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Edgar Huntly; or, Memoirs of a Sleep-Walker

by Charles Brockden Brown · English · Gutenberg #8223 · 561,119 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Edgar Huntly; or, Memoirs of a Sleep-Walker

Author: Charles Brockden Brown


        
Release date: June 1, 2005 [eBook #8223]
                Most recently updated: February 10, 2015

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK EDGAR HUNTLY; OR, MEMOIRS OF A SLEEP-WALKER ***




Produced by Online Distributed Proofreading Team









EDGAR HUNTLY

or, MEMOIRS OF A SLEEP-WALKER

by

CHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN







To the Public:

The flattering reception that has been given, by the public, to Arthur
Mervyn, has prompted the writer to solicit a continuance of the same
favour, and to offer to the world a new performance.

America has opened new views to the naturalist and politician, but has
seldom furnished themes to the moral painter. That new springs of action
and new motives to 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 numerous 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 condition of our country, and
connected with one of the most common and most wonderful diseases or
affections of the human frame.

One merit the writer may at least claim:--that of calling forth the
passions and engaging the sympathy of the reader by means hitherto
unemployed by preceding authors. 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, and these he has been ambitious of
depicting in vivid and faithful colours. The success of his efforts must
be estimated by the liberal and candid reader.

C. B. B.





Chapter I.


I sit down, my friend, to comply with thy request. At length does the
impetuosity of my fears, the transports of my wonder, permit me to
recollect my promise and perform it. At length am I somewhat delivered
from suspense and from tremors. At length the drama is brought to an
imperfect close, and the series of events that absorbed my faculties,
that hurried away my attention, has terminated in repose.

Till now, to hold a steadfast pen was impossible; to disengage my senses
from the scene that was passing or approaching; to forbear to grasp at
futurity; to suffer so much thought to wander from the purpose which
engrossed my fears and my hopes, could not be.

Yet am I sure that even now my perturbations are sufficiently stilled
for an employment like this? That the incidents I am going to relate can
be recalled and arranged without indistinctness and confusion? That
emotions will not be reawakened by my narrative, incompatible with order
and coherence? Yet when I shall be better qualified for this task I know
not. Time may take away these headlong energies, and give me back my
ancient sobriety; but this change will only be effected by weakening my
remembrance of these events. In proportion as I gain power over words,
shall I lose dominion over sentiments. In proportion as my tale is
deliberate and slow, the incidents and motives which it is designed to
exhibit will be imperfectly revived and obscurely portrayed.

Oh, why art thou away at a time like this. Wert thou present, the office
to which my pen is so inadequate would easily be executed by my tongue.
Accents can scarcely be too rapid; or that which words should fail to
convey, my looks and gestures would suffice to communicate. But I know
thy coming is impossible. To leave this spot is equally beyond my power.
To keep thee in ignorance of what has happened would justly offend thee.
There is no method of informing thee except by letter, and this method
must I, therefore, adopt.

How short is the period that has elapsed since thou and I parted, and
yet how full of tumult and dismay has been my soul during that period!
What light has burst upon my ignorance of myself and of mankind! How
sudden and enormous the transition from uncertainty to knowledge!

But let me recall my thoughts; let me struggle for so much composure as
will permit my pen to trace intelligible characters. Let me place in
order the incidents that are to compose my tale. I need not call on thee
to listen. The fate of Waldegrave was as fertile of torment to thee as
to me. His bloody and mysterious catastrophe equally awakened thy grief,
thy revenge, and thy curiosity. Thou wilt catch from my story every
horror and every sympathy which it paints. Thou wilt shudder with my
foreboding and dissolve with my tears. As the sister of my friend, and
as one who honours me with her affection, thou wilt share in all my
tasks and all my dangers.

You need not be reminded with what reluctance I left you. To reach this
place by evening was impossible, unless I had set out early in the
morning; but your society was too precious not to be enjoyed to the last
moment. It was indispensable to be here on Tuesday, but my duty required
no more than that I should arrive by sunrise on that day. To travel
during the night was productive of no formidable inconvenience. The air
was likely to be frosty and sharp, but these would not incommode one who
walked with speed. A nocturnal journey in districts so romantic and wild
as these, through which lay my road, was more congenial to my temper
than a noonday ramble.

By nightfall I was within ten miles of my uncle's house. As the darkness
increased, and I advanced on my way, my sensations sunk into melancholy.
The scene and the time reminded me of the friend whom I had lost. I
recalled his features, and accents, and gestures, and mused with
unutterable feelings on the circumstances of his death.

My recollections once more plunged me into anguish and perplexity. Once
more I asked, Who was his assassin? By what motives could he be impelled
to a deed like this? Waldegrave was pure from all offence. His piety was
rapturous. His benevolence was a stranger to remissness or torpor. All
who came within the sphere of his influence experienced and acknowledged
his benign activity. His friends were few, because his habits were timid
and reserved; but the existence of an enemy was impossible.

I recalled the incidents of our last interview, my importunities that he
should postpone his ill-omened journey till the morning, his
inexplicable obstinacy, his resolution to set out on foot during a dark
and tempestuous night, and the horrible disaster that befell him.

The first intimation I received of this misfortune, the insanity of
vengeance and grief into which I was hurried, my fruitless searches for
the author of this guilt, my midnight wanderings and reveries beneath
the shade of that fatal elm, were revived and reacted. I heard the
discharge of the pistol, I witnessed the alarm of Inglefield, I heard
his calls to his servants, and saw them issue forth with lights and
hasten to the spot whence the sound had seemed to proceed. I beheld my
friend, stretched upon the earth, ghastly with a mortal wound, alone,
with no traces of the slayer visible, no tokens by which his place of
refuge might be sought, the motives of his enmity or his instruments of
mischief might be detected.

I hung over the dying youth, whose insensibility forbade him to
recognise his friend, or unfold the cause of his destruction. I
accompanied his remains to the grave; I tended the sacred spot where he
lay; I once more exercised my penetration and my zeal in pursuit of his
assassin. Once more my meditations and exertions were doomed to be
disappointed.

