– Gautam Kundu
While acknowledging the influence of the British and Continental Gothic on the novels of Charles Brockden Brown, critics have tended to sharply disagree as to the role that Gothicism plays in his fiction, a point that Pamela J. Sheldon persuasively makes in her essay on Brown. Harry R. Warfal, one of the earliest critics to recognize the importance of the Gothic element, contends, for example, that Brown’s “work anticipated Poe’s and Hawthorne’s in subject, style, mood, and intellectual elevation” (4. Quoted in Sheldon 18). Conversely, Warner Berthoff, while conceding Brown’s debt to Gothicism in his discussion of the writer’s method, suggests that it is a “secondary” or an “incidental” property of Brown’s fiction (45-57). Berthoff’s contention notwithstanding, Gothicism figures significantly in Brown’s best fiction. It is useful, therefore, to explore Brown’s conception of Gothicism, especially, his original use of a tradition that had already become somewhat overworked even during the latter part pre-Revolution America. 1 Brown himself sought to distinguish between the American and the British Gothic. Since American life at the turn of the century afforded few parallels to the haunted castles, abbeys, monasteries, and time-yellowed manuscripts commonly associated with British and Continental Gothic novels, Brown called for an Americanized tale of terror. In his Preface to Edgar Huntly (1799), Brown rejects the popular European Gothic conventions of “puerile superstitions and exploded manners,” of the Gothic “castles and chimeras” in favor of native American materials rooted in the present time and place, making its habitation in the local American scene instead of in some romanticized antiquity (4). In his fiction, then, Brown sought to avoid, what Sheldon calls “hackneyed Gothic tricks,” its “spookiness” (18) and the urge to dredge up remote times and foreign locales to treat the American scene—its land an history–and to investigate the “diseases and affections of the human frame” (to quote from Brown’s “Advertisement” to his Sky Walk; or the Man Unknown to Himself 202 ) in order to secure a more original form terror than was to be found in the then contemporary European Gothic novels (Sheldon 18). By thrusting the reader directly into the terrors of the real world which offered examples of the violent, the bizarre, and the irrational, Brown compensates for what has often been alluded to as “a ghostless and rainless” mid-eighteenth-century American scene.
However, despite his general debt to the genealogical tracings of British and continental Gothic influences, Brown was original in his use of the tradition as a vocabulary to describe forces held in check because they were seemingly incompatible if not actually alien to the rationalist ethos of eighteenth-century Enlightenment. In this, Sheldon’s point is well taken that “without resorting to stale medieval trappings, Brown turns the Gothic vogue to advantage in his own work so as to demonstrate that terror wells from the inner self as the victim perceives dangers hidden in himself and in the universe” (18). An exploration of the Gothic elements in Wieland (1796), a novel which has been described as “good and as bad as anything he wrote” (Cowie 73), reveals the extent of Brown’s use of Gothicism, but, more important, his manipulation of the Gothic devices in order to probe the dark side of human consciousness as a source of aberrations in human behavior. In the end, as Sheldon claims, the Gothic elements emerge more as emblems of the victim’s psychological and spiritual condition rather than as sources of fear and terror (17).
The sub-title of Brown’s novel–The Transformation–indicates the nature of the psychological changes which occur in his characters. For instance, Theodore Wieland, Clara (his sister and the narrator), and Carwin are transformed from a state of relative happiness to one of misery by a sequence of events which, though not wholly disastrous, is nevertheless bizarre and tragic. The elder Wieland, a religious fanatic, comes to America from Germany, builds a temple on his estate and dies mysteriously one night by spontaneous combustion. Theodore Wieland, temperamentally grave, introverted and melancholic, inherits the father’s gloomy dispositions to a great extent than the sister, although both of them, as a family unit, live together for some time as a harmonious and self-enclosed group enjoying the pleasures of a leisurely existence and the civilized company of their rationalist friends, Catherine and Henry Pleyel. After Wieland marries Catherine, and despite Clara’s unrequited love for Henry, who is engaged to a woman in Germany, the group is content until Carwin, the prototypical figure of the mysterious stranger of a Gothic tale who uninvitingly enters the family circle and animates the dormant evil within the group, upsets the equilibrium. (As we learn in the course of the narrative, Carwin, whom Pleyel later admits to having met in Spain, is possessed of the ability to throw his voice and mimic the speech of others: “He is able to speak where he is not,” marvels a horrified Clara.) There then follows a strange sequence of events: mysterious voices are heard at intervals by various members of the family. To Wieland, whose troubled thoughts about his father’s death and his own religious pre-visions lead to a deadly fanaticism, the voices seem to be of divine origins; and when a voice bids him sacrifice those dearest to him, he obeys unhesitatingly. Wieland kills his wife and children, and Clara escapes her death only by accident. After his catastrophe, it proves that the voices are produced by Carwin, the skilled ventriloquist, who confesses that a “demon of mischief” had led him to test the family courage. Soon thereafter, when Wieland again threatens the life of his sister, Carwin uses his ventriloquist powers to dissuade Wieland from sacrificing Clara, too. Wieland, transformed now “into a man of Sorrows” (249) commits suicide, convinced that he has been the victim of his inner delusions and Carwin’s spurious supernaturalism. Morally and spiritually devastated by the sorrows he has caused, Carwin moves to a remote area in Pennsylvania. The story concludes with the hint of an impending marriage between Clara Wieland and Henry Pleyel.
