No More Learning

O holy Child of Bethlehem,
Descend to us, we pray!
Cast out our sin and enter in;
Be born in us to-day.
We hear the Christmas angels
The great glad tidings tell;
O come to us, abide with us,
Our Lord Emmanuel!
Copyrighted by E. P. Dutton and Company, New York.
PERSONAL CHARACTER
From Essays and Addresses >
Α
S ONE looks around the world, and as one looks around our
own land to-day, he sees that the one thing we need in
high places the thing whose absence, among those who
hold the reins of highest power, is making us all anxious with
regard to the progress of the country-is personal character.
The trouble is not what we hold to be mistaken ideas with re-
gard to policies of government, but it is the absence of lofty and
unselfish character. It is the absence of the complete consecra-
tion of a man's self to the public good; it is the willingness of
men to bring their personal and private spites into spheres whose
elevation ought to shame such things into absolute death; the
tendencies of men, even of men whom the nation has put in
very high places indeed, to count those high places their privi-
leges, and to try to draw from them, not help for humanity
and the community over which they rule, but their own mean
personal private advantage.
If there is any power that can elevate human character: if
there is any power which, without inspiring men with a super-
natural knowledge with regard to policies of government; with-
out making men solve all at once, intuitively, the intricacies of


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PHILLIPS BROOKS
problems of legislation with which they are called upon to deal;
without making men see instantly to the very heart of every
matter; if there is any power which could permeate to the very
bottom of our community, which would make men unselfish and
true- why, the errors of men, the mistakes men might make in
their judgment, would not be an obstacle in the way of the
progress of this great nation in the work which God has given
her to do. They would make jolts, but nothing more. Or in
the course which God has appointed her to run she would go to
her true results. There is no power that man has ever seen that
can abide; there is no power of which man has ever dreamed
that can regenerate human character except religion; and till the
Christian religion, which is the religion of this land — till the
Christian religion shall have so far regenerated human character
in this land that multitudes of men shall act under its high
impulses and principles, so that the men who are not inspired
with them shall be shamed at least into an outward conformity
with them, there is no security for the great final continuance
of the nation.
-
Copyrighted by E. P. Dutton and Company, New York.
THE COURAGE OF OPINIONS
From Essays and Addresses >
W*
E HAVE spoken of physical courage, or the courage of
nerves; of moral courage, or the courage of principles.
Besides these there is intellectual courage, or the courage
of opinions. Let me say a few words upon that, for surely there
is nothing which we more need to understand.
The ways in which people form their opinions are most re-
markable. Every man, when he begins his reasonable life, finds
certain general opinions current in the world. He is shaped
by these opinions in one way or another, either directly or by
reaction. If he is soft and plastic, like the majority of people,
he takes the opinions that are about him for his own. If he is
self-asserting and defiant, he takes the opposite of these opinions
and gives to them his vehement adherence. We know the two
kinds well, and as we ordinarily see them, the fault which is
at the root of both is intellectual cowardice. One man clings
servilely to the old ready-made opinions which he finds, because


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PHILLIPS BROOKS
2423
he is afraid of being called rash and radical; another rejects the
traditions of his people from fear of being thought fearful, and
timid, and a slave. The results are very different: one is the
tame conservative and the other is the fiery iconoclast; but I
beg you to see that the cause in both cases is the same. Both
are cowards. Both are equally removed from that brave seeking
of the truth which is not set upon either winning or avoiding
any name, which will take no opinion for the sake of con-
formity and reject no opinion for the sake of originality; which
is free, therefore-free to gather its own convictions, a slave
neither to any compulsion nor to any antagonism.
Tell me,
have you never seen two teachers, one of them slavishly adopt-
ing old methods because he feared to be called "imitator," the
other crudely devising new plans because he was afraid of seem-
ing conservative, both of them really cowards, neither of them
really thinking out his work?
The great vice of our people in their relation to the politics
of the land is cowardice. It is not lack of intelligence: our
people know the meaning of political conditions with wonderful
sagacity. It is not low morality: the great mass of our people
apply high standards to the acts of public men. But it is
cowardice. It is the disposition of one part of our people to
fall in with current ways of working, to run with the mass; and
of another part to rush headlong into this or that new scheme
or policy of opposition, merely to escape the stigma of conserv-
atism.
Copyrighted by E. P. Dutton and Company, New York.
·
LITERATURE AND LIFE
From Essays and Addresses ›
L'
IFE comes before literature, as the material always comes be-
fore the work. The hills are full of marble before the
world blooms with statues. The forests are full of trees
before the sea is thick with ships. So the world abounds in life
before men begin to reason and describe and analyze and sing,
and literature is born. The fact and the action must come first. .
This is true in every kind of literature. The mind and its work-
ings are before the metaphysician. Beauty and romance antedate
the poet.
The nations rise and fall before the historian tells
their story. Nature's profusion exists before the first scientific