I need not remind thee of what is past. Time and reason seemed to have
dissolved the spell which made me deaf to the dictates of duty and
discretion. Remembrances had ceased to agonize, to urge me to headlong
acts and foster sanguinary purposes. The gloom was half dispersed, and a
radiance had succeeded sweeter than my former joys.

Now, by some unseen concurrence of reflections, my thoughts reverted
into some degree of bitterness. Methought that to ascertain the hand who
killed my friend was not impossible, and to punish the crime was just.
That to forbear inquiry or withhold punishment was to violate my duty to
my God and to mankind. The impulse was gradually awakened that bade me
once more to seek the elm; once more to explore the ground; to
scrutinize its trunk. What could I expect to find? Had it not been a
hundred times examined? Had I not extended my search to the neighbouring
groves and precipices? Had I not pored upon the brooks, and pried into
the pits and hollows, that were adjacent to the scene of blood?

Lately I had viewed this conduct with shame and regret; but in the
present state of my mind it assumed the appearance of conformity with
prudence, and I felt myself irresistibly prompted to repeat my search.
Some time had elapsed since my departure from this district,--time
enough for momentous changes to occur. Expedients that formerly were
useless might now lead instantaneously to the end which I sought. The
tree which had formerly been shunned by the criminal might, in the
absence of the avenger of blood, be incautiously approached. Thoughtless
or fearless of my return, it was possible that he might, at this moment,
be detected hovering near the scene of his offences.

Nothing can be pleaded in extenuation of this relapse into folly. My
return, after an absence of some duration, into the scene of these
transactions and sufferings, the time of night, the glimmering of the
stars, the obscurity in which external objects were wrapped, and which,
consequently, did not draw my attention from the images of fancy, may in
some degree account for the revival of those sentiments and resolutions
which immediately succeeded the death of Waldegrave, and which, during
my visit to you, had been suspended.

You know the situation of the elm, in the midst of a private road, on
the verge of Norwalk, near the habitation of Inglefield, but three miles
from my uncle's house. It was now my intention to visit it. The road in
which I was travelling led a different way. It was requisite to leave
it, therefore, and make a circuit through meadows and over steeps. My
journey would, by these means, be considerably prolonged; but on that
head I was indifferent, or rather, considering how far the night had
already advanced, it was desirable not to reach home till the dawn.

I proceeded in this new direction with speed. Time, however, was allowed
for my impetuosities to subside, and for sober thoughts to take place.
Still I persisted in this path. To linger a few moments in this shade,
to ponder on objects connected with events so momentous to my happiness,
promised me a mournful satisfaction. I was familiar with the way, though
trackless and intricate, and I climbed the steeps, crept through the
brambles, leaped the rivulets and fences with undeviating aim, till at
length I reached the craggy and obscure path which led to Inglefield's
house.

In a short time, I descried through the dusk the widespread branches of
the elm. This tree, however faintly seen, cannot be mistaken for
another. The remarkable bulk and shape of its trunk, its position in the
midst of the way, its branches spreading into an ample circumference,
made it conspicuous from afar. My pulse throbbed as I approached it.

My eyes were eagerly bent to discover the trunk and the area beneath the
shade. These, as I approached, gradually became visible. The trunk was
not the only thing which appeared in view. Somewhat else, which made
itself distinguishable by its motions, was likewise noted. I faltered
and stopped.

To a casual observer this appearance would have been unnoticed. To me,
it could not but possess a powerful significance. All my surmises and
suspicions instantly returned. This apparition was human, it was
connected with the fate of Waldegrave, it led to a disclosure of the
author of that fate. What was I to do? To approach unwarily would alarm
the person. Instant flight would set him beyond discovery and reach.

I walked softly to the roadside. The ground was covered with rocky
masses, scattered among shrub-oaks and dwarf-cedars, emblems of its
sterile and uncultivated state. Among these it was possible to elude
observation and yet approach near enough to gain an accurate view of
this being.

At this time, the atmosphere was somewhat illuminated by the moon,
which, though it had already set, was yet so near the horizon as to
benefit me by its light. The shape of a man, tall and robust, was now
distinguished. Repeated and closer scrutiny enabled me to perceive that
he was employed in digging the earth. Something like flannel was wrapped
round his waist and covered his lower limbs. The rest of his frame was
naked. I did not recognise in him any one whom I knew.

A figure, robust and strange, and half naked, to be thus employed, at
this hour and place, was calculated to rouse up my whole soul. His
occupation was mysterious and obscure. Was it a grave that he was
digging? Was his purpose to explore or to hide? Was it proper to watch
him at a distance, unobserved and in silence, or to rush upon him and
extort from him, by violence or menaces, an explanation of the scene?

Before my resolution was formed, he ceased to dig. He cast aside his
spade and sat down in the pit that he had dug. He seemed wrapped in
meditation; but the pause was short, and succeeded by sobs, at first low
and at wide intervals, but presently louder and more vehement. Sorely
charged was indeed that heart whence flowed these tokens of sorrow.
Never did I witness a scene of such mighty anguish, such heart-bursting
grief.

What should I think? I was suspended in astonishment. Every sentiment,
at length, yielded to my sympathy. Every new accent of the mourner
struck upon my heart with additional force, and tears found their way
spontaneously to my eyes. I left the spot where I stood, and advanced
within the verge of the shade. My caution had forsaken me, and, instead
of one whom it was duty to persecute, I beheld, in this man, nothing but
an object of compassion.

My pace was checked by his suddenly ceasing to lament. He snatched the
spade, and, rising on his feet, began to cover up the pit with the
utmost diligence. He seemed aware of my presence, and desirous of hiding
something from my inspection. I was prompted to advance nearer and hold
his hand, but my uncertainty as to his character and views, the
abruptness with which I had been ushered into this scene, made me still
hesitate; but, though I hesitated to advance, there was nothing to
hinder me from calling.