The above plot outline reveals Brown’s use of Gothic conventions. As in the typical Gothic romance, the heroine’s chastity and innocence are menaced. Like the Gothic villain whose history is shrouded in dark mystery, Carwin is an individual whose background is only sketchily delineated. And as Sheldon postulates, he may be seen as a wandering Jew figure, a popular convention favored by such Gothic writers as Matthew Gregory in The Monk (1796), William Godwin in St. Leon, (1831), and by Charles Maturin in his 1820 novel Melmoth (19). Consistent with the pattern of the Gothic villain who pursues a helpless, passive victim, Carwin steals into Clara’s home, thus posing a threat to her virtue and signaling a violation of her privacy. Clara, educated and possessing considerable psychological depth and complexity, nevertheless is “self-victimized” by her natural reserve and passivity in a manner that is typical of heroines in Gothic fiction (Sheldon 19). Frequently given to tears, she swoons at critical moments of crisis; unable to analyze her feelings for Carwin or declare her love for Pleyyel, she stands by passively at those moments when action is most necessary; confronted by Pleyel’s accusation, she is “motionless and speechless with agony… mutely gazing after him” (138); when she hears voices from her closet plotting her murder, she cannot bring herself to open the door; she fails to protect herself with her pen-knife when Carwin threatens to violate her, and she also hesitates to save herself from the ravings of her mentally unstable and emotionally overwrought brother, Theodore Wieland; and, finally, she stands by helplessly when Wieland commits suicide. Sheldon is right to observe that by her inaction, Clara Wieland “perpetuates and accentuates the terrors which surround her,” and that such a narrative design is consistent with the Gothic writers’ plan to hold the reader in extended periods of suspense (20).
Also typically Gothic are the many supernatural elements spread throughout the novel–in particular, the mysterious voices and the weird circumstances surrounding the elder Wieland’s death. In the tradition of Anne Radcliffe, Brown eventually presents plausible explanations for both mysteries. 2 Reminiscent of Lewis ‘s Gothic style, on the other hand, is the violence of Wieland’s bloody assault upon his own family. Through it all, Carwin is the catalyst who sets in motion Wieland’s demonic and irrational behavior and mesmerizes Clara. Ironically, Clara is mysteriously drawn to Carwin from the beginning. A favorite device in Gothic romances is the villain’s mysterious power over the innocent. Manfred in The Castle of Otranto (1764) and Vathek in Beckford’s History of the Caliph (1787), for example, transfix their victims by the force of an evil eye which radiates a lurid light. In Wieland, Carwin also exercises an uncanny control over Clara. Although “there. . . [is] nothing remarkable in. . . [his] appearance,” Clara feels an attraction toward Carwin and the wizardry of his voice (70), so much so that she is moved to draw his portrait from memory soon after she first meets him for the first time. Finally, as Sheldon points out, the convention of the castle, the Gothicist’s most important symbol,3 figures centrally and crucially in the novel. In this American work, Clara Wieland’s’ house, filled with shadows and closets, serves as the counterpart of the medieval Gothic structure. Set off from the rest off the world in conventional Gothic isolation, the self-contained house, while suggestive of Clair’s independence and spirit, also proves the ideal background of nocturnal horror, the “tangible symbol of intangible evil” (Sheldon 22). Appropriately, many of the more terrifying midnight scenes–the Carwin episodes and the ghoulish murders–occur in the house. The external trappings of terror, however, are less important than the uses that Brown makes of them. Like Edgar Allen Poe, then, Brockden Brown seems to immerse himself in his often damaged and traumatized character’s reactions to seemingly extreme and irrational situations. Echoing Poe, in Wieland, especially, Brown’s focus is always on the terror of the individual’s confrontation with the chaos in the social, and, especially, in the darker recesses of their mental worlds.
