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Brown, Charles Brockden, 1771-1810 [1798], Wieland (T. & J. Swords, for H. Caritat, New York) [word count] [eaf027].
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CHAPTER IV.

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Six years of uninterrupted happine&longs;s had rolled
away, &longs;ince my brother's marriage. The &longs;ound
of war had been heard, but it was at &longs;uch a distance
as to enhance our enjoyment by affording
objects of compari&longs;on. The Indians were repulsed
on the one &longs;ide, and Canada was conquered on
the other. Revolutions and battles, however calamitous
to tho&longs;e who occupied the &longs;cene, contributed
in &longs;ome &longs;ort to our happine&longs;s, by agitating
our minds with curio&longs;ity, and furni&longs;hing cau&longs;es of
patriotic exultation. Four children, three of whom
were of an age to compen&longs;ate, by their per&longs;onal
and mental progre&longs;s, the cares of which they had
been, at a more helple&longs;s age, the objects, exerci&longs;ed
my brother's tenderne&longs;s. The fourth was a charming
babe that promi&longs;ed to di&longs;play the image of her
mother, and enjoyed perfect health. To the&longs;e
were added a &longs;weet girl fourteen years old, who
was loved by all of us, with an affection more
than parental.

Her mother's &longs;tory was a mournful one. She
had come hither from England when this child
was an infant, alone, without friends, and without
money. She appeared to have embarked in a ha&longs;ty
and clande&longs;tine manner. She pa&longs;&longs;ed three years of
&longs;olitude and angui&longs;h under my aunt's protection,
and died a martyr to woe; the &longs;ource of which &longs;he
could, by no importunities, be prevailed upon to
unfold. Her education and manners be&longs;poke her
to be of no mean birth. Her la&longs;t moments were
rendered &longs;erene, by the a&longs;&longs;urances &longs;he received from

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my aunt, that her daughter &longs;hould experience the
&longs;ame protection that had been extended to her&longs;elf.

On my brother's marriage, it was agreed that
&longs;he &longs;hould make a part of his family. I cannot
do ju&longs;tice to the attractions of this girl. Perhaps
the tenderne&longs;s &longs;he excited might partly originate
in her per&longs;onal re&longs;emblance to her mother, who&longs;e
character and misfortunes were &longs;till fre&longs;h in our
remembrance. She was habitually pen&longs;ive, and
this circum&longs;tance tended to remind the &longs;pectator of
her friendle&longs;s condition; and yet that epithet was
&longs;urely mi&longs;applied in this ca&longs;e. This being was
cheri&longs;hed by tho&longs;e with whom &longs;he now re&longs;ided, with
un&longs;peakable fondne&longs;s. Every exertion was made
to enlarge and improve her mind. Her &longs;afety was
the object of a &longs;olicitude that almo&longs;t exceeded the
bounds of di&longs;cretion. Our affection indeed could
&longs;carcely tran&longs;cend her merits. She never met my
eye, or occurred to my reflections, without exciting
a kind of enthu&longs;ia&longs;in. Her &longs;oftne&longs;s, her intelligence,
her equanimity, never &longs;hall I &longs;ee surpassed.
I have often &longs;hed tears of plea&longs;ure at her
approach, and pre&longs;&longs;ed her to my bo&longs;om in an agony
of fondne&longs;s.

While every day was adding to the charms of
her per&longs;on, and the &longs;tores of her mind, there occurred
an event which threatened to deprive us of her. An
officer of &longs;ome rank, who had been di&longs;abled by a
wound at Quebec, had employed him&longs;elf, &longs;ince the
ratification of peace, in travelling through the colonies.
He remained a con&longs;iderable period at Philadelphia,
but was at la&longs;t preparing for his departure.
No one had been more frequently honoured with his
vi&longs;its than Mrs. Baynton, a worthy lady with whom
our family were intimate. He went to her house
with a view to perform a farewell vi&longs;it, and was on

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the point of taking his leave, when I and my young
friend entered the apartment. It is impo&longs;&longs;ible to
de&longs;cribe the emotions of the &longs;tranger, when he fixed
his eyes upon my companion. He was motionless
with &longs;urpri&longs;e. He was unable to conceal his
feelings, but &longs;at &longs;ilently gazing at the &longs;pectacle before
him. At length he turned to Mrs. Baynton,
and more by his looks and ge&longs;tures than by words,
be&longs;ought her for an explanation of the &longs;cene. He
&longs;eized the hand of the girl, who, in her turn, was
&longs;urpri&longs;ed by his behaviour, and drawing her forward,
&longs;aid in an eager and faultering tone, Who is
&longs;he? whence does &longs;he come? what is her name?