"What, ho!" said I. "Who is there? What are you doing?"

He stopped: the spade fell from his hand; he looked up and bent forward
his face towards the spot where I stood. An interview and explanation
were now, methought, unavoidable. I mustered up my courage to confront
and interrogate this being.

He continued for a minute in his gazing and listening attitude. Where I
stood I could not fail of being seen, and yet he acted as if he saw
nothing. Again he betook himself to his spade, and proceeded with new
diligence to fill up the pit. This demeanour confounded and bewildered
me. I had no power but to stand and silently gaze upon his motions.

The pit being filled, he once more sat upon the ground, and resigned
himself to weeping and sighs with more vehemence than before. In a short
time the fit seemed to have passed. He rose, seized the spade, and
advanced to the spot where I stood.

Again I made preparation as for an interview which could not but take
place. He passed me, however, without appearing to notice my existence.
He came so near as almost to brush my arm, yet turned not his head to
either side. My nearer view of him made his brawny arms and lofty
stature more conspicuous; but his imperfect dress, the dimness of the
light, and the confusion of my own thoughts, hindered me from discerning
his features. He proceeded with a few quick steps along the road, but
presently darted to one side and disappeared among the rocks and bushes.

My eye followed him as long as he was visible, but my feet were rooted
to the spot. My musing was rapid and incongruous. It could not fail to
terminate in one conjecture, that this person was _asleep_. Such
instances were not unknown to me, through the medium of conversation and
books. Never, indeed, had it fallen under my own observation till now,
and now it was conspicuous, and environed with all that could give edge
to suspicion and vigour to inquiry. To stand here was no longer of use,
and I turned my steps towards my uncle's habitation.




Chapter II.


I had food enough for the longest contemplation. My steps partook, as
usual, of the vehemence of my thoughts, and I reached my uncle's gate
before I believed myself to have lost sight of the elm. I looked up and
discovered the well-known habitation. I could not endure that my
reflections should so speedily be interrupted. I therefore passed the
gate, and stopped not till I had reached a neighbouring summit, crowned
with chestnut-oaks and poplars.

Here I more deliberately reviewed the incidents that had just occurred.
The inference was just, that the man, half clothed and digging, was a
sleeper; but what was the cause of this morbid activity? What was the
mournful vision that dissolved him in tears, and extorted from him
tokens of inconsolable distress? What did he seek, or what endeavour to
conceal, in this fatal spot? The incapacity of sound sleep denotes a
mind sorely wounded. It is thus that atrocious criminals denote the
possession of some dreadful secret. The thoughts, which considerations
of safety enable them to suppress or disguise during wakefulness,
operate without impediment, and exhibit their genuine effects, when the
notices of sense are partly excluded and they are shut out from a
knowledge of their entire condition.

This is the perpetrator of some nefarious deed. What but the murder of
Waldegrave could direct his steps hither? His employment was part of
some fantastic drama in which his mind was busy. To comprehend it
demands penetration into the recesses of his soul. But one thing is
sure: an incoherent conception of his concern in that transaction
bewitches him hither. This it is that deluges his heart with bitterness
and supplies him with ever-flowing tears.

But whence comes he? He does not start from the bosom of the earth, or
hide himself in airy distance. He must have a name and a terrestrial
habitation. It cannot be at an immeasurable distance from the haunted
elm. Inglefield's house is the nearest. This may be one of its
inhabitants. I did not recognise his features, but this was owing to the
dusky atmosphere and to the singularity of his garb. Inglefield has two
servants, one of whom was a native of this district, simple, guileless,
and incapable of any act of violence. He was, moreover, devoutly
attached to his sect. He could not be the criminal.

The other was a person of a very different cast. He was an emigrant from
Ireland, and had been six months in the family of my friend. He was a
pattern of sobriety and gentleness. His mind was superior to his
situation. His natural endowments were strong, and had enjoyed all the
advantage of cultivation. His demeanour was grave, and thoughtful, and
compassionate. He appeared not untinctured with religion; but his
devotion, though unostentatious, was of a melancholy tenor.

There was nothing in the first view of his character calculated to
engender suspicion. The neighbourhood was populous. But, as I conned
over the catalogue, I perceived that the only foreigner among us was
Clithero. Our scheme was, for the most part, a patriarchal one. Each
farmer was surrounded by his sons and kinsmen. This was an exception to
the rule. Clithero was a stranger, whose adventures and character,
previously to his coming hither, were unknown to us. The elm was
surrounded by his master's domains. An actor there must be, and no one
was equally questionable.

The more I revolved the pensive and reserved deportment of this man, the
ignorance in which we were placed respecting his former situation, his
possible motives for abandoning his country and choosing a station so
much below the standard of his intellectual attainments, the stronger my
suspicions became. Formerly, when occupied with conjectures relative to
the same topic, the image of this man did not fail to occur; but the
seeming harmlessness of his ordinary conduct had raised him to a level
with others, and placed him equally beyond the reach of suspicion. I did
not, till now, advert to the recentness of his appearance among us, and
to the obscurity that hung over his origin and past life. But now these
considerations appeared so highly momentous as almost to decide the
question of his guilt.

But how were these doubts to be changed into absolute certainty?
Henceforth this man was to become the subject of my scrutiny. I was to
gain all the knowledge, respecting him, which those with whom he lived,
and were the perpetual witnesses of his actions, could impart. For this
end I was to make minute inquiries, and to put seasonable
interrogatories. From this conduct I promised myself an ultimate
solution of my doubts.

I acquiesced in this view of things with considerable satisfaction. It
seemed as if the maze was no longer inscrutable. It would be quickly
discovered who were the agents and instigators of the murder of my
friend.