In Brown’s novel, the haunted castle, the central metaphor in the Gothic romance, finds its imaginative equivalent in the so-called “nightmare of the mind” (Sheldon’s phrase). Drawing upon the Gothic situation in which the hero is stalked by alien forces within the castle, Brown fashions characters who are self-deceived, self-pursued, and, finally, trapped by a dimension of the mind which is unknowable and unmanageable. (See Sheldon 21-22 for a perception discussion on this specific Gothic trope.) Wieland, like his counterpart in the Gothic romance, is a passive individual caught in the grip of an irrational world where the familiar and the logical are enigmas. Driven by his need for spiritual certainty, Wieland’s faith is affirmed, ironically, only when his reason is marred by madness (Baym 91). As Wieland strives futilely to account for his irrationality, he encounters forces which are not amendable to definition or analysis: disembodied voices that set the stage for his decline into mania and the consequent deepening of his fanaticism and previsions by a series of illusions of sight and sound. A victim figure familiar in the Gothic narrative, Wieland is alienated from those around him, a lonely prisoner of the self incapable of understanding or controlling his descent into madness. Watching her brother’s painful confrontation with psychic forces that are both inexplicable and beyond (his) immediate control, Clara wonders if death is not the preferable alternative to his agony. Haunted by a vision of the self that he finds repulsive, Wieland commits suicide in disgust and self-loathing. The terror emerges less from the multiple murders in the novel (horrific and typically Gothic as they undoubtedly are) than from our realization of the vicissitudes of human life and the ambiguity of perception—of man’s inability to perceive accurately either the condition within or the world without, which is no longer fashioned by the Enlightenment certitudes of reason, logic, and orderliness.
Though the central situation of the novel involves Theodore Wieland, Clara is a dramatic center of the work since she witnesses, describes, and participates in the irrational events the story chronicles (a point that Bill Christophersen emphasizes in his 1986 essay, “Picking Up the Knife: A Psychohistorical Reading of Wieland“). Drawing upon the Gothic manuscript convention, Brown finds an effective technique of self-revelation and self-analysis in Clara’s journal entries, which form a continuous soliloquy. Clara realizes that neither religion nor reason is adequate to account for the dubious nature of human experience. Carwin’s malignancy, her brother’s irrationality, and her own dreams are enigmas that Clara, a student of reason, “Habitually indifferent to all causes fear” (75), “accomplished and wise beyond the rest of women” (135), cannot explain the events or her own reactions to them by any reference to Lockean empiricism. Paradoxically, when Clara is caught in the grip of inexplicable forces that threaten her sanity, and irrational (i.e., typically “Gothic”) situations for which here are no apparent rationalistic explanations, her survival and maturity alike depend on her awareness of “the impotence of reason” (244).
Like Pleyel, Clara begins as a Lockean rationalist who accepts only the evidence of the senses as facts (55). Accordingly, she insists that the first voice Wieland hears (it is Carwin’s voice, we later learn) is a “deception of the senses” (54). She is equally averse to the method of solution “that admits of direct. . . supernatural” intervention (55). When Clara herself hears a voice, however, she is so shaken by the event that she is later found faint on her brother’s doorsteps. Whereas Wieland depends on religion to resolve his uncertainty, Clara relies on reason to sustain her confidence. Trusting to reason alone, she misreads experience, arrives at erroneous conclusions, and longs to refute what she herself witnesses. When events grow less comprehensible, she loses hold on these rationalistic props with a concomitant loss in confidence and hope: “I care not from what source these disasters have flowed; it suffices that they have swallowed up our hopes and our existence” (252). Clara recovers her health only when she refutes her Enlightenment training and accepts the irrationality of the human condition by acknowledging, as she puts it, the “uncertainty of life” (75).
