The shock which this disastrous occurrence occasioned
to my mother, was the foundation of a disease which carried
her, in a few months, to the grave. My brother and myself
were children at this time, and were now reduced to the
condition of orphans. The property which our parents left
was by no means inconsiderable. It was entrusted to faithful
hands, till we should arrive at a suitable age. Meanwhile
our education was assigned to a maiden aunt who resided
in the city, and whose tenderness made us in a short
time cease to regret that we had lost a mother.

The years that succeeded were tranquil and happy. Our
lives were molested by few of those cares that are incident
to childhood. By accident more than design, the indulgence
and yielding temper of our aunt was mingled with
resolution and steadfastness. She seldom deviated into either
extreme of rigor or lenity. Our social pleasures were subject
to no unreasonable restraints. We were instructed
in most branches of useful knowledge, and were saved
from the corruption and tyranny of colleges and boarding
schools.

Our companions were chiefly selected from the children
of our neighbors. Between one of these and my brother,
there quickly grew the most affectionate intimacy. Her
name was Catharine Pleyel. She was rich, beautiful, and
contrived to blend the most bewitching softness with the
most exuberant vivacity. The tie by which my brother
and she were united, seemed to add force to the love which

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I bore her, and which was amply returned. Between her
and myself there was every circumstance tending to produce
and foster friendship. Our sex and age were the same.
We lived within sight of each other's abode. Our tempers
were remarkably congenial, and the superintendents of our
education not only prescribed to us the same pursuits, but
allowed us to cultivate them together.

Every day added strength to the triple bonds that united
us. We gradually withdrew ourselves from the society of
others, and found every moment irksome that was not devoted
to each other. My brother's advance in age made
no change in our situation. It was determined that his profession
should be agriculture. His fortune exempted him
from the necessity of personal labor. The task to be performed
by him was nothing more than superintendence.
The skill that was demanded by this was merely theoretical,
and was furnished by casual inspection, or by closet study.
The attention that was paid to this subject did not seclude
him for any long time from us, on whom time had no other
effect than to augment our impatience in the absence of
each other and of him. Our tasks, our walks, our music,
were seldom performed but in each other's company.

It was easy to see that Catherine and my brother were
born for each other. The passion which they mutually entertained
quickly broke those bounds which extreme youth
had set to it; confessions were made or extorted, and their
union was postponed only till my brother had passed his
minority. The previous lapse of two years was constantly
and usefully employed.

O my brother! But the task I have set myself let me
perform with steadiness. The felicity of that period was
marred by no gloomy anticipations. The future, like the
present, was serene. Time was supposed to have only
new delights in store. I mean not to dwell on previous incidents
longer than is necessary to illustrate or explain the
great events that have since happened. The nuptial day
at length arrived. My brother took possession of the house
in which he was born, and here the long protracted marriage
was solemnized.

My father's property was equally divided between us. A

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neat dwelling, situated on the bank of the river, three quarters
of a mile from my brother's, was now occupied by me.
These domains were called, from the name of the first possessor,
Mettingen. I can scarcely account for my refusing
to take up my abode with him, unless it were from a disposition
to be an economist of pleasure. Self-denial, seasonably
exercised, is one means of enhancing our gratifications.
I was, besides, desirous of administering a fund, and
regulating a household, of my own. The short distance
allowed us to exchange visits as often as we pleased. The
walk from one mansion to the other was no undelightful
prelude to our interviews. I was sometimes their visitant,
and they, as frequently, were my guests.

Our education had been modelled by no religious standard.
We were left to the guidance of our own understanding,
and the casual impressions which society might make
upon us. My friends' temper, as well as my own, exempted
us from much anxiety on this account. It must not be
supposed that we were without religion, but with us it was
the product of lively feelings, excited by reflection on our
own happiness, and by the grandeur of external nature.
We sought not a basis for our faith, in the weighing of
proofs, and the dissection of creeds. Our devotion was a
mixed and casual sentiment, seldom verbally expressed,
or solicitously sought, or carefully retained. In the midst of
present enjoyment, no thought was bestowed on the future.
As a consolation in calamity religion is dear. But calamity
was yet at a distance, and its only tendency was to heighten
enjoyments which needed not this addition to satisfy every
craving.

My brother's situation was somewhat different. His deportment
was grave, considerate, and thoughtful. I will not
say whether he was indebted to sublimer views for this disposition.
Human life, in his opinion, was made up of
changeable elements, and the principles of duty were not
easily unfolded. The future, either as anterior, or subsequent
to death, was a scene that required some preparation
and provision to be made for it. These positions we could
not deny, but what distinguished him was a propensity to
ruminate on these truths. The images that visited us were

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blithsome and gay, but those with which he was most familiar
were of an opposite hue. They did not generate affliction
and fear, but they diffused over his behavior a certain air of
forethought and sobriety. The principal effect of this temper
was visible in his features and tones. These, in general,
bespoke a sort of thrilling melancholy. I scarcely ever
knew him to laugh. He never accompanied the lawless
mirth of his companions with more than a smile, but his
conduct was the same as ours.