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PHILLIPS BROOKS
2424
book is written. Even the facts of mathematics must be true
before the first diagram is drawn for their demonstration.
To own and recognize this priority of life is the first need of
literature. Literature which does not utter a life already ex-
istent, more fundamental than itself, is shallow and unreal.
a schoolmate who at the age of twenty published a volume of
poems called 'Life-Memories. ' The book died before it was
born. There were no real memories, because there had been no
life. So every science which does not utter investigated fact,
every history which does not tell of experience, every poetry
which is not based upon the truth of things, has no real life. It
does not perish; it is never born. Therefore men and nations
must live before they can make literature. Boys and girls do not
write books. Oregon and Van Diemen's Land produce no litera-
ture: they are too busy living. The first attempts at literature of
any country, as of our own, are apt to be unreal and imitative
and transitory, because life has not yet accumulated and presented
itself in forms which recommend themselves to literature. The
wars must come, the clamorous problems must arise, the new
types of character must be evolved, the picturesque social compli-
cation must develop, a life must come, and then will be the
true time for a literature.
Literature grows feeble and con-
ceited unless it ever recognizes the priority and superiority of life,
and stands in genuine awe before the greatness of the men and
of the ages which have simply lived.
Copyrighted by E. P. Dutton and Company, New York.


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CHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN
(1771-1810)
OT only was Brockden Brown the first American man-of-letters
proper, one writing for a living before we had any real
literature of our own,- but his work possessed a genuine
power and originality which gives it some claim to remembrance
for its own sake. And it is fair always to remember that a given
product from a pioneer indicates a far greater endowment than the
same from one of a group in a more developed age. The forerunner
lacks not one thing only, but many things, which help his successors.
He lacks the mental friction from, the emu-
lation of, the competition with, other writ-
ers; he lacks the stimulus and comfort of
sympathetic companionship; he lacks an
audience to spur him on, and a market to
work for; lacks labor-saving conventions,
training, and an environment that heartens
him instead of merely tolerating him. Like
Robinson Crusoe, he must make his tools
before he can use them. A meagre result
may therefore be a proof of great abilities.
CHARLES B. BROWN
The United States in 1800 was mentally
and morally a colony of Great Britain still.
A few hundred thousand white families
scattered over about as many square miles of territory, much of it
refractory wilderness with more refractory inhabitants; with no cities
of any size, and no communication save by wretched roads or by sail-
ing vessels; no rich old universities for centres of culture, and no
rich leisured society to enjoy it; the energies of the people perforce
absorbed in subduing material obstacles, or solidifying a political
experiment disbelieved in by the very men who organized it;-
neither time nor materials existed then for an independent literary
life, which is the growth of security and comfort and leisure if it
embraces a whole society, or of endowed college foundations and an
aristocracy if it is only of the few. Hence American society took
its literary meals at the common table of the English-speaking race,
with little or no effort at a separate establishment. There was
much writing, but mostly polemic or journalistic. When real litera-
ture was attempted, it consisted in general of imitations of British