Early in the novel, following her dream in the summer house, Clara must deal with the “uncertainty of life.” The dream, as Sheldon rightly points out, like terror literature itself, “is a release from anxiety and represents Brown’s intuitive acknowledgment of the unconscious dimension” (23). An expression of inner disturbance, the dream haunts Clara later when she is mistakenly convinced that Wieland is in her bedroom closet. Stunned by her irrational fears, she concedes: “Ideas exist in our minds that can be accounted for by no established laws” (106). Clara’s description of the dream, therefore, is significant. The “pit” or the concave image that figures importantly in the dream may suggest the female or womb symbol, drawing Theodore and Clara into a tight bond that anticipates the violent, strained, relationship that figures in Poe’s “The Fall of the House of Usher” The dream imagery, thus, may also be interpreted as an expression of the Doppelganger, or the self divided, a motif common in the Gothic fiction of Godwin, Mary Shelley, Poe, and Hawthorne. In the usual Gothic treatment of the twin or the double, one twin, the good man, a sharer of the double’s physical identity, often functions as the evil one’s psychological antithesis in a struggle for the proper (or the good) self.4 In Clara’s dream, the pit is a threat to the sister and brother. Theodore stands “on the opposite edge of the gulf” (82). Hence, he merely acts out a potential that Clara fears in herself: both Theodore and Clara, after all, live in the shadow of their father’s religious fanaticism. On learning of her brother’s role in the murder, Clara wonders at the change which a moment ago had affected in her brother’s condition: “Now was I stupefied with tenfold wonder in contemplating myself. Was I not like-wise transformed from rational and human into a creature of nameless and fearful attributes: Was I not transported to the brink of the same abyss?” (199). Significantly, Clara is transported to the brink of the same “abyss” which suggests the “pit and the gulf” in her dream (see Sheldon 23). Thus, Clara witnesses her own precarious situation in her nightmare. The fear that she is capable of the irrational, that Wieland may do her bodily harm, or that she suffers from a latent, violent tendency are given a free expression within the context of Clara’s dream, the trauma of which haunts her (Sheldon 23-24). And the “dark abyss” (255) of Clara’s second dream corresponds to the “deep pit” of the first. Once again, as commentators of Wieland have variously noted, the dream is the arena for conscious and unconscious fears. After Wieland’s suicide, Clara suffers from a lingering malaise and fever which lurk in her veins (254). Like her brother, Clara is terrified by her confrontation with life’s uncertainty and frightened by what she can neither understand nor control. Whereas she does not contemplate suicide, she is on the verge of physical and spiritual death, manifested by her weakening condition and deep depression. She comments, “To all that is come to me I am perfectly indifferent” (25). Confronted with Carwin’s machinations and Wieland’s madness, Clara tells us that her “ancient security” (79) has vanished and that she is “transfixed with inexplicable horror” (172). However, following the second dream, she escapes from the fire and the apathy (256), which equally threatened to destroy her.
The conclusion of the second dream, according to Sheldon, reintroduces the pattern of light and dark effects in the novel; she identifies it as a literary twilight (or “obscurity”) in Wieland, and which in and through the novel’s Gothic atmosphere of ambiguity and terror, finds a figurative expression (24). The “gleam of light” (255) in the second dream is analogous to the light images in the elder Wieland’s death scene (37-38), and also to those in the first dream. (Sheldon nicely ties these two episodes together.) The fire that threatens Clara’s life in Chapter 27 corresponds to the opening fire in which her father perishes by spontaneous combustion (37), and thus lends a symmetrical touch. Significantly, the light imagery in the second dream, symbolic of reason and knowledge, contrasts sharply with the Gothic obscurity, suggestive of inner and outer irrationality, that mark the first dream and much of the novel’s action as well (Sheldon 23, Christophersen 119). Unlike the realistic and traumatic nightmare Clara has in her summer house in Chapter 7, the final dream turns out to be a cathartic experience for Clara, cleansing her of her psychic repressions and fears by recapitulating the events that have contributed to her weakened condition. In the dream, Clara is “swallowed up by whirlpools…or cast among the billows” (255)–an echo of her “hereditary dread of water” (101) Also, the father’s death scene is recalled when we are told that the “gleams of light were shot into a dark abyss” (255). Fittingly, since Wieland, Carwin, Pleyel, and Clara’s uncle participate in her final dream, the mystery of Carwin’s machinations and Wieland’s madness are effectively balanced by the rationalism of Pleyel and Clara’s uncle. When Clara finally recovers her physical and psychic health, she finds a balance between these extremes (Not unsurprisingly, therefore, as Clara says “. . . a belief insensibly sprung up that tranquility, if not happiness, was still within my reach” 256). By purging herself of unruly sentiment and paralyzing fear, Clara is able to create a moral intelligence for herself, achieving in the process, a rapprochement between reason and feeling, between one’s enabling idealities and bestial identity.5 Thus, to this extent, at least, Clara is able to exorcize her own “ghost” in her dreams (Sheldon 24).
