Wieland; or, The Transformation | Page 7

but because
it had been expressly prescribed to him. Other modes, if practised 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 expiation. 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 awaited 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.

Chapter II
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.