But it suddenly occurred to me, For what purpose shall I prosecute this
search? What benefit am I to reap from this discovery? How shall I
demean myself when the criminal is detected? I was not insensible, at
that moment, of the impulses of vengeance, but they were transient. I
detested the sanguinary resolutions that I had once formed. Yet I was
fearful of the effects of my hasty rage, and dreaded an encounter in
consequence of which I might rush into evils which no time could repair,
nor penitence expiate.

"But why," said I, "should it be impossible to arm myself with firmness?
If forbearance be the dictate of wisdom, cannot it be so deeply engraven
on my mind as to defy all temptation, and be proof against the most
abrupt surprise? My late experience has been of use to me. It has shown
me my weakness and my strength. Having found my ancient fortifications
insufficient to withstand the enemy, what should I learn from thence but
that it becomes me to strengthen and enlarge them?

"No caution, indeed, can hinder the experiment from being hazardous. Is
it wise to undertake experiments by which nothing can be gained, and
much may be lost? Curiosity is vicious, if undisciplined by reason, and
inconducive to benefit."

I was not, however, to be diverted from my purpose. Curiosity, like
virtue, is its own reward. Knowledge is of value for its own sake, and
pleasure is annexed to the acquisition, without regard to any thing
beyond. It is precious even when disconnected with moral inducements and
heartfelt sympathies; but the knowledge which I sought by its union with
these was calculated to excite the most complex and fiery sentiments in
my bosom.

Hours were employed in revolving these thoughts. At length I began to be
sensible of fatigue, and, returning home, explored the way to my chamber
without molesting the repose of the family. You know that our doors are
always unfastened, and are accessible at all hours of the night.

My slumbers were imperfect, and I rejoiced when the morning light
permitted me to resume my meditations. The day glided away, I scarcely
know how, and, as I had rejoiced at the return of morning, I now hailed,
with pleasure, the approach of night.

My uncle and sisters having retired, I betook myself, instead of
following their example, to the _Chestnut-hill_. Concealed among
its rocks, or gazing at the prospect which stretched so far and so wide
around it, my fancy has always been accustomed to derive its highest
enjoyment from this spot. I found myself again at leisure to recall the
scene which I had witnessed during the last night, to imagine its
connection with the fate of Waldegrave, and to plan the means of
discovering the secret that was hidden under these appearances.

Shortly, I began to feel insupportable disquiet at the thoughts of
postponing this discovery. Wiles and stratagems were practicable, but
they were tedious, and of dubious success. Why should I proceed like a
plotter? Do I intend the injury of this person? A generous purpose will
surely excuse me from descending to artifices. There are two modes of
drawing forth the secrets of another,--by open and direct means and by
circuitous and indirect. Why scruple to adopt the former mode? Why not
demand a conference, and state my doubts, and demand a solution of them,
in a manner worthy of a beneficent purpose? Why not hasten to the spot?
He may be, at this moment, mysteriously occupied under this shade. I may
note his behaviour; I may ascertain his person, if not by the features
that belong to him, yet by tracing his footsteps when he departs, and
pursuing him to his retreats.

I embraced this scheme, which was thus suggested, with eagerness. I
threw myself with headlong speed down the hill and pursued my way to the
elm. As I approached the tree, my palpitations increased, though my pace
slackened. I looked forward with an anxious glance. The trunk of the
tree was hidden in the deepest shade. I advanced close up to it. No one
was visible, but I was not discouraged. The hour of his coming was,
perhaps, not arrived. I took my station at a small distance, beside a
fence, on the right hand.

An hour elapsed before my eyes lighted on the object of which they were
in search. My previous observation had been roving from one quarter to
another. At last, it dwelt upon the tree. The person whom I before
described was seated on the ground. I had not perceived him before, and
the means by which he placed himself in this situation had escaped my
notice. He seemed like one whom an effort of will, without the exercise
of locomotion, had transported hither, or made visible. His state of
disarray, and the darkness that shrouded him, prevented me, as before,
from distinguishing any peculiarities in his figure or countenance.

I continued watchful and mute. The appearances already described took
place on this occasion, except the circumstance of digging in the earth.
He sat musing for a while, then burst into sighs and lamentations.

These being exhausted, he rose to depart. He stalked away with a solemn
and deliberate pace. I resolved to tread, as closely as possible, in his
footsteps, and not to lose sight of him till the termination of his
career.

Contrary to my expectation, he went in a direction opposite to that
which led to Inglefield's. Presently, he stopped at bars, which he
cautiously removed, and, when he had passed through them, as
deliberately replaced. He then proceeded along an obscure path, which
led across stubble-fields, to a wood. The path continued through the
wood, but he quickly struck out of it, and made his way, seemingly at
random, through a most perplexing undergrowth of bushes and briers.

I was, at first, fearful that the noise which I made behind him, in
trampling down the thicket, would alarm him; but he regarded it not. The
way that he had selected was always difficult: sometimes considerable
force was requisite to beat down obstacles; sometimes it led into a deep
glen, the sides of which were so steep as scarcely to afford a footing;
sometimes into fens, from which some exertions were necessary to
extricate the feet, and sometimes through rivulets, of which the water
rose to the middle.

For some time I felt no abatement of my speed or my resolution. I
thought I might proceed, without fear, through brakes and dells which my
guide was able to penetrate. He was perpetually changing his direction.
I could form no just opinion as to my situation or distance from the
place at which we had set out.

I began at length to be weary. A suspicion, likewise, suggested itself
to my mind, whether my guide did not perceive that he was followed, and
thus prolonged his journey in order to fatigue or elude his pursuer. I
was determined, however, to baffle his design. Though the air was
frosty, my limbs were bedewed with sweat and my joints were relaxed with
toil, but I was obstinately bent upon proceeding.

At length a new idea occurred to me. On finding me indefatigable in
pursuit, this person might resort to more atrocious methods of
concealment. But what had I to fear? It was sufficient to be upon my
guard. Man to man, I needed not to dread his encounter.