Written in 1798, Wieland marks the early stages of an evolving American Gothicism, a tradition distinguished by further subtleties in the Gothic fiction of Poe, Hawthorne, Melville, and Henry James that were to follow. Because Brown’s concern is with psychological reality and an examination of the tangled complexities of human emotions, Wieland is so much more than only a fanciful tale of terror involving the supernatural. As Brown states, “I cannot conceive the character of any man is unworthy to be known, and I believe that there is no person, the incident of whose life, if skillfully related would not furnish as much entertainment by their variety and novelty as any fictional narration that was ever written” (Quoted in Clark 98). As the characters in Wieland discover, the keenest source of terror lies within–in Theodore Wieland’s case, certainly, as aspect of the personality so frightening that he commits suicide in an attempt to repudiate it. The darkness is not only in what man believes himself to be, but in what he fears (or, at least, suspects) he might be. Given a malevolent or indifferent universe that resists analysis, Clara, in turn, struggles to maintain sanity (Hume 119). To reiterate, the significance of Brown’s work in relation to the American Gothic is that it relocates much of the fear, the anxiety, and the terrors shared by the characters within the story (and by the reader), from the external, where it had dwelt through much of the English classics of the genre as The Castle of Otranto and The Monk, to an inner space—that is, in the (often deeply troubled) mind of the characters. As would be in what Poe would later designate as “a class of fancies” (see his Marginalia), here the Gothic terror is conceived of and represented as an expression of the unconscious.
As extensions of the characters’ insular world, the Gothic devices that Brown uses in Wieland define and underscore the terror within and without. Appropriately, the Gothic obscurity (Flannery O’Connor’s telling question, “What have you seen”? comes to mind) which, in part, is evoked through Brown’s effective arrangement of light and shadow, mirrors internal and external confusion. As Sheldon says, “Using the Gothic chase as a model, Brown fashions characters who are self-pursued” (25). The castle represents the troubled mind of the victim who is haunted practically at every turn by his own demonic self. Like Gothic captives who are often passive victims of malignant forces or are prisoners physically confined to dungeons and cells, Brown’s characters have lost their power to act or to perceive accurately. Their terror, like the terror of their Gothic counterparts, is heightened by their inability to find a causal principal for the irrational (a point that Sheldon, and critics such as Baym and Cowie insist time and again Sheldon 24). Their world, like the Gothic world where the everyday order of cause and effect is suspended as extraordinary forces are hinted at, is one of chaos and misperception. Ethical and moral centres are no longer clearly discernible—and Sheldon rightly notes that Wieland’s heinous crime, for example, is committed against the peaceful, almost pastoral, background of Mittingen (24). In short, the Gothic devices reinforce some of the central thematic realizations in the novel: unreason and irrationality, over-passion, the sub-conscious, and mental illness; the natural depravity in man’s nature and the morally imbalanced world in which he lives; and, finally, the fact that there are regions of human behavior that are unchartable and immeasurable In such fashion, Brown looks to the Gothic vocabulary in order to confront the reader with that “contexture of facts” which, as Brown explained in a letter to his brother, James, “excites and baffles curiosity, without shocking belief” (Dunlap 2, 97).
1 Leslie Fiedler’s Love and Death in the American Novel continues to be an important work for a general understanding of the American Gothic. Among the more significant recent assessments of Brown are the following: Emory Elliott’s “Introduction” in the Oxford edition of Wieland, Bill Christopherson’s The Apparition in the Glass, and Bernard Rosenthal’s Critical Essays on Charles Brockden Brown. Rosenthal’s book contains a useful bibliography of Brown’s work that lists both primary and secondary sources. For a Cultural Studies approach to the American Gothic, see Loius Gross, Redefining the American Gothic, and Robert Martin and Eric Savoy’s American Gothic: New Interventions in a National Narrative brings “critical theory” and the Gothic “together,’ in a manner of speaking. Also relevant are Cary Nelson’s dissertation The Novels of Chrales Brockden Brown: Irony and Ilusion (State U of New York, Binghampton,1970), and David S. Hogsette’s, “Textual Surveillance, Social Codes, and Sublime Voices: The Tyranny of Narrative in Caleb Williams and Wieland” (Romanticism on the Net, 2005). As for teaching the Gothic tradition, see the outline, and the chapter headings and synopses of a Modern Language Association book proposal, available online at http//:www.marquette.edu/english/hoeveler/mlagoth.html.
