whose story it contains, to a small
number of friends, whose curiosity, with regard to it, had been greatly
awakened. It may likewise be mentioned, that these events took
place between the conclusion of the French and the beginning of the
revolutionary war. The memoirs of Carwin, alluded to at the conclusion
of the work, will be published or suppressed according to the reception
which is given to the present attempt.
C. B. B.
_September 3, 1798_.
Chapter I
I feel little reluctance in complying with your request. You know not
fully the cause of my sorrows. You are a stranger to the depth of my
distresses. Hence your efforts at consolation must necessarily fail. Yet
the tale that I am going to tell is not intended as a claim upon your
sympathy. In the midst of my despair, I do not disdain to contribute
what little I can to the benefit of mankind. I acknowledge your right to
be informed of the events that have lately happened in my family. Make
what use of the tale you shall think proper. If it be communicated
to the world, it will inculcate the duty of avoiding deceit. It will
exemplify the force of early impressions, and show the immeasurable
evils that flow from an erroneous or imperfect discipline.
My state is not destitute of tranquillity. The sentiment that dictates
my feelings is not hope. Futurity has no power over my thoughts. To all
that is to come I am perfectly indifferent. With regard to myself, I
have nothing more to fear. Fate has done its worst. Henceforth, I am
callous to misfortune.
I address no supplication to the Deity. The power that governs the
course of human affairs has chosen his path. The decree that ascertained
the condition of my life, admits of no recal. No doubt it squares with
the maxims of eternal equity. That is neither to be questioned nor
denied by me. It suffices that the past is exempt from mutation. The
storm that tore up our happiness, and changed into dreariness and desert
the blooming scene of our existence, is lulled into grim repose; but
not until the victim was transfixed and mangled; till every obstacle was
dissipated by its rage; till every remnant of good was wrested from our
grasp and exterminated.
How will your wonder, and that of your companions, be excited by my
story! Every sentiment will yield to your amazement. If my testimony
were without corroborations, you would reject it as incredible. The
experience of no human being can furnish a parallel: That I, beyond the
rest of mankind, should be reserved for a destiny without alleviation,
and without example! Listen to my narrative, and then say what it is
that has made me deserve to be placed on this dreadful eminence, if,
indeed, every faculty be not suspended in wonder that I am still alive,
and am able to relate it. My father's ancestry was noble on the paternal
side; but his mother was the daughter of a merchant. My grand-father was
a younger brother, and a native of Saxony. He was placed, when he had
reached the suitable age, at a German college. During the vacations,
he employed himself in traversing the neighbouring territory. On one
occasion it was his fortune to visit Hamburg. He formed an acquaintance
with Leonard Weise, a merchant of that city, and was a frequent guest
at his house. The merchant had an only daughter, for whom his guest
speedily contracted an affection; and, in spite of parental menaces and
prohibitions, he, in due season, became her husband.
By this act he mortally offended his relations. Thenceforward he was
entirely disowned and rejected by them. They refused to contribute any
thing to his support. All intercourse ceased, and he received from them
merely that treatment to which an absolute stranger, or detested enemy,
would be entitled.
He found an asylum in the house of his new father, whose temper was
kind, and whose pride was flattered by this alliance. The nobility of
his birth was put in the balance against his poverty. Weise conceived
himself, on the whole, to have acted with the highest discretion, in
thus disposing of his child. My grand-father found it incumbent on him
to search out some mode of independent subsistence. His youth had
been eagerly devoted to literature and music. These had hitherto been
cultivated merely as sources of amusement. They were now converted into
the means of gain. At this period there were few works of taste in
the Saxon dialect. My ancestor may be considered as the founder of the
German Theatre. The modern poet of the same name is sprung from the same
family, and, perhaps, surpasses but little, in the fruitfulness of his
invention, or the soundness of his taste, the elder Wieland. His life
was spent in the composition of sonatas and dramatic pieces. They were
not unpopular, but merely afforded him a scanty subsistence. He died
in the bloom of his life, and was quickly followed to the grave by his
wife. Their only child was taken under the protection of the merchant.
At an early age he was apprenticed to a London trader, and passed seven
years of mercantile servitude.
My father was not fortunate in the character of him under whose care
he was now placed. He was treated with rigor, and full employment was
provided for every hour of his time. His duties were laborious and
mechanical. He had been educated with a view to this profession, and,
therefore, was not tormented with unsatisfied desires. He did not hold
his present occupations in abhorrence, because they withheld him from
paths more flowery and more smooth, but he found in unintermitted
labour, and in the sternness of his master, sufficient occasions for
discontent. No opportunities of recreation were allowed him. He spent
all his time pent up in a gloomy apartment, or traversing narrow and
crowded streets. His food was coarse, and his lodging humble. His heart
gradually contracted a habit of morose and gloomy reflection. He could
not accurately define what was wanting to his happiness. He was not
tortured by comparisons drawn between his own situation and that
of others. His state was such as suited his age and his views as to
fortune. He did not imagine himself treated with extraordinary or
unjustifiable rigor. In this respect he supposed the condition of
others, bound like himself to mercantile service, to resemble his own;
yet every engagement was irksome, and every hour tedious in its lapse.