We at last arrived at the verge of a considerable precipice. He kept
along the edge. From this height, a dreary vale was discoverable,
embarrassed with the leafless stocks of bushes, and encumbered with
rugged and pointed rocks. This scene reminded me of my situation. The
desert tract called Norwalk, which I have often mentioned to you, my
curiosity had formerly induced me to traverse in various directions. It
was in the highest degree rugged, picturesque, and wild. This vale,
though I had never before viewed it by the glimpses of the moon,
suggested the belief that I had visited it before. Such a one I knew
belonged to this uncultivated region. If this opinion were true, we were
at no inconsiderable distance from Inglefield's habitation. "Where,"
said I, "is this singular career to terminate?"

Though occupied with these reflections, I did not slacken my pursuit.
The stranger kept along the verge of the cliff, which gradually declined
till it terminated in the valley. He then plunged into its deepest
thickets. In a quarter of an hour he stopped under a projecture of the
rock which formed the opposite side of the vale. He then proceeded to
remove the stalks, which, as I immediately perceived, concealed the
mouth of a cavern. He plunged into the darkness, and in a few moments
his steps were heard no more.

Hitherto my courage had supported me, but here it failed. Was this
person an assassin, who was acquainted with the windings of the grotto,
and who would take advantage of the dark to execute his vengeance upon
me, who had dared to pursue him to these forlorn retreats? or was he
maniac, or walker in his sleep? Whichever supposition were true, it
would be rash in me to follow him. Besides, he could not long remain in
these darksome recesses, unless some fatal accident should overtake him.

I seated myself at the mouth of the cave, determined patiently to wait
till he should think proper to emerge. This opportunity of rest was
exceedingly acceptable after so toilsome a pilgrimage. My pulse began to
beat more slowly, and the moisture that incommoded me ceased to flow.
The coolness, which for a little time was delicious, presently increased
to shivering, and I found it necessary to change my posture, in order to
preserve my blood from congealing.

After I had formed a path before the cavern's mouth, by the removal of
obstructions, I employed myself in walking to and fro. In this situation
I saw the moon gradually decline to the horizon, and, at length,
disappear. I marked the deepenings of the shade, and the mutations which
every object successively underwent. The vale was narrow, and hemmed in
on all sides by lofty and precipitous cliffs. The gloom deepened as the
moon declined, and the faintness of starlight was all that preserved my
senses from being useless to my own guidance.

I drew nearer the cleft at which this mysterious personage had entered.
I stretched my hands before it, determined that he should not emerge
from his den without my notice. His steps would, necessarily,
communicate the tidings of his approach. He could not move without a
noise which would be echoed to, on all sides, by the abruptness by which
this valley was surrounded. Here, then, I continued till the day began
to dawn, in momentary expectation of the stranger's reappearance.

My attention was at length excited by a sound that seemed to issue from
the cave. I imagined that the sleeper was returning, and prepared
therefore to seize him. I blamed myself for neglecting the opportunities
that had already been afforded, and was determined that another should
not escape. My eyes were fixed upon the entrance. The rustling
increased, and presently an animal leaped forth, of what kind I was
unable to discover. Heart-struck by this disappointment, but not
discouraged, I continued to watch, but in vain. The day was advancing
apace. At length the sun arose, and its beams glistened on the edges of
the cliffs above, whose sapless stalks and rugged masses were covered
with hoarfrost. I began to despair of success, but was unwilling to
depart until it was no longer possible to hope for the return of this
extraordinary personage. Whether he had been swallowed up by some of the
abysses of this grotto, or lurked near the entrance, waiting my
departure, or had made his exit at another and distant aperture, was
unknown to me.

Exhausted and discouraged, I prepared, at length, to return. It was easy
to find my way out of this wilderness by going forward in one direction,
regardless of impediments and cross-paths. My absence I believed to have
occasioned no alarm to my family, since they knew not of my intention to
spend the night abroad. Thus unsatisfactorily terminated this night's
adventures.




Chapter III.


The ensuing day was spent partly in sleep, and partly in languor and
disquietude. I incessantly ruminated on the incidents of the last night.
The scheme that I had formed was defeated. Was it likely that this
unknown person would repeat his midnight visits to the elm? If he did,
and could again be discovered, should I resolve to undertake a new
pursuit, which might terminate abortively, or in some signal disaster?
But what proof had I that the same route would be taken, and that he
would again inter himself alive in the same spot? Or, if he did, since
his reappearance would sufficiently prove that the cavern was not
dangerous, and that he who should adventure in might hope to come out
again in safety, why not enter it after him? What could be the
inducements of this person to betake himself to subterranean retreats?
The basis of all this region is _limestone_; a substance that
eminently abounds in rifts and cavities. These, by the gradual decay of
their cementing parts, frequently make their appearance in spots where
they might have been least expected. My attention has often been excited
by the hollow sound which was produced by my casual footsteps, and which
showed me that I trod upon the roof of caverns. A mountain-cave and the
rumbling of an unseen torrent are appendages of this scene, dear to my
youthful imagination. Many of romantic structure were found within the
precincts of Norwalk.

These I had industriously sought out; but this had hitherto escaped my
observation, and I formed the resolution of some time exploring it. At
present I determined to revisit the elm, and dig in the spot where this
person had been employed in a similar way. It might be that something
was here deposited which might exhibit this transaction in a new light.
At the suitable hour, on the ensuing night, I took my former stand. The
person again appeared. My intention to dig was to be carried into effect
on condition of his absence, and was, consequently, frustrated.

Instead of rushing on him, and breaking at once the spell by which his
senses were bound, I concluded, contrary to my first design, to wait his
departure, and allow myself to be conducted whithersoever he pleased.
The track into which he now led me was different from the former one. It
was a maze, oblique, circuitous, upward and downward, in a degree which
only could take place in a region so remarkably irregular in surface, so
abounding with hillocks and steeps and pits and brooks, as
_Solesbury_. It seemed to be the sole end of his labours to
bewilder or fatigue his pursuer, to pierce into the deepest thickets, to
plunge into the darkest cavities, to ascend the most difficult heights,
and approach the slippery and tremulous verge of the dizziest
precipices.