The an&longs;wers that were given only increa&longs;ed
the confu&longs;ion of his thoughts. He was &longs;ucce&longs;&longs;ively
told, that &longs;he was the daughter of one who&longs;e name
was Loui&longs;a Conway, who arrived among us at
&longs;uch a time, who &longs;eduou&longs;ly concealed her parentage,
and the motives of her flight, who&longs;e incurable griefs
had finally de&longs;troyed her, and who had left this
child under the protection of her friends. Having
heard the tale, he melted into tears, eagerly cla&longs;ped
the young lady in his arms, and called him&longs;elf her
father. When the tumults excited in his brea&longs;t by
this unlooked-for meeting were &longs;omewhat &longs;ub&longs;ided,
he gratified our curio&longs;ity by relating the following
incidents.

“Mi&longs;s Conway was the only daughter of a banker
in London, who di&longs;charged towards her every
duty of an affectionate father. He had chanced to
fall into her company, had been &longs;ubdued by her
attractions, had tendered her his hand, and been
joyfully accepted both by parent and child. His
wife had given him every proof of the fonde&longs;t attachment.
Her father, who po&longs;&longs;e&longs;&longs;ed immen&longs;e
wealth, treated him with di&longs;tingui&longs;hed re&longs;pect,

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liberally &longs;upplied his wants, and had made one condition
of his con&longs;ent to their union, a re&longs;olution to
take up their abode with him.

“They had pa&longs;&longs;ed three years of conjugal felicity,
which had been augmented by the birth of this
child; when his profe&longs;&longs;ional duty called him into
Germany. It was not without an arduous &longs;truggle,
that &longs;he was per&longs;uaded to relinqui&longs;h the de&longs;ign of
accompanying him through all the toils and perils
of war. No parting was ever more di&longs;tre&longs;sful.
They &longs;trove to alleviate, by frequent letters, the evils
of their lot. Tho&longs;e of his wife, breathed nothing
but anxiety for his &longs;afety, and impatience of his absence.
At length, a new arrangement was made,
and he was obliged to repair from We&longs;tphalia to
Canada. One advantage attended this change. It
afforded him an opportunity of meeting his family.
His wife anticipated this interview, with no le&longs;s
rapture than him&longs;elf. He hurried to London, and
the moment he alighted from the &longs;tage-coach, ran
with all &longs;peed to Mr. Conway's hou&longs;e.

“It was an hou&longs;e of mourning. His father was
overwhelmed with grief, and incapable of answering
his inquiries. The &longs;ervants, &longs;orrowful and
mute, were equally refractory. He explored the
hou&longs;e, and called on the names of his wife and
daughter, but his &longs;ummons was fruitle&longs;s. At length,
this new di&longs;a&longs;ter was explained. Two days before
his arrival, his wife's chamber was found empty.
No &longs;earch, however diligent and anxious, could
trace her &longs;teps. No cau&longs;e could be a&longs;&longs;igned for
her di&longs;appearance. The mother and child had fled
away together.

“New exertions were made, her chamber and
cabinets were ran&longs;acked, but no ve&longs;tige was found
&longs;erving to inform them as to the motives of her

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flight whether it had been voluntary or otherwi&longs;e,
and in what corner of the kingdom or of the world
&longs;he was concealed. Who &longs;hall de&longs;cribe the &longs;orrow
and amazement of the hu&longs;band? His re&longs;tle&longs;&longs;ne&longs;s, his
vici&longs;&longs;itudes of hope and fear, and his ultimate de&longs;pair?
His duty called him to America. He had been in
this city, and had frequently pa&longs;&longs;ed the door of the
hou&longs;e in which his wife, at that moment, re&longs;ided.
Her father had not remitted his exertions to elucidate
this painful my&longs;tery, but they had failed.
This di&longs;appointment ha&longs;tened his death; in consequence
of which, Loui&longs;a's father became po&longs;&longs;e&longs;&longs;or
of his immen&longs;e property.”