—


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CHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN
essays, or fiction, or poetry; and in the last two cases not even imi-
tations of the best models in either. The essays were modeled on
Addison; the poetry on the heavy imitators of Pope's heroics; the
fiction either on the effusive sentimentalists who followed Richard-
son, or on the pseudo-Orientalists like Walpole and Lewis, or on the
pseudo-mediævalists like Mrs. Roche and Mrs. Radcliffe. This sort
of work filled the few literary periodicals of the day, but was not
read enough to make such publications profitable even then, and is
pretty much all unreadable now.
Charles Brockden Brown stands in marked contrast to these sec-
ond-hand weaklings, not only by his work but still more by his
method and temper. In actual achievement he did not quite fulfill
the promise of his early books, and cannot be set high among his
craft. He was an inferior artist; and though he achieved naturalism
of matter, he clung to the theatrical artificiality of style which was
in vogue.
But if he had broken away from all traditions, he could
have gained no hearing whatever; he died young-twenty years
more might have left him a much greater figure; and he wrought in
disheartening loneliness of spirit. His accomplishment was that of a
pioneer. He was the first American author to see that the true field
for his fellows was America and not Europe. He realized, as the
genius of Châteaubriand realized at almost the same moment, the
artistic richness of the material which lay to hand in the silent forest
vastnesses, with their unfamiliar life of man and beast, and their
possibilities of mystery enough to satisfy the most craving. He
was not the equal of the author of The Natchez' and 'Atala';
but he had a fresh and daring mind. He turned away from both the
emotional orgasms and the stage claptrap of his time, to break ground
for all future American novelists. He antedated Cooper in the field
of Indian life and character; and he entered the regions of mystic
supernaturalism and the disordered human brain in advance of Haw-
thorne and Poe.
That his choice of material was neither chance nor blind instinct,
but deliberate judgment and insight, is shown by the preface to
'Edgar Huntly,' in which he sets forth his views:
――
"America has opened new views to the naturalist and politician, but has
seldom furnished themes to the moral-pointer. That new springs of action and
new motives of curiosity should operate, that the field of investigation opened
to us by our own country should differ essentially from those which exist in
Europe, may be readily conceived. The sources of amusement to the fancy
and instruction to the heart that are peculiar to ourselves are equally numer-
ous and inexhaustible. It is the purpose of this work to profit by some of
these sources, to exhibit a series of adventures growing out of the conditions
of our country, and connected with one of the most common and wonderful


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CHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN
2427
diseases of the human frame. Puerile superstition and exploded manners,
Gothic castles and chimeras, are the materials usually employed for this end.
The incidents of Indian hostility and the perils of the Western wilderness are
far more suitable, and for a native of America to overlook these would admit
of no apology. These therefore are in part the ingredients of this tale. »
Brown's was an uneventful career. He was much given to solitary
rambles and musings, varied by social intercourse with a few con-
genial friends and the companionship of his affectionate family, and
later, many hours spent at his writing-desk or in an editorial chair.
He was born January 17th, 1771, in Philadelphia, of good Quaker
stock. A delicate boyhood, keeping him away from the more active
life of youths of his own age, fostered a love for solitude and a taste
for reading. He received a good classical education; but poor health
prevented him from pursuing his studies at college. At his family's
wish he entered a law office instead; but the literary instinct was
strong within him. Literature at this time was scarcely considered a
profession. Magazine circulations were too limited for publishers to
pay for contributions, and all an author usually got or expected
to get was some copies to distribute among his friends. To please
his prudent home circle, Brown dallied for a while with the law; but
a visit to New York, where he was cordially received by the mem-
bers of the "Friendly Club," opened up avenues of literary work to
him, and he removed to New York in 1796 to devote himself to it.
The first important work he produced was 'Wieland: or the Trans-
formation' (1798). It shows at the outset Brown's characteristic
traits-independence of British materials and methods. It is in sub-
stance a powerful tale of ventriloquism operating on an unbalanced
and superstitious mind. Its psychology is acute and searching; the
characterization realistic and effective. His second book, Ormond:
or the Secret Witness' (1799), does not reach the level of 'Wieland. '
It is more conventional, and not entirely independent of foreign.
models, especially Godwin, whom Brown greatly admired. A rapid
writer, he soon had the MS. of his next novel in the hands of the
publisher. The first part of Arthur Mervyn: or Memoirs of the
Year 1793' came out in 1799, and the second part in 1800. It is
the best known of his six novels. Though the scene is laid in Phila-
delphia, Brown embodied in it his experience of the yellow fever which
raged in New York in 1799. The passage describing this epidemic.
can stand beside Defoe's or Poe's or Manzoni's similar descriptions,
for power in setting forth the horrors of the plague.
In the same year with the first volume of Arthur Mervyn' ap-
peared Edgar Huntly: or Memoirs of a Sleep-Walker. ' Here he
deals with the wild life of nature, the rugged solitudes, and the red-
skins, the field in which he was followed by Cooper. A thrilling


