University of Virginia Library

1. WIELAND;
OR THE
TRANSFORMATION.
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 dildain 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 sounder 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 fect 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
agirated 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.

Hís 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 resect.

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
missonary 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
Sehuylkill, 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 a constitution somewhat decayed, he at length
returned to his family. An interval of tranquillity
succeeded. He was srugal, 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 tiver
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 abstruct 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 expreslly
prescribed to him. Other modes, if practifed
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 explation. 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 a waited 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.