This tale was a copious theme of &longs;peculation.
A thou&longs;and que&longs;tions were &longs;tarted and di&longs;cu&longs;&longs;ed in
our dome&longs;tic circle, re&longs;pecting the motives that
influenced Mrs. Stuart to abandon her country.
It did not appear that her proceeding was involuntary.
We recalled and reviewed every particular
that had fallen under our own ob&longs;ervation. By
none of the&longs;e were we furni&longs;hed with a clue. Her
conduct, after the mo&longs;t rigorous &longs;crutiny, &longs;till remained
an impenetrable &longs;ecret. On a nearer view,
Major Stuart proved him&longs;elf a man of mo&longs;t
amiable character. His attachment to Loui&longs;a appeared
hourly to increa&longs;e. She was no &longs;tranger to
the &longs;entiments &longs;uitable to her new character. She
could not but readily embrace the &longs;cheme which
was propo&longs;ed to her, to return with her father to
England. This &longs;cheme his regard for her induced
him, however, to po&longs;tpone. Sometime was
nece&longs;&longs;ary to prepare her for &longs;o great a change and
enable her to think without agony of her separation
from us.

I was not without hopes of prevailing on her
father entirely to relinqui&longs;h this unwelcome de&longs;ign.

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Meanwhile, he pur&longs;ued his travels through the
&longs;outhern colonies, and his daughter continued with
us. Loui&longs;a and my brother frequently received
letters from him, which indicated a mind of no
common order. They were filled with amu&longs;ing
details, and profound reflections. While here, he
often partook of our evening conver&longs;ations at the
temple; and &longs;ince his departure, his correspondence
had frequently &longs;upplied us with topics of discourse.

One afternoon in May, the blandne&longs;s of the air,
and brightne&longs;s of the verdure, induced us to assemble,
earlier than u&longs;ual, in the temple. We females
were bu&longs;y at the needle, while my brother and
Pleyel were bandying quotations and &longs;yllogi&longs;ms.
The point di&longs;cu&longs;&longs;ed was the merit of the oration
for Cluentius, as de&longs;criptive, fir&longs;t, of the genius of
the &longs;peaker; and, &longs;econdly, of the manners of the
times. Pleyel laboured to extenuate both the&longs;e
&longs;pecies of merit, and ta&longs;ked his ingenuity, to &longs;hew
that the orator had embraced a bad cau&longs;e; or, at
lea&longs;t, a doubtful one. He urged, that to rely on
the exaggerations of an advocate, or to make the
picture of a &longs;ingle family a model from which to
&longs;ketch the condition of a nation, was ab&longs;urd. The
controver&longs;y was &longs;uddenly diverted into a new channel,
by a mi&longs;quotation. Pleyel accu&longs;ed his companion
of &longs;aying “polliciatur” when he &longs;hould
have &longs;aid “polliccretur.” Nothing would decide
the conte&longs;t, but an appeal to the volume. My
brother was returning to the hou&longs;e for this purpo&longs;e,
when a &longs;ervant met him with a letter from Major
Stuart. He immediately returned to read it in our
company.

Be&longs;ides affectionate compliments to us, and paternal
benedictions on Louifa, his letter contained

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a de&longs;cription of a waterfall on the Monongahela.
A &longs;udden gu&longs;t of rain falling, we were compelled
to remove to the hou&longs;e. The &longs;torm pa&longs;&longs;ed away,
and a radiant moon-light &longs;ucceeded. There was
no motion to re&longs;ume our &longs;eats in the temple. We
therefore remained where we were, and engaged in
&longs;prightly conver&longs;ation. The letter lately received
naturally &longs;ugge&longs;ted the topic. A parallel was
drawn between the cataract there de&longs;cribed, and
one which Pleyel had di&longs;covered among the Alps
of Glarus. In the &longs;tate of the former, &longs;ome particular
was mentioned, the truth of which was
que&longs;tionable. To &longs;ettle the di&longs;pute which thence
aro&longs;e, it was propo&longs;ed to have recour&longs;e to
the letter. My brother &longs;earched for it in his
pocket. It was no where to be found. At length,
he remembered to have left it in the temple, and he
determined to go in &longs;earch of it. His wife, Pleyel,
Loui&longs;a, and my&longs;elf, remained where we were.

