Wieland

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.

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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_.

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

Early in the morning of a sultry day in August, 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 engagements at this time existed,

which would not admit of further delay. He returned in the evening, but

appeared to be greatly oppressed with fatigue. 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. Occasionally his countenance

exhibited tokens of alarm; he gazed stedfastly and wildly at the

ceiling; and the exertions of his companions were scarcely sufficient

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 anxiety.

My uncle perceived, by his pulse, that he was indisposed, but in no

alarming degree, and ascribed appearances chiefly to the workings of his

mind. He exhorted him to recollection and composure, but 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 expostulations 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 nothing. Look to your own

condition, and pray to God to strengthen you under the calamities that

await you." "What am I to fear?" she answered. "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 inquiries 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 contrived 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 occasioned 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. 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 tolled. The sound appeared

to communicate a shock to every part of my father's frame. He rose

immediately, and threw over himself a loose gown. Even this office

was performed with difficulty, for his joints trembled, and his teeth

chattered with dismay. At this hour his duty called him to the rock, and

my mother naturally concluded that it was thither he intended to repair.

Yet these incidents were so uncommon, as to fill her with astonishment