2 Since the terror of Brown’s Gothicism is the emergence from a “contexture of facts,” Brown scrupulously tries to authenticate the “natural” explanations of spontaneous combustion and ventriloquism with rather elaborate footnotes.
3 See Montague Summers who observes that the castle often becomes the actual protagonist in the Gothic tale.
4 The literary device of the double, demonstrable in Gothic fiction as early as The Castle of Otranto, is treated by Claire Rosenfield in “The Shadow Within: The Conscious and Unconscious Use of the Double.” Daedalus. 92.2 (Spring 1963): 326-344.
5 Brown’s major theme in the novel may be most pointedly stated as the interplay and conflict between ideal and identity. The tension set up between a character as she thinks she is and who or what she really is constitute the main source of the intellectual stimulation in Wieland.
Baym, Nina. “A Minority Reading of Wieland” in Critical Essays on Charles Brockden Brown. Ed Bernard Rosenthal. Boston: G.K. Hall & Co., 1981.
Bertoff, Warner. “‘A Lesson in Concealment’: Brocken Brown’s Method in Fiction.” Philological Quarterly 37 (1958): 45-57.
Brown, Charles Brockden. “Advertisement for ‘Sky Walk’; or the Man Unknown to Himself,” To the Editor of The Weekly Magazine 1 (1978). Cited in Lulu Ramsey Wiley, The Sources and Influence on the Novels of Charles Brockden Brown. New York: Vintage Press, 1950.
___________________. Edgar Huntly. Port Washington, New York: Kennikat Press, 1963.
___________________. Wieland ; or The Transformation (Port Washington, New York: Kennikat Press, 1963. All subsequent page references are to this text.
Christophersen, Bill. The Apparition in the Glass: Charles Brockden Brown’s American Gothic. Athens, GA : University of Georgia Press, 1993.
________________. “Picking Up the Knife: A Psychohistorical Reading of Wieland.” American Studies 24 (1986): 115-126.
Cowie, Alexander. The Rise of the American Novel. New York: American Book Co., 1948.
Clark, David Lee. Charles Brockden Brown: Pioneer Voices of America. Durham, N.C.: Duke U Press, 1952.
Dunlap, William. The Life of Charles Brockden Brown. Philadelphia: James P. Parke, 1815.
Elliott, Emory. Ed. Wieland and Memoirs of Carwin the Biloquist. London: OUP, 1994.
Fiedler, Leslie. Love and Death in the American Novel. Rev. Ed. New York: Stein and Day, 1966.
Gross, Louis S. Redefining the American Gothic: From Wieland to Day of the Dead. Ann Arbor, MI: UMI Research Press, 1989.
Hume, Robert D. “Three Varieties of Negative Romanticism” in The Gothic Imagination: Essays in Dark Romanticism. Ed. G.R. Thomson. Pullman, Washington: Washington U Press, 1974.
Martin, Robert K. and Eric Savoy (eds.) American Gothic: New Interventions in a National Narrative. Iowa City, IA: University of Iowa Press, 1998.
Rosenfield, Claire. “The Shadow Within: The Conscious and Unconscious Use of the Double.” Daedalus 92 (1963): 326-344.
Rosenthal, Bernard. (Ed.) Critical Essays on Charles Brockden Brown. Boston: G.K. Hall & Co., 1981.
Sheldon, Pamela J. “The Shock of Ambiguity: Brockden Brown’s Wieland and the Gothic Tradition” The DeKalb Literary Arts Journal. 10.4 (Summer 1977) : 17-26.
Summers, Montague. The Gothic Tale: A History of the Gothic Novel (1938; reissued, New York: Russell and Russell, 1964) : 191-192.
Warfal, Harry. Charles Brockden Brown: American Gothic Novelist. University of Florida Press, 1949.