I disdained to be outstripped in this career. All dangers were
overlooked, and all difficulties defied. I plunged into obscurities, and
clambered over obstacles, from which, in a different state of mind, and
with a different object of pursuit, I should have recoiled with
invincible timidity. When the scene had passed, I could not review the
perils I had undergone without shuddering.

At length my conductor struck into a path which, compared with the
ruggedness of that which we had lately trodden, was easy and smooth.
This track led us to the skirt of the wilderness, and at no long time we
reached an open field, when a dwelling appeared, at a small distance,
which I speedily recognised to be that belonging to Inglefield. I now
anticipated the fulfilment of my predictions. My conductor directed his
steps towards the barn, into which he entered by a small door.

How were my doubts removed! This was no other than Clithero Edny. There
was nothing in his appearance incompatible with this conclusion. He and
his fellow-servant occupied an apartment in the barn as a lodging-room.
This arduous purpose was accomplished, and I retired to the shelter of a
neighbouring shed, not so much to repose myself after the fatigues of my
extraordinary journey, as to devise further expedients.

Nothing now remained but to take Clithero to task; to repeat to him the
observations of the two last nights; to unfold to him my conjectures and
suspicions; to convince him of the rectitude of my intentions; and to
extort from him a disclosure of all the circumstances connected with the
death of Waldegrave which it was in his power to communicate.

In order to obtain a conference, I resolved to invite him to my uncle's
to perform a certain piece of work for me under my own eyes. He would,
of course, spend the night with us, and in the evening I would take an
opportunity of entering into conversation with him.

A period of the deepest deliberation was necessary to qualify myself for
performing suitably my part in this projected interview. I attended to
the feelings that were suggested in this new state of my knowledge. I
found reason to confide in my newly-acquired equanimity. "Remorse," said
I, "is an ample and proper expiation for all offences. What does
vengeance desire but to inflict misery? If misery come, its desires are
accomplished. It is only the obdurate and exulting criminal that is
worthy of our indignation. It is common for pity to succeed the
bitterest suggestions of resentment. If the vengeful mind be delighted
with the spectacle of woes of its own contriving, at least its canine
hunger is appeased, and thenceforth its hands are inactive."

On the evening of the next day, I paid a visit to Inglefield. I wished
to impart to him the discoveries that I had made, and to listen to his
reflections on the subject. I likewise desired to obtain all possible
information from the family respecting the conduct of Clithero.

My friend received me with his usual kindness. Thou art no stranger to
his character; thou knowest with what paternal affection I have ever
been regarded by this old man; with what solicitude the wanderings of my
reason and my freaks of passion have been noted and corrected by him.
Thou knowest his activity to save the life of thy brother, and the hours
that have been spent by him in aiding my conjectures as to the cause of
his death, and inculcating the lessons of penitence and duty.

The topics which could not but occur at such a meeting were quickly
discussed, and I hastily proceeded to that subject which was nearest my
heart. I related the adventures of the two preceding nights, and
mentioned the inference to which they irresistibly led.

He said that this inference coincided with suspicions he had formed,
since our last interview, in consequence of certain communications from
his housekeeper. It seems the character of Clithero had, from the first,
exercised the inquisitiveness of this old lady. She had carefully marked
his musing and melancholy deportment. She had tried innumerable
expedients for obtaining a knowledge of his past life, and particularly
of his motives for coming to America. These expedients, however profound
and addressful, had failed. He took no pains to elude them. He contented
himself with turning a deaf ear to all indirect allusions and hints,
and, when more explicitly questioned, with simply declaring that he had
nothing to communicate worthy of her notice.

During the day he was a sober and diligent workman. His evenings he
spent in incommunicative silence. On Sundays, he always rambled away, no
one knew whither, and without a companion. I have already observed that
he and his fellow-servant occupied the same apartment in the barn. This
circumstance was not unattended to by Miss Inglefield. The name of
Clithero's companion was Ambrose. This man was copiously interrogated by
his mistress, and she found him by no means so refractory as the other.

Ambrose, in his tedious and confused way, related that, soon after
Clithero and he had become bedfellows, the former was considerably
disturbed by restlessness and talking in his sleep. His discourse was
incoherent. It was generally in the tone of expostulation, and appeared
to be entreating to be saved from some great injury. Such phrases as
these,--"have pity;" "have mercy," were frequently intermingled with
groans, and accompanied with weeping. Sometimes he seemed to be holding
conferences with some one who was making him considerable offers on
condition of his performing some dangerous service. What he said in his
own person, and in answer to his imaginary tempter, testified the utmost
reluctance.

Ambrose had no curiosity on the subject. As this interruption prevented
him at first from sleeping, it was his custom to put an end to the
dialogue, by awakening his companion, who betrayed tokens of great alarm
and dejection on discovering how he had been employed. He would
solicitously inquire what were the words that he had uttered; but
Ambrose's report was seldom satisfactory, because he had attended to
them but little, and because he grudged every moment in which he was
deprived of his accustomed repose.

Whether Clithero had ceased from this practice, or habit had reconciled
his companion to the sounds, they no longer occasioned any interruption
to his slumber.

No one appeared more shocked than he at the death of Waldegrave. After
this event his dejection suddenly increased. This symptom was observed
by the family, but none but the housekeeper took the trouble to notice
it to him, or build conjectures on the incident. During nights, however,
Ambrose experienced a renewal of his ancient disturbances. He remarked
that Clithero, one night, had disappeared from his side. Ambrose's range
of reflection was extremely narrow. Quickly falling asleep, and finding
his companion beside him when he awoke, he dismissed it from his mind.

