University of Virginia Library

20. CHAPTER XX.

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

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

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

The paper dropped from my hand, and my eyes
followed it. I shrunk back, as if to avoid some
petrifying influence that approached me. My
tongue was mute; all the functions of nature were
at a stand, and I sunk upon the floor lifeless.

The noise of my fall, as I afterwards heard,
alarmed my uncle, who was in a lower apartment,
and whose apprehensions had detained him. He
hastened to my chamber, and administered the assistance
which my condition required. When I
opened my eyes I beheld him before me. His skill
as a reasoner as well as a physician, was exerted
to obviate the injurious effects of this disclosure;
but he had wrongly estimated the strength of my
body or of my mind. This new shock brought me
once more to the brink of the grave, and my malady
was much more difficult to subdue than at
first.

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

Time effected that end, perhaps, in a more beneficial
manner. In the course of my meditations
the recollections of the past gradually became more
distinct. I revolved them, however, in silence,

and being no longer accompanied with surprize,
they did not exercise a death-dealing power. I had
discontinued the perusal of the paper in the midst
of the narrative; but what I read, combined with
information elsewhere obtained, threw, perhaps, a
sufficient light upon these detestable transactions;
yet my curiosity was not inactive. I desired to
peruse the remainder.

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

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

“No. I have nothing to say. My tale has been
told. My motives have been truly stated. If my
judges are unable to discern the purity of my intentions,
or to credit the statement of them, which I
have just made; if they see not that my deed was

enjoined by heaven; that obedience was the test of
perfect virtue, and the extinction of selfishness and
error, they must pronounce me a murderer.

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

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

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

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

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

His fears, however, were superfluous. What I

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“On the death of that brother,” resumed my
friend, “my father was seized with dejection,
which was found to flow from two sources. He
not only grieved for the loss of a friend, but entertained
the belief that his own death would be inevitably
consequent on that of his brother. He
waited from day to day in expectation of the stroke
which he predicted was speedily to fall upon him.
Gradually, however, he recovered his cheerfulness
and confidence. He married, and performed his
part in the world with spirit and activity. At the
end of twenty-one years it happened that he spent
the summer with his family at an house which he
possessed on the sea coast in Cornwall. It was at
no great distance from a cliff which overhung
the ocean, and rose into the air to a great height.
The summit was level and secure, and easily ascended
on the land side. The company frequently

repaired hither in clear weather, invited by its pure
airs and extensive prospects. One evening in June
my father, with his wife and some friends, chanced
to be on this spot. Every one was happy, and
my father's imagination seemed particularly alive
to the grandeur of the scenery.

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

“In the course of my practice in the German
army, many cases, equally remarkable, have occurred,
Unquestionably the illusions were maniacal,
though the vulgar thought otherwise. They
are all reducible to one class,[1] and are not more difficult
of explication and cure than most affections
of our frame.”

This opinion my uncle endeavoured, by various
means, to impress upon me. I listened to his reasonings
and illustrations with silent respect. My astonishment
was great on finding proofs of an influence
of which I had supposed there were no examples;
but I was far from accounting for appearances
in my uncle's manner. Ideas thronged into my
mind which I was unable to disjoin or to regulate.

I reflected that this madness, if madness it were,
had affected Pleyel and myself as well as Wieland,
Pleyel had heard a mysterious voice. I had seen
and heard. A form had showed itself to me as
well as to Wieland. The disclosure had been made
in the same spot. The appearance was equally
complete and equally prodigious in both instances.
Whatever supposition I should adopt, had I not
equal reason to tremble? What was my security
against influences equally terrific and equally irresistable?

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

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

My silence could not conceal from my uncle the
state of my thoughts. He made unwearied efforts
to divert my attention from views so pregnant with
danger. His efforts, aided by time, were in some
measure successful. Confidence in the strength of
my resolution, and in the healthful state of my faculties,

was once more revived. I was able to devote
my thoughts to my brother's state, and the
causes of this disasterous proceeding.

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

These ideas connected themselves with the image
of Carwin. Where is the proof, said I, that
dæmons 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 wife, we are scarcely justified in totally rejecting
the possibility that men may obtain supernatural
aid.

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

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

I recurred to my own experience. Here Carwin

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

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