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CHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN
scene in which a panther is chief actor was long familiar to Amer-
ican children in their school reading-books.
In 1801 came out his last two novels, Clara Howard: In a Series
of Letters,' and 'Jane Talbot. ' They are a departure from his pre-
vious work: instead of dealing with uncanny subjects they treat of
quiet domestic and social life. They show also a great advance on
his previous books in constructive art. In 1799 Brown became editor
of the Monthly Magazine and American Review, and contributed
largely to it.
In the autumn of 1801 he returned to Philadelphia, to assume
the editorship of Conrad's Literary Magazine and American Review.
The duties of this office suspended his own creative work, and he
did not live to take up again the novelist's stylus. In 1806 he be-
came editor of the Annual Register. His genuine literary force is
best proved by the fact that whatever periodical he took in charge,
he raised its standard of quality and made it a success for the time.
He died in February, 1810. The work to which he had given the
greater part of his time and strength, especially toward the end of
his life, was in its nature not only transitory, but not of a sort to
keep his name alive. The magazines were children of a day, and
the editor's repute as such could hardly survive them long. The
fame which belongs to Charles Brockden Brown, grudgingly accorded
by a country that can ill afford to neglect one of its earliest, most
devoted, and most original workers, rests on his novels. Judged by
standards of the present day, these are far from faultless. The
facts are not very coherent, the diction is artificial in the fashion of
the day. But when all is said, Brown was a rare story-teller; he
interested his readers by the novelty of his material, and he was
quite objective in its treatment, never obtruding his own personality.
'Wieland, Edgar Huntly,' and 'Arthur Mervyn,' the trilogy of his
best novels, are not to be contemned; and he has the distinction of
being in very truth the pioneer of American letters.
་
WIELAND'S STATEMENT
THE
HEODORE WIELAND, the prisoner at the bar, was now called
upon for his defense. He looked around him for some time
in silence, and with a mild countenance. At length he
spoke:-
It is strange: I am known to my judges and my auditors.
Who is there present a stranger to the character of Wieland?
Who knows him not as a husband, as a father, as a friend? Yet


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2429
here am I arraigned as a criminal. I am charged with diabolical
malice; I am accused of the murder of my wife and my children!
It is true, they were slain by me; they all perished by my
hand. The task of vindication is ignoble. What is it that I am
called to vindicate? and before whom?
You know that they are dead, and that they were killed by
me. What more would you have? Would you extort from me a
statement of my motives? Have you failed to discover them
already? You charge me with malice: but your eyes are not
shut; your reason is still vigorous; your memory has not forsaken
you. You know whom it is that you thus charge. The habits of
his life are known to you; his treatment of his wife and his off-
spring is known to you; the soundness of his integrity and the
unchangeableness of his principles are familiar to your apprehen-
sion: yet you persist in this charge! You lead me hither mana-
cled as a felon; you deem me worthy of a vile and tormenting
death!
-
Who are they whom I have devoted to death? My wife - the
little ones that drew their being from me - that creature who,
as she surpassed them in excellence, claimed a larger affection
than those whom natural affinities bound to my heart.
Think ye
that malice could have urged me to this deed? Hide your auda-
cious fronts from the scrutiny of heaven. Take refuge in some
cavern unvisited by human eyes. Ye may deplore your wicked-
ness or folly, but ye cannot expiate it.
Think not that I speak for your sakes. Hug to your hearts
this detestable infatuation. Deem me still a murderer, and drag
me to untimely death. I make not an effort to dispel your illus-
ion; I utter not a word to cure you of your sanguinary folly:
but there are probably some in this assembly who have come
from far; for their sakes, whose distance has disabled them from
knowing me, I will tell what I have done, and why.
It is needless to say that God is the object of my supreme
passion. I have cherished in his presence a single and upright
heart. I have thirsted for the knowledge of his will. I have
burnt with ardor to approve my faith and my obedience. My
days have been spent in searching for the revelation of that will;
but my days have been mournful, because my search failed.
solicited direction; I turned on every side where glimmerings
of light could be discovered. I have not been wholly unin-
formed; but my knowledge has always stopped short of certainty.