In a few minutes he returned. I was &longs;omewhat
intere&longs;ted in the di&longs;pute, and was therefore impatient
for his return; yet, as I heard him a&longs;cending
the &longs;tairs, I could not but remark, that he had cxecuted
his intention with remarkable di&longs;patch. My
cyes were fixed upon him on his entrance. Methought
he brought with him looks con&longs;iderably
different from tho&longs;e with which he departed. Wonder,
and a &longs;light portion of anxiety were mingled
in them. His eyes &longs;eemed to be in &longs;earch of &longs;ome
object. They pa&longs;&longs;ed quickly from one per&longs;on to
another, till they re&longs;ted on his wife. She was
&longs;eated in a carele&longs;s attitude on the &longs;ofa, in the &longs;ame
&longs;pot as before. She had the &longs;ame mu&longs;lin in her
hand, by which her attention was chiefly engrossed.

The moment he &longs;aw her, his perplexity vi&longs;ibly

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increa&longs;ed. He quietly &longs;eated him&longs;elf, and fixing
his eyes on the floor, appeared to be ab&longs;orbed in
meditation. The&longs;e &longs;ingularities &longs;u&longs;pended the inquiry
which I was preparing to make re&longs;pecting
the letter. In a &longs;hort time, the company relinquished
the &longs;ubject which engaged them, and directed
their attention to Wieland. They thought
that he only waited for a pau&longs;e in the di&longs;cour&longs;e, to
produce the letter. The pau&longs;e was uninterrupted
by him. At length Pleyel &longs;aid, “Well, I &longs;uppo&longs;e
you have found the letter.”

“No,” &longs;aid he, without any abatement of his
gravity, and looking &longs;tedfa&longs;tly at his wife, “I did
not mount the hill.”—“Why not?”—“Catharine,
have you not moved from that &longs;pot &longs;ince I
left the room?”—She was affected with the solemnity
of his manner, and laying down her work, answered
in a tone of &longs;urpri&longs;e, “No; Why do you a&longs;k
that que&longs;tion?”—His eyes were again fixed upon
the floor, and he did not immediately an&longs;wer. At
length, he &longs;aid, looking round upon us, “Is it true
that Catharine did not follow me to the hill? That
&longs;he did not ju&longs;t now enter the room?”—We assured
him, with one voice, that &longs;he had not been ab&longs;ent
for a moment, and inquired into the motive of his
que&longs;tions.

“Your a&longs;&longs;urances,” &longs;aid he, “are &longs;olemn and
unanimous; and yet I mu&longs;t deny credit to your
a&longs;&longs;ertions, or di&longs;believe the te&longs;timony of my &longs;en&longs;es,
which informed me, when I was half way up the
hill, that Catharine was at the bottom.”

We were confounded at this declaration, Pleyel
rallied him with great levity on his behaviour. He
li&longs;tened to his friend with calmne&longs;s, but without
any relaxation of features.

“One thing,” &longs;aid he with empha&longs;is, “is true,

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either I heard my wife's voice at the bottom of the
hill, or I do not hear your voice at pre&longs;ent.”

“Truly,” returned Pleyel, “it is a &longs;ad dilemma
to which you have reduced your&longs;elf. Certain it is,
if our eyes can give us certainty, that your wife
has been &longs;itting in that &longs;pot during every moment of
your ab&longs;ence. You have heard her voice, you &longs;ay,
upon the hill. In general, her voice, like her temper,
is all &longs;oftne&longs;s. To be heard acro&longs;s the room,
the is obliged to exert her&longs;elf. While you were
gone, if I mi&longs;take not, &longs;he did not utter a word.
Clara and I had all the talk to our&longs;elves. Still
it may be that &longs;he held a whi&longs;pering conference
with you on the hill; but tell us the particulars.”

“The conference,” &longs;aid he, “was &longs;hort; and far
from being carried on in a whi&longs;per. You know with
what intention I left the hou&longs;e. Half way to the
rock, the moon was for a moment hidden from
us by a cloud. I never knew the air to be more
bland and more calm. In this interval I glanced
at the temple, and thought I &longs;aw a glimmering between
the columns. It was &longs;o faint, that it would
not perhaps have been vi&longs;ible, if the moon had not
been &longs;hrowded. I looked again, but &longs;aw nothing.
I never vi&longs;it this building alone, or at night, without
being reminded of the fate of my father. There
was nothing wonderful in this appearance; yet it
&longs;uggefted &longs;omething more than mere &longs;olitude and
darkne&longs;s in the &longs;ame place would have done.