In this state of mind he chanced to light upon a book written by one of
the teachers of the Albigenses, or French Protestants. He entertained no
relish for books, and was wholly unconscious of any power they possessed
to delight or instruct. This volume had lain for years in a corner of
his garret, half buried in dust and rubbish. He had marked it as it lay;
had thrown it, as his occasions required, from one spot to another; but
had felt no inclination to examine its contents, or even to inquire what
was the subject of which it treated.
One Sunday afternoon, being induced to retire for a few minutes to his
garret, his eye was attracted by a page of this book, which, by some
accident, had been opened and placed full in his view. He was seated on
the edge of his bed, and was employed in repairing a rent in some part
of his clothes. His eyes were not confined to his work, but occasionally
wandering, lighted at length upon the page. The words "Seek and ye
shall find," were those that first offered themselves to his notice.
His curiosity was roused by these so far as to prompt him to proceed.
As soon as he finished his work, he took up the book and turned to
the first page. The further he read, the more inducement he found to
continue, and he regretted the decline of the light which obliged him
for the present to close it.
The book contained an exposition of the doctrine of the sect of
Camissards, and an historical account of its origin. His mind was in a
state peculiarly fitted for the reception of devotional sentiments. The
craving which had haunted him was now supplied with an object. His mind
was at no loss for a theme of meditation. On days of business, he rose
at the dawn, and retired to his chamber not till late at night. He now
supplied himself with candles, and employed his nocturnal and Sunday
hours in studying this book. It, of course, abounded with allusions to
the Bible. All its conclusions were deduced from the sacred text. This
was the fountain, beyond which it was unnecessary to trace the stream of
religious truth; but it was his duty to trace it thus far.
A Bible was easily procured, and he ardently entered on the study of it.
His understanding had received a particular direction. All his reveries
were fashioned in the same mould. His progress towards the formation of
his creed was rapid. Every fact and sentiment in this book were viewed
through a medium which the writings of the Camissard apostle had
suggested. His constructions of the text were hasty, and formed on a
narrow scale. Every thing was viewed in a disconnected position. One
action and one precept were not employed to illustrate and restrict
the meaning of another. Hence arose a thousand scruples to which he had
hitherto been a stranger. He was alternately agitated by fear and by
ecstacy. He imagined himself beset by the snares of a spiritual foe, and
that his security lay in ceaseless watchfulness and prayer.
His morals, which had never been loose, were now modelled by a stricter
standard. The empire of religious duty extended itself to his looks,
gestures, and phrases. All levities of speech, and negligences of
behaviour, were proscribed. His air was mournful and contemplative.
He laboured to keep alive a sentiment of fear, and a belief of
the awe-creating presence of the Deity. Ideas foreign to this were
sedulously excluded. To suffer their intrusion was a crime against the
Divine Majesty inexpiable but by days and weeks of the keenest agonies.
No material variation had occurred in the lapse of two years. Every day
confirmed him in his present modes of thinking and acting. It was to
be expected that the tide of his emotions would sometimes recede, that
intervals of despondency and doubt would occur; but these gradually were
more rare, and of shorter duration; and he, at last, arrived at a state
considerably uniform in this respect.
His apprenticeship was now almost expired. On his arrival of age he
became entitled, by the will of my grand-father, to a small sum. This
sum would hardly suffice to set him afloat as a trader in his present
situation, and he had nothing to expect from the generosity of his
master. Residence in England had, besides, become almost impossible,
on account of his religious tenets. In addition to these motives for
seeking a new habitation, there was another of the most imperious and
irresistable necessity. He had imbibed an opinion that it was his duty
to disseminate the truths of the gospel among the unbelieving nations.
He was terrified at first by the perils and hardships to which the life
of a missionary is exposed. This cowardice made him diligent in the
invention of objections and excuses; but he found it impossible wholly
to shake off the belief that such was the injunction of his duty.
The belief, after every new conflict with his passions, acquired new
strength; and, at length, he formed a resolution of complying with what
he deemed the will of heaven.
The North-American Indians naturally presented themselves as the first
objects for this species of benevolence. As soon as his servitude
expired, he converted his little fortune into money, and embarked for
Philadelphia. Here his fears were revived, and a nearer survey of savage
manners once more shook his resolution. For a while he relinquished his
purpose, and purchasing a farm on Schuylkill, within a few miles of the
city, set himself down to the cultivation of it. The cheapness of land,
and the service of African slaves, which were then in general use,
gave him who was poor in Europe all the advantages of wealth. He passed
fourteen years in a thrifty and laborious manner. In this time new
objects, new employments, and new associates appeared to have nearly
obliterated the devout impressions of his youth. He now became
acquainted with a woman of a meek and quiet disposition, and of slender
acquirements like himself. He proffered his hand and was accepted.