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CHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN
2430
Dissatisfaction has insinuated itself into all my thoughts. My
purposes have been pure, my wishes indefatigable; but not till
lately were these purposes thoroughly accomplished and these
wishes fully gratified.
I thank Thee, my Father, for Thy bounty; that Thou didst
not ask a less sacrifice than this; that Thou placedst me in a
condition to testify my submission to Thy will! What have I
withheld which it was Thy pleasure to exact? Now may I, with
dauntless and erect eye, claim my reward, since I have given
Thee the treasure of my soul.
I was at my own house; it was late in the evening; my sister
had gone to the city, but proposed to return. It was in expecta-
tion of her return that my wife and I delayed going to bed be-
yond the usual hour; the rest of the family, however, were
retired. My mind was contemplative and calm—not wholly
devoid of apprehension on account of my sister's safety. Recent
events, not easily explained, had suggested the existence of some
danger; but this danger was without a distinct form in our im-
agination, and scarcely ruffled our tranquillity.
Time passed, and my sister did not arrive. Her house is at
some distance from mine, and though her arrangements had
been made with a view of residing with us, it was possible that
through forgetfulness, or the occurrence of unforeseen emergen-
cies, she had returned to her own dwelling.
Hence it was conceived proper that I should ascertain the
truth by going thither. I went. On my way my mind was full
of those ideas which related to my intellectual condition.
In the
torrent of fervid conceptions I lost sight of my purpose. Some-
times I stood still; sometimes I wandered from my path, and
experienced some difficulty, on recovering from my fit of musing,
to regain it.
The series of my thoughts is easily traced. At first every
vein beat with raptures known only to the man whose parental
and conjugal love is without limits, and the cup of whose de-
sires, immense as it is, overflows with gratification. I know not
why emotions that were perpetual visitants should now have re-
curred with unusual energy. The transition was not new from
sensations of joy to a consciousness of gratitude. The Author
of my being was likewise the dispenser of every gift with which
that being was embellished. The service to which a benefactor
like this was entitled could not be circumscribed.
My social


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CHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN
2431
sentiments were indebted to their alliance with devotion for all
their value. All passions are base, all joys feeble, all energies
malignant, which are not drawn from this source.
For a time my contemplations soared above earth and its in-
habitants. I stretched forth my hands; I lifted my eyes, and
exclaimed, "Oh, that I might be admitted to thy presence! that
mine were the supreme delight of knowing Thy will and of
performing it! -the blissful privilege of direct communication.
with Thee, and of listening to the audible enunciation of Thy
pleasure!
"What task would I not undertake, what privation would I
not cheerfully endure, to testify my love of Thee? Alas! Thou
hidest Thyself from my view; glimpses only of Thy excellence
and beauty are afforded me. Would that a momentary emanation
from Thy glory would visit me! that some unambiguous token of
Thy presence would salute my senses! "
In this mood I entered the house of my sister. It was vacant.
Scarcely had I regained recollection of the purpose that brought
me hither. Thoughts of a different tendency had such an abso-
lute possession of my mind, that the relations of time and space
were almost obliterated from my understanding. These wander-
ings, however, were restrained, and I ascended to her chamber.
I had no light, and might have known by external observation
that the house was without any inhabitant. With this, however,
I was not satisfied. I entered the room, and the object of my
search not appearing, I prepared to return. The darkness re-
quired some caution in descending the stair. I stretched out my
hand to seize the balustrade, by which I might regulate my steps.
How shall I describe the lustre which at that moment burst
upon my vision?
I was dazzled. My organs were bereaved of their activity.
My eyelids were half closed, and my hands withdrawn from the
balustrade. A nameless fear chilled my veins, and I stood
motionless. This irradiation did not retire or lessen. It seemed
as if some powerful effulgence covered me like a mantle.
opened my eyes and found all about me luminous and glowing.
It was the element of heaven that flowed around. Nothing but
a fiery stream was at first visible; but anon a shrill voice from
behind called upon me to attend.
I
I turned. It is forbidden to describe what I saw: words,
indeed, would be wanting to the task. The lineaments of that