“I kept on my way. The images that haunted
me were &longs;olemn; and I entertained an imperfect
curio&longs;ity, but no fear, as to the nature of this object.
I had a&longs;cended the hill little more than half
way, when a voice called me from behind. The
accents were clear, di&longs;tinct, powerful, and were
uttered, as I fully believed, by my wife, Her voice

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is not commonly &longs;o loud. She has &longs;eldom occa&longs;ion
to exert it, but, neverthele&longs;s, I have &longs;ometimes heard
her call with force and eagerne&longs;s. If my ear was
not deceived, it was her voice which I heard.

“Stop, go no further. There is danger in your
path.” The &longs;uddenne&longs;s and unexpectedne&longs;s of this
warning, the tone of alarm with which it was
given, and, above all, the per&longs;ua&longs;ion that it was my
wife who &longs;poke, were enough to di&longs;concert and
make me pau&longs;e. I turned and li&longs;tened to a&longs;&longs;ure
my&longs;elf that I was not mi&longs;taken. The deepe&longs;t
&longs;ilence &longs;ucceeded. At length, I &longs;poke in my turn.
Who calls? is it you, Catharine? I &longs;topped and
pre&longs;ently received an anfwen “Yes, it is I; go
not up; return in&longs;tantly; you are wanted at the
hou&longs;e.” Still the voice was Catharine's, and &longs;till
it proceeded from the foot of the &longs;tairs.

“What could I do? The warning was mysterious.
To be uttered by Catharine at a place, and
on an occa&longs;ion like the&longs;e, enhanced the my&longs;tery.
I could do nothing but obey. Accordingly, I trod
back my &longs;teps, expecting that &longs;he waited for me at
the bottom of the hill, When I reached the bottom,
no one was vi&longs;rble. The moon-light was once
more univer&longs;al and brilliant, and yet, as far as I
could &longs;ee no human or moving figure was discernable.
If &longs;he had returned to the hou&longs;e, &longs;he mu&longs;t
have u&longs;ed wonderous expedition to have pa&longs;&longs;ed
already beyond the reach of my eye. I exerted my
voice, but in vain. To my repeated exclamations,
no an&longs;wer was returned.

“Ruminating on the&longs;e incidents, I returned hither.
There was no room to doubt that I had heard my
wife's voice; attending incidents were not ea&longs;ily explained;
but you now a&longs;&longs;ure me that nothing

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extraordinary has happened to urge my return, and
that my wife has not moved from her &longs;eat.”

Such was my brother's narrative. It was heard
by us with different emotions. Pleyel did not scruple
to regard the whole as a deception of the &longs;en&longs;es.
Perhaps a voice had been heard; but Wieland's imagination
had mi&longs;led him in &longs;uppo&longs;ing a re&longs;emblance
to that of his wife, and giving &longs;uch a &longs;ignificantion
to the &longs;ounds. According to his cu&longs;tom he &longs;poke
what he thought. Sometimes, he made it the theme
of grave di&longs;cu&longs;&longs;ion, but more frequently treated it
with ridicule. He did not believe that &longs;ober reasoning
would convince his friend, and gaiety, he
thought, was u&longs;eful to take away the &longs;olemnities
which, in a mind like Wieland's, an accident of this
kind was calculated to produce.

Pleyel propo&longs;ed to go in &longs;earch of the letter. He
went and &longs;peedily returned, bearing it in his hand.
He had found it open on the pede&longs;tal; and neither
voice nor vi&longs;age had ri&longs;en to impede his de&longs;ign.

Catharine was endowed with an uncommon
portion of good &longs;en&longs;e; but her mind was acce&longs;&longs;ible,
on this quarter, to wonder and panic. That
her voice &longs;hould be thus inexplicably and unwarrantably
a&longs;&longs;umed, was a &longs;ource of no &longs;mall disquietude.
She admitted the plau&longs;ibility of the arguments
by which Pleyel endeavoured to prove, that
this was no more than an auricular deception; but
this conviction was &longs;ure to be &longs;haken, when &longs;he
turned her eyes upon her hu&longs;band, and perceived
that Pleyel's logic was far from having produced the
&longs;ame effect upon him.