On several ensuing nights he awakened in like manner, and always found
his companion's place empty. The repetition of so strange an incident at
length incited him to mention it to Clithero. The latter was confounded
at this intelligence. He questioned Ambrose with great anxiety as to the
particulars of this event, but he could gain no satisfaction from the
stupid inattention of the other. From this time there was a visible
augmentation of his sadness. His fits of taciturnity became more
obstinate, and a deeper gloom sat upon his brow.

There was one other circumstance, of particular importance, mentioned by
the housekeeper. One evening some one on horseback stopped at this gate.
He rattled at the gate, with an air of authority, in token of his desire
that some one would come from the house. Miss Inglefield was employed in
the kitchen, from a window of which she perceived who it was that made
the signal. Clithero happened, at the same moment, to be employed near
her. She, therefore, desired him to go and see whom the stranger wanted.
He laid aside his work and went. The conference lasted above five
minutes. The length of it excited in her a faint degree of surprise,
inducing her to leave her employment and pay an unintermitted attention
to the scene. There was nothing, however, but its duration that rendered
it remarkable.

Clithero at length entered, and the traveller proceeded. The countenance
of the former betrayed a degree of perturbation which she had never
witnessed before. The muscles of his face were distorted and tremulous.
He immediately sat down to his work, but he seemed, for some time, to
have lost all power over his limbs. He struggled to avoid the sight of
the lady, and his gestures, irresolute or misdirected, betokened the
deepest dismay. After some time, he recovered, in some degree, his
self-possession; but, while the object was viewed through a new medium,
and the change existed only in the imagination of the observer, a change
was certainly discovered.

These circumstances were related to me by Inglefield and corroborated by
his housekeeper. One consequence inevitably flowed from them. The
sleep-walker, he who had led me through so devious a tract, was no other
than Clithero. There was, likewise, a strong relation between this person
and him who stopped at the gate. What was the subject of discourse between
them? In answer to Miss Inglefield's interrogatories, he merely said
that the traveller inquired whither the road led which, at a small
distance forward, struck out of the principal one. Considering the
length of the interview, it was not likely that this was the only topic.

My determination to confer with him in private acquired new force from
these reflections. Inglefield assented to my proposal. His own affairs
would permit the absence of his servant for one day. I saw no necessity
for delay, and immediately made my request to Clithero. I was fashioning
an implement, I told him, with respect to which I could not wholly
depend upon my own skill. I was acquainted with the dexterity of his
contrivances, and the neatness of his workmanship. He readily consented
to assist me on this occasion. Next day he came. Contrary to my
expectation, he prepared to return home in the evening. I urged him to
spend the night with us: but no; it was equally convenient, and more
agreeable to him, to return.

I was not aware of this resolution. I might, indeed, have foreseen that,
being conscious of his infirmity, he would desire to avoid the scrutiny
of strangers. I was painfully disconcerted; but it occurred to me, that
the best that could be done was to bear him company, and seize some
opportunity, during this interval, of effecting my purpose. I told him,
that, since he would not remain, I cared not if, for the sake of
recreation, and of a much more momentous purpose, I went along with him.
He tacitly, and without apparent reluctance, consented to my scheme,
and, accordingly, we set off together. This was an awful crisis. The
time had now come that was to dissipate my uncertainty. By what means
should I introduce a topic so momentous and singular? I had been
qualified by no experience for rightly conducting myself on so critical
an emergency. My companion preserved a mournful and inviolable silence.
He afforded me no opening by which I might reach the point in view. His
demeanour was sedate, while I was almost disabled, by the confusion of
my thoughts, to utter a word.

It was a dreadful charge that I was about to insinuate. I was to accuse
my companion of nothing less than murder. I was to call upon him for an
avowal of his guilt. I was to state the ground of my suspicions, and
desire him to confute or confirm them. In doing this, I was principally
stimulated by an ungovernable curiosity; yet, if I intended not the
conferring of a benefit, I did not, at least, purpose the infliction of
evil. I persuaded myself that I was able to exclude from my bosom all
sanguinary or vengeful impulses; and that, whatever should be the issue
of this conversation, my equanimity would be unsubdued.

I revolved various modes of introducing the topic by which my mind was
engaged. I passed rapidly from one to another. None of them were
sufficiently free from objection to allow me to adopt it. My perplexity
became, every moment, more painful, and my ability to extricate myself,
less.

In this state of uncertainty, so much time elapsed, that the elm at
length appeared in sight. This object had somewhat of a mechanical
influence upon me. I stopped short, and seized the arm of my companion.
Till this moment, he appeared to have been engrossed by his own
reflections, and not to have heeded those emotions which must have been
sufficiently conspicuous in my looks.

This action recalled him from his reverie. The first idea that occurred
to him, when he had noticed my behaviour, was, that I was assailed by
some sudden indisposition.

"What is the matter?" said he, in a tone of anxiety: "are you not well?"

"Yes," replied I,--"perfectly well. But stop a moment; I have something
to say to you."

"To me?" answered he, with surprise.

"Yes," said I. "Let us turn down this path," (pointing, at the same
time, to that along which I had followed him the preceding night.)

He now partook, in some degree, of my embarrassment.

"Is there any thing particular?" said he, in a doubting accent. There he
stopped.

"Something," I answered, "of the highest moment. Go with me down this
path. We shall be in less danger of interruption."

He was irresolute and silent, but, seeing me remove the bars and pass
through them, he followed me. Nothing more was said till we entered the
wood. I trusted to the suggestions of the moment. I had now gone too far
to recede, and the necessity that pressed upon me supplied me with
words. I continued:--

"This is a remarkable spot. You may wonder why I have led you to it. I
ought not to keep you in suspense. There is a tale connected with it,
which I am desirous of telling you. For this purpose I have brought you
hither. Listen to me."