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CHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN
Being whose veil was now lifted and whose visage beamed upon
my sight, no hues of pencil or of language can portray. As it
spoke, the accents thrilled to my heart:-"Thy prayers are
heard. In proof of thy faith, render me thy wife. This is the
victim I choose. Call her hither, and here let her fall. " The
sound and visage and light vanished at once.
What demand was this? The blood of Catharine was to be
shed! My wife was to perish by my hand! I sought oppor-
tunity to attest my virtue. Little did I expect that a proof like
this would have been demanded.
"My wife! " I exclaimed: "O God! substitute some other vic-
tim. Make me not the butcher of my wife. My own blood is
cheap. This will I pour out before Thee with a willing heart;
but spare, I beseech Thee, this precious life, or commission some
other than her husband to perform the bloody deed. "
In vain. The conditions were prescribed; the decree had gone
forth, and nothing remained but to execute it. I rushed out of
the house and across the intermediate fields, and stopped not till
I entered my own parlor. My wife had remained here during
my absence, in anxious expectation of my return with some tid-
ings of her sister. I had none to communicate. For a time I
was breathless with my speed. This, and the tremors that shook
my frame, and the wildness of my looks, alarmed her. She
immediately suspected some disaster to have happened to her
friend, and her own speech was as much overpowered by emotion
as mine. She was silent, but her looks manifested her impa-
tience to hear what I had to communicate. I spoke, but with so
much precipitation as scarcely to be understood; catching her at
the same time by the arm, and forcibly pulling her from her seat.
"Come along with me; fly; waste not a moment; time will
be lost, and the deed will be omitted. Tarry not, question not,
but fly with me. "
This deportment added afresh to her alarms.
Her eyes pur-
sued mine, and she said, "What is the matter? For God's
sake, what is the matter? Where would you have me go? "
My eyes were fixed upon her countenance while she spoke.
I thought upon her virtues; I viewed her as the mother of my
babes; as my wife. I recalled the purpose for which I thus
urged her attendance. My heart faltered, and I saw that I must
rouse to this work all my faculties. The danger of the least
delay was imminent.


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CHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN
2433
I looked away from her, and, again exerting my force, drew
her toward the door. "You must go with me; indeed you
must. "
In her fright she half resisted my efforts, and again ex-
claimed, “Good heaven! what is it you mean? Where go? What
has happened? Have you found Clara ? "
"Follow me and you will see," I answered, still urging her
reluctant steps forward.
"What frenzy has seized you? Something must needs have
happened. Is she sick? Have you found her? "
"Come and see. Follow me and know for yourself. "
Still she expostulated and besought me to explain this mys-
terious behavior. I could not trust myself to answer her, to look
at her; but grasping her arm, I drew her after me. She hesi-
tated, rather through confusion of mind than from unwillingness
to accompany me. This confusion gradually abated, and she
moved forward, but with irresolute footsteps and continual excla-
mations of wonder and terror. Her interrogations of "What was
the matter? " and "Whither was I going? " were ceaseless and
vehement.
It was the scope of my efforts not to think; to keep up a
conflict and uproar in my mind in which all order and distinct-
ness should be lost; to escape from the sensations produced by
her voice. I was therefore silent. I strove to abridge this inter-
val by haste, and to waste all my attention in furious gesticu-
lations.
In this state of mind we reached my sister's door. She looked
at the windows and saw that all was desolate. "Why come we
here? There is nobody here. I will not go in. "
Still I was dumb; but, opening the door, I drew her into the
entry. This was the allotted scene; here she was to fall. I let
go her hand, and pressing my palms against my forehead, made
one mighty effort to work up my soul to the deed.
In vain; it would not be; my courage was appalled, my arms
nerveless. I muttered prayers that my strength might be aided
from above. They availed nothing.
Horror diffused itself over me. This conviction of my
cowardice, my rebellion, fastened upon me, and I stood rigid and
cold as marble. From this state I was somewhat relieved by my
wife's voice, who renewed her supplications to be told why we
come hither and what was the fate of my sister.
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2434
CHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN
The fellness of a gloomy hurricane but faintly resembled the
discord that reigned in my mind. To omit this sacrifice must not
be; yet my sinews had refused to perform it. No alternative
was offered. To rebel against the mandate was impossible; but
obedience would render me the executioner of my wife. My
will was strong, but my limbs refused their office.
That accents and looks so winning should disarm me of my
resolution was to be expected. My thoughts were thrown anew
into anarchy. I spread my hand before my eyes that I might
not see her, and answered only by groans. She took my other
hand between hers, and pressing it to her heart, spoke with that
voice which had ever swayed my will and wafted away sorrow:
"My friend! my soul's friend! tell me thy cause of grief. Do
I not merit to partake with thee in thy cares? Am I not thy
wife ? »
-
This was too much. I broke from her embrace and retired
to a corner of the room. In this pause, courage was once more
infused into me. I resolved to execute my duty. She followed
me, and renewed her passionate entreaties to know the cause of
my distress.
I raised my head and regarded her with steadfast
looks. I muttered something about death, and the injunctions of
my duty.
At these words she shrunk back, and looked at me
with a new expression of anguish. After a pause, she clasped
her hands, and exclaimed: -
:-
"O Wieland! Wieland! God grant that I am mistaken! but
something surely is wrong. I see it; it is too plain; thou art
undone lost to me and to thyself. " At the same time she
gazed on my features with intensest anxiety, in hope that differ-
ent symptoms would take place. I replied to her with vehe-
mence:
-
"Undone! No; my duty is known, and I thank my God that
my cowardice is now vanquished and I have power to fulfill it.
Catharine, I pity the weakness of thy nature; I pity thee, but
must not spare. Thy life is claimed from my hands; thou must
die! "
Fear was now added to her grief. "What mean you? Why
talk you of death? Bethink yourself, Wieland; bethink yourself,
and this fit will pass. Oh, why came I hither? Why did you
drag me hither? "
"I brought thee hither to fulfill a divine command.
appointed thy destroyer, and destroy thee I must. "
I am
Saying this,