His previous industry had now enabled him to dispense with personal
labour, and direct attention to his own concerns. He enjoyed leisure,
and was visited afresh by devotional contemplation. The reading of the
scriptures, and other religious books, became once more his favorite
employment. His ancient belief relative to the conversion of the savage
tribes, was revived with uncommon energy. To the former obstacles were
now added the pleadings of parental and conjugal love. The struggle
was long and vehement; but his sense of duty would not be stifled or
enfeebled, and finally triumphed over every impediment.
His efforts were attended with no permanent success. His exhortations
had sometimes a temporary power, but more frequently were repelled with
insult and derision. In pursuit of this object he encountered the most
imminent perils, and underwent incredible fatigues, hunger, sickness,
and solitude. The licence of savage passion, and the artifices of his
depraved countrymen, all opposed themselves to his progress. His courage
did not forsake him till there appeared no reasonable ground to hope for
success. He desisted not till his heart was relieved from the supposed
obligation to persevere. With his constitution somewhat decayed, he at
length returned to his family. An interval of tranquillity succeeded. He
was frugal, regular, and strict in the performance of domestic duties.
He allied himself with no sect, because he perfectly agreed with none.
Social worship is that by which they are all distinguished; but this
article found no place in his creed. He rigidly interpreted that precept
which enjoins us, when we worship, to retire into solitude, and shut
out every species of society. According to him devotion was not only a
silent office, but must be performed alone. An hour at noon, and an hour
at midnight were thus appropriated.
At the distance of three hundred yards from his house, on the top of a
rock whose sides were steep, rugged, and encumbered with dwarf cedars
and stony asperities, he built what to a common eye would have seemed a
summer-house. The eastern verge of this precipice was sixty feet above
the river which flowed at its foot. The view before it consisted of a
transparent current, fluctuating and rippling in a rocky channel, and
bounded by a rising scene of cornfields and orchards. The edifice was
slight and airy. It was no more than a circular area, twelve feet in
diameter, whose flooring was the rock, cleared of moss and shrubs, and
exactly levelled, edged by twelve Tuscan columns, and covered by an
undulating dome. My father furnished the dimensions and outlines, but
allowed the artist whom he employed to complete the structure on his own
plan. It was without seat, table, or ornament of any kind.
This was the temple of his Deity. Twice in twenty-four hours he repaired
hither, unaccompanied by any human being. Nothing but physical inability
to move was allowed to obstruct or postpone this visit. He did not exact
from his family compliance with his example. Few men, equally sincere
in their faith, were as sparing in their censures and restrictions,
with respect to the conduct of others, as my father. The character of
my mother was no less devout; but her education had habituated her to
a different mode of worship. The loneliness of their dwelling prevented
her from joining any established congregation; but she was punctual in
the offices of prayer, and in the performance of hymns to her Saviour,
after the manner of the disciples of Zinzendorf. My father refused
to interfere in her arrangements. His own system was embraced not,
accurately speaking, because it was the best, but because it had been
expressly prescribed to him. Other modes, if practised by other persons,
might be equally acceptable.
His deportment to others was full of charity and mildness. A sadness
perpetually overspread his features, but was unmingled with sternness or
discontent. The tones of his voice, his gestures, his steps were all in
tranquil unison. His conduct was characterised by a certain forbearance
and humility, which secured the esteem of those to whom his tenets were
most obnoxious. They might call him a fanatic and a dreamer, but they
could not deny their veneration to his invincible candour and invariable
integrity. His own belief of rectitude was the foundation of his
happiness. This, however, was destined to find an end.
Suddenly the sadness that constantly attended him was deepened. Sighs,
and even tears, sometimes escaped him. To the expostulations of his wife
he seldom answered any thing. When he designed to be communicative, he
hinted that his peace of mind was flown, in consequence of deviation
from his duty. A command had been laid upon him, which he had delayed to
perform. He felt as if a certain period of hesitation and reluctance
had been allowed him, but that this period was passed. He was no
longer permitted to obey. The duty assigned to him was transferred, in
consequence of his disobedience, to another, and all that remained was
to endure the penalty.
He did not describe this penalty. It appeared to be nothing more for
some time than a sense of wrong. This was sufficiently acute, and was
aggravated by the belief that his offence was incapable of expiation. No
one could contemplate the agonies which he seemed to suffer without the
deepest compassion. Time, instead of lightening the burthen, appeared to
add to it. At length he hinted to his wife, that his end was near. His
imagination did not prefigure the mode or the time of his decease, but
was fraught with an incurable persuasion that his death was at hand. He
was likewise haunted by the belief that the kind of death that awaited
him was strange and terrible. His anticipations were thus far vague and
indefinite; but they sufficed to poison every moment of his being, and
devote him to ceaseless anguish.