He partook of our occupations and amusements with a
zeal not less than ours, but of a different kind. The diversity
in our temper was never the parent of discord, and was
scarcely a topic of regret. The scene was variegated, but
not tarnished or disordered by it. It hindered the element
in which we moved from stagnating. Some agitation and
concussion is requisite to the due exercise of human understanding.
In his studies, he pursued an austerer and more
arduous path. He was much conversant with the history
of religious opinions, and took pains to ascertain their validity.
He deemed it indispensable to examine the ground
of his belief, to settle the relation between motives and actions,
the criterion of merit, and the kinds and properties of evidence.

There was an obvious resemblance between him and my
father, in their conceptions of the importance of certain
topics, and in the light in which the vicissitudes of human
life were accustomed to be viewed. Their characters were
similar, but the mind of the son was enriched by science,
and embellished with literature.

The temple was no longer assigned to its ancient use.
From an Italian adventurer, who erroneously imagined that
he could find employment for his skill, and sale for his sculptures
in America, my brother had purchased a bust of Cicero.
He professed to have copied this piece from an antique dug
up with his own hands in the environs of Modena. Of the
truth of his assertions we were not qualified to judge; but
the marble was pure and polished, and we were contented
to admire the performance, without waiting for the sanction
of connoisseurs. We hired the same artist to hew a suitable
pedestal from a neighboring quarry. This was placed in

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the temple, and the bust rested upon it. Opposite to this
was a harpsichord, sheltered by a temporary roof from the
weather. This was the place of resort in the evenings of
summer. Here we sung, and talked, and read, and occasionally
banqueted. Every joyous and tender scene most
dear to my memory, is connected with this edifice. Here
the performances of our musical and poetical ancestors were
rehearsed. Here my brother's children received the rudiments
of their education; here a thousand conversations,
pregnant with delight and improvement, took place; and here
the social affections were accustomed to expand, and the
tear of delicious sympathy to be shed.

My brother was an indefatigable student. The authors
whom he read were numerous, but the chief object of his
veneration was Cicero. He was never tired of conning and
rehearsing his productions. To understand them was not
sufficient. He was anxious to discover the gestures and
cadences with which they ought to be delivered. He was
very scrupulous in selecting a true scheme of pronunciation
for the Latin tongue, and in adapting it to the words of his
darling writer. His favorite occupation consisted in embellishing
his rhetoric with all the proprieties of gesticulation
and utterance.

Not contented with this, he was diligent in settling and
restoring the purity of the text. For this end, he collected
all the editions and commentaries that could be procured,
and employed months of severe study in exploring and
comparing them. He never betrayed more satisfaction than
when he made a discovery of this kind.

It was not till the addition of Henry Pleyel, my friend's
only brother, to our society, that his passion for Roman
eloquence was countenanced and fostered by a sympathy of
tastes. This young man had been some years in Europe.
We had separated at a very early age, and he was now returned
to spend the remainder of his days among us.

Our circle was greatly enlivened by the accession of a
new member. His conversation abounded with novelty.
His gaiety was almost boisterous, but was capable of yielding
to a grave deportment, when the occasion required it.
His discernment was acute, but he was prone to view every

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object merely as supplying materials for mirth. His conceptions
were ardent but ludicrous, and his memory, aided,
as he honestly acknowledged, by his invention, was an inexhaustible
fund of entertainment.

His residence was at the same distance below the city
as ours was above, but there seldom passed a day without
our being favored with a visit. My brother and he were
endowed with the same attachment to the Latin writers;
and Pleyel was not behind his friend in his knowledge of
the history and metaphysics of religion. Their creeds,
however, were in many respects opposite. Where one discovered
only confirmations of his faith, the other could find
nothing but reasons for doubt. Moral necessity, and calvinistic
inspiration, were the props on which my brother
thought proper to repose. Pleyel was the champion of intellectual
liberty, and rejected all guidance but that of his
reason. Their discussions were frequent, but, being managed
with candor as well as with skill, they were always
listened to by us with avidity and benefit.

Pleyel, like his new friends, was fond of music and poetry.
Henceforth our concerts consisted of two violins, a
harpsichord, and three voices. We were frequently reminded
how much happiness depends upon society. This
new friend, though, before his arrival, we were sensible of
no vacuity, could not now be spared. His departure would
occasion a void which nothing could fill, and which would
produce insupportable regret. Even my brother, though
his opinions were hourly assailed, and even the divinity of
Cicero contested, was captivated with his friend, and laid
aside some part of his ancient gravity at Pleyel's approach.