## p. 2435 (#641) ###########################################

CHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN
2435
She shrieked aloud, and endeavored to free
I seized her wrists.
herself from my grasp; but her efforts were vain.
"Surely, surely, Wieland, thou dost not mean it. Am I not
thy wife and wouldst thou kill me? Thou wilt not; and yet-I
see-thou art Wieland no longer! A fury resistless and horri
ble possesses thee. Spare me- spare-help-help-»
Till her breath was stopped she shrieked for help, for mercy.
When she could speak no longer, her gestures, her looks appealed
to my compassion. My accursed hand was irresolute and trem-
ulous. I meant thy death to be sudden, thy struggles to be
brief. Alas! my heart was infirm, my resolves mutable. Thrice
I slackened my grasp, and life kept its hold, though in the
midst of pangs.
Her eyeballs started from their sockets. Grim-
ness and distortion took the place of all that used to bewitch me
into transport and subdue me into reverence. I was commis-
sioned to kill thee, but not to torment thee with the foresight
of thy death; not to multiply thy fears and prolong thy agonies.
Haggard and pale and lifeless, at length thou ceasedst to contend.
with thy destiny.
This was the moment of triumph. Thus had I successfully
subdued the stubbornness of human passions: the victim which
had been demanded was given; the deed was done past recall.
I lifted the corpse in my arms and laid it on the bed. I
gazed upon it with delight. Such was the elation of my thoughts
that I even
even broke into laughter. I clapped my hands and
exclaimed, “It is done! My sacred duty is fulfilled! To that I
have sacrificed, O my God, Thy last and best gift, my wife! "
For a while I thus soared above frailty. I imagined I had
set myself forever beyond the reach of selfishness; but my im-
aginations were false. This rapture quickly subsided. I looked
again at my wife. My joyous ebullitions vanished, and I asked
myself who it was whom I saw. Methought it could not be
Catharine. It could not be the woman who had lodged for years in
my heart; who had slept nightly in my bosom; who had borne in
her womb, who had fostered at her breast, the beings who called
me father; whom I have watched with delight, and cherished
with a fondness ever new and perpetually growing; it could not
be the same. Where was her bloom? These deadly and blood-
suffused orbs but ill resemble the azure and ecstatic tenderness
of her eyes.
The lucid stream that meandered over that bosom,
the glow of love that was wont to sit upon that cheek, are


## p. 2436 (#642) ###########################################

2436
CHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN
much unlike these livid stains and this hideous deformity. Alas!
these were the traces of agony; the gripe of the assassin had
been here!