As to my&longs;elf, my attention was engaged by
this occurrence. I could not fail to perceive a
&longs;hadowy re&longs;emblance between it and my father's

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death. On the latter event, I had frequently reflected;
my reflections never conducted me to
certainty, but the doubts that exi&longs;ted were not
of a tormenting kind. I could not deny that
the event was miraculous, and yet I was invincibly
aver&longs;e to that method of &longs;olution. My wonder
was excited by the in&longs;crutablene&longs;s of the cau&longs;e, but
my wonder was unmixed with &longs;orrow or fear. It
begat in me a thrilling, and not unplea&longs;ing solemnity.
Similar to the&longs;e were the &longs;en&longs;ations produced
by the recent adventure.

But its effect upon my brother's imagination was
of chief moment. All that was de&longs;nable was, that
it &longs;hould be regarded by him with indifferenced.
The wor&longs;t effect that could flow, was nor indeed
very formidable. Yet I could not bent to think
that his &longs;en&longs;es &longs;hould be the victims of &longs;uch delusion.
It argued a di&longs;ea&longs;ed condition of his frame,
which might &longs;how it&longs;elf herea&longs;ter in more dangerous
&longs;ymptoms. The will is the tool of the understanding,
which mu&longs;t fa&longs;hion its conclu&longs;ions on
the notices of &longs;en&longs;e. If the &longs;en&longs;es be depraved, it is
impo&longs;&longs;ible to calculate the evils that may flow from
the con&longs;equent deductions of the under&longs;tanding.

I &longs;aid, this man is of an ardent and melancholy
character. Tho&longs;e ideas which, in others, are ca&longs;ual
or ob&longs;cture, which are entertained in moments of
ab&longs;traction and &longs;olitude, and ea&longs;ily e&longs;cape when
the &longs;cene is changed, have obtained an immoveable
hold upon his mind. The conclu&longs;ions which long
habit has rendered familiar, and, in &longs;ome &longs;ort, palpable
to his intellect, are drawn from the deepestsources.
All his actions and practical &longs;entiments
are linked with long and ab&longs;tru&longs;e deductions from
the &longs;y&longs;tem of divine government and the laws of

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our intellectual con&longs;titution. He is, in &longs;ome respects,
an enthu&longs;ia&longs;t, but is fortified in his belief
by innumerable arguments and &longs;ubtilties.

His father's death was always regarded by him
as flowing from a direct and &longs;upernatural decree.
It vi&longs;ited his meditations oftener than it did mine.
The traces which it left were more gloomy and
permanent. This new incident had a vi&longs;ible effect
in augmenting his gravity. He was le&longs;s di&longs;po&longs;ed
than formerly to conver&longs;e and reading. When we
&longs;i&longs;ted his thoughts, they were generally found to
have a relation, more or le&longs;s direct, with this incident.
It was difficult to a&longs;certain the exact &longs;pecies of impression
which it made upon him. He never introduced
the &longs;ubject into conver&longs;ation, and li&longs;tened
with a &longs;ilent and half-&longs;erious &longs;mile to the &longs;atirical
effu&longs;ions of Pleyel.

One evening we chanced to be alone together
in the temple. I &longs;eized that opportunity of investigating
the &longs;tate of his thoughts. After a pau&longs;e,
which he &longs;eemed in no wife inclined to interrupt,
I &longs;poke to him—“How almo&longs;t palpable is this dark;
yet a ray from above would di&longs;pel it.” “Ay,”
&longs;aid Wieland, with &longs;ervor, “not only the phy&longs;ical,
but moral night would be di&longs;pelled.” “But why,”
&longs;aid I, “mu&longs;t the Divine Will addre&longs;s its precepts
to the eye!” He &longs;miled &longs;ignificantly. “True,”
&longs;aid he, “the under&longs;tanding has other avenues.”
“You have never,” &longs;aid I, approaching nearer to
the point—“you have never told me in what way
you con&longs;idered the late extraordinary incident.”
“There is no determinate way in which the subject
can be viewed. Here is an effect, but the
cau&longs;e is utterly in&longs;crutable. To &longs;uppo&longs;e a deception
will not do. Such is po&longs;&longs;ible, but there are

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twenty other &longs;uppo&longs;itions more probable. They
mu&longs;t all he &longs;et a&longs;ide before We reach that
point.” “What, are the&longs;e twenty suppositions?”
“It is needle&longs;s to mention them. They
are only le&longs;s improtiable than Pleyel's. Time may
convert one of them into certaitily. Till then it is
u&longs;ele&longs;s to expatiate on them.”

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Brown, Charles Brockden, 1771-1810 [1798], Wieland (T. & J. Swords, for H. Caritat, New York) [word count] [eaf027].
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