University of Virginia Library

27. 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 ardently
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 hopeless,
will gradually decay and wear itself out. Arguments
may be employed in vain: every moral
prescription may be ineffectually tried: remonstrances,
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

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 objects,
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 perverse
constitution of mind, he was consideted as my
greatest enemy who sought to withdraw me from a
scene which supplied eternal food to my melancholy,
and kept my despair from languishing.

In relating the history of these disasters I derived
a similar species of gratification. My uncle earnestly
dissuaded me from this task; but his remonstrances
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 wonder

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 nature
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 instruction.
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 my self 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 distempered,
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 precipices.

Anon, I was transported to some ridge
of Ætna, 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 creations
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 suffocated.
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 vapours,
I was unable to think or act for my own
preservation; I was incapable, indeed, of comprehending
my danger.

I was caught up, in an instant, by a pair of
finewy 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 inhabitants.

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

servants. The flames had already made considerable
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 manner
before related.

This incident, disastrous as it may at first seem,
had, in reality, a beneficial effect upon my feelings.
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 insensibly
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 solicitations
to be the companion of his voyage. Preparations
were easily made, and after a tedious passage,
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 unprofitable.
My curiosity was revived, and I contemplated,
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 returned.
In a short time he was united to the Saxon
woman, and made his residence in the neighbourhood

of Boston. I was glad that circumstances
would not permit an interview to take place between
us. I could not desire their misery; but I
reaped no pleasure from reflecting on their happiness.
Time, and the exertions of my fortitude,
cured me, in some degree, of this folly. I continued
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 compunction.

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 frequent,
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 former
sentiments. This was a theme on which I
could talk without painful, though not without delicate
emotions. That knowledge which I should
never have imparted to a lover, I selt 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 affection.
This event was borne by him with his customary
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

which was merely smothered for a time; and on
the esteem which was mutual, you will not, perhaps,
be surprized that the renovation of our intercourse
should give birth to that union which at
present subsists. When the period had elapsed necessary
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 fought 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 imputed
to maniacal illusion the conduct of  Wieland ,
though he conceived the previous and unseen agency
of Carwin, to have indirectly but powerfully predisposed
to this deplorable perversion of mind.

It was easy for Carwin to elude the persecutions
of Ludloe. It was merely requisite to hide himself
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 insupportable
remorse, on the evils to which his fatal
talents have given birth. The innocence and usefulness
of his future life may, in some degree, atone
for the miseries fo rashly or so thoughtlessly inflicted.

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

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 windows,
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 incredible
tale. He hasted to the city, and extorted
from Mrs. Baynton a full disclosure of late disasters.

He was inured to adversity, and recovered, after
no long time, from the shocks produced by this
disappointment of his darling scheme. Our intercourse
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 mos
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 Germany,
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

wounded and disarmed the calumniator. The offence
was atoned for, and his life secured by suitable
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 marriage.
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 mutual
consent, took place. The lady withdrew to
an estate in a distant county, and Maxwell continued
to consume his time and fortune in the dissipation
of the capital.

Maxwell, though deceitful and sensual, possessed
great force of mind and specious accomplishments.
He contrived to mislead the generous mind of Stuart,
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 lawless
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.

All arts being tried, every temptation being summoned
to his aid, dissimulation being carried to its
utmost bound, Maxwell, at length, nearly accomplished
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 ineffectual.
She permitted herself to love, and to
avow her love; but at this limit the stopped, and
was immoveable.

Hence this revolution in her sentiments was productive
only of despair. Her rectitude of principle
preserved her from actual guilt, but could not restore
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 suspense. This, however, approached to a period,
and she received tidings of his intended return.
Maxwell, being likewise apprized of this event, and
having made a last and unsuccessful effort to conquer
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 received
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 concealed
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 scruples
and the anguish of remorse, induced her to
abscond. This scheme was adopted in haste, but
effected with consummate prudence. She fled, on

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 character
subsisted. This disclosure was accompanied
with solemn injunctions of secrecy, and these injunctions
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 betrayed,
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 undertaken,
in the year after his return from America, to
Wales and the western countries. 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 concealment;
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 Maxwell's

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 favorite
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 intereourse of friendship.
Since a legal marriage was impossible, no doubt,
his views were flagitious. Whether he had relinquished
these views I was unable to judge.

He was one in a large circle at a villa in the environs,
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 confided
to his old friend.

A defiance was given and received, and the banks
of a rivulet, about a league from the city, was selected
as the scene of this contest. My uncle, having
exerted himself in vain to prevent an hostile
meeting, consented to attend them as a surgeon.—
Next morning, at sun-rise, was the time chosen.

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

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 expressed
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 applied
to this end in so different a manner.

I leave you to moralize on this tale. That virtue
should become the victim of treachery is, no
doubt, a mournful consideration; but it will not
escape your notice, that the evils of which Carwin
and Maxwell were the authors, owed their
existence to the errors of the susserers. All efforts
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

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 doubletongued
deceiver would have been baffled and repelled.