I then recapitulated the adventures of the two preceding nights. I added
nothing, nor retrenched any thing. He listened in the deepest silence.
From every incident, he gathered new cause of alarm. Repeatedly he wiped
his face with his handkerchief, and sighed deeply. I took no verbal
notice of these symptoms. I deemed it incumbent on me to repress
nothing. When I came to the concluding circumstance, by which his person
was identified, he heard me without any new surprise. To this narrative
I subjoined the inquiries that I had made at Inglefield's, and the
result of those inquiries. I then continued in these words:--

"You may ask why I subjected myself to all this trouble. The
mysteriousness of these transactions would have naturally suggested
curiosity in any one. A transient passenger would probably have acted as
I have done. But I had motives peculiar to myself. Need I remind you of
a late disaster? That it happened beneath the shade of this tree? Am I
not justified in drawing certain inferences from your behaviour? What
they are, I leave you to judge. Be it your task to confute or confirm
them. For this end I have conducted you hither.

"My suspicions are vehement. How can they be otherwise? I call upon you
to say whether they be just."

The spot where we stood was illuminated by the moon, that had now risen,
though all around was dark. Hence his features and person were easily
distinguished. His hands hung at his side. His eyes were downcast, and
he was motionless as a statue. My last words seemed scarcely to have
made any impression on his sense. I had no need to provide against the
possible suggestions of revenge. I felt nothing but the tenderness of
compassion. I continued, for some time, to observe him in silence, and
could discover no tokens of a change of mood. I could not forbear, at
last, to express my uneasiness at the fixedness of his features and
attitude.

"Recollect yourself. I mean not to urge you too closely. This topic is
solemn, but it need not divest you of the fortitude becoming a man."

The sound of my voice startled him. He broke from me, looked up, and
fixed his eyes upon me with an expression of affright. He shuddered and
recoiled as from a spectre. I began to repent of my experiment. I could
say nothing suitable to this occasion. I was obliged to stand a silent
and powerless spectator, and to suffer this paroxysm to subside of
itself. When its violence appeared to be somewhat abated, I resumed:--

"I can feel for you. I act not thus in compliance with a temper that
delights in the misery of others. The explanation that I have solicited
is no less necessary for your sake than for mine. You are no stranger to
the light in which I viewed this man. You have witnessed the grief which
his fate occasioned, and the efforts that I made to discover and drag to
punishment his murderer. You heard the execrations that I heaped upon
him, and my vows of eternal revenge. You expect that, having detected
the offender, I will hunt him to infamy and death. You are mistaken. I
consider the deed as sufficiently expiated.

"I am no stranger to your gnawing cares; to the deep and incurable
despair that haunts you, to which your waking thoughts are a prey, and
from which sleep cannot secure you. I know the enormity of your crime,
but I know not your inducements. Whatever they were, I see the
consequences with regard to yourself. I see proofs of that remorse which
must ever be attendant on guilt.

"This is enough. Why should the effects of our misdeeds be
inexhaustible? Why should we be debarred from a comforter? An
opportunity of repairing our errors may, at least, be demanded from the
rulers of our destiny.

"I once imagined that he who killed Waldegrave inflicted the greatest
possible injury on me. That was an error, which reflection has cured.
Were futurity laid open to my view, and events, with their consequences,
unfolded, I might see reason to embrace the assassin as my best friend.
Be comforted."

He was still incapable of speaking; but tears came to his relief.
Without attending to my remonstrances, he betrayed a disposition to
return. I had, hitherto, hoped for some disclosure, but now feared that
it was designed to be withheld. He stopped not till we reached
Inglefield's piazza. He then spoke, for the first time, but in a hollow
and tremulous voice:--

"You demand of me a confession of crimes. You shall have it. Some time
you shall have it. When it will be, I cannot tell. Something must be
done, and shortly."

He hurried from me into the house, and, after a pause, I turned my
steps home wards. My reflections, as I proceeded, perpetually revolved
round a single point. These were scarcely more than a repetition, with
slight variations, of a single idea.

When I awoke in the morning, I hied, in fancy, to the wilderness. I saw
nothing but the figure of the wanderer before me. I traced his footsteps
anew, retold my narrative, and pondered on his gestures and words. My
condition was not destitute of enjoyment. My stormy passions had
subsided into a calm, portentous and awful. My soul was big with
expectation. I seemed as if I were on the eve of being ushered into a
world whose scenes were tremendous but sublime. The suggestions of
sorrow and malice had, for a time, taken their flight, and yielded place
to a generous sympathy, which filled my eyes with tears, but had more in
it of pleasure than of pain. That Clithero was instrumental to the death
of Waldegrave, that he could furnish the clue explanatory of every
bloody and mysterious event that had hitherto occurred, there was no
longer the possibility of doubting. "He, indeed," said I, "is the
murderer of excellence; and yet it shall be my province to emulate a
father's clemency, and restore this unhappy man to purity and to peace."

Day after day passed, without hearing any thing of Clithero. I began to
grow uneasy and impatient. I had gained so much, and by means so
unexpected, that I could more easily endure uncertainty with respect to
what remained to be known. But my patience had its limits. I should,
doubtless, have made use of new means to accelerate this discovery, had
not his timely appearance made them superfluous.

Sunday being at length arrived, I resolved to go to Inglefield's, seek
an interview with his servant, and urge him, by new importunities, to
confide to me the secret. On my way thither, Clithero appeared in sight.
His visage was pale and wan, and his form emaciated and shrunk. I was
astonished at the alteration which the lapse of a week had made in his
appearance. At a small distance I mistook him for a stranger. As soon as
I perceived who it was, I greeted him with the utmost friendliness. My
civilities made little impression on him, and he hastened to inform me,
that he was coming to my uncle's, for the purpose of meeting and talking
with me. If I thought proper, we would go into the wood together, and
find some spot where we might discourse at our leisure and be exempt
from interruption.

You will easily conceive with what alacrity I accepted his invitation.
We returned from the road into the first path, and proceeded in silence,
till the wildness of the surrounding scenery informed us that we were in
the heart of Norwalk. We lighted on a recess, to which my companion
appeared to be familiar, and which had all the advantages of solitude,
and was suitable to rest. Here we stopped. Hitherto my companion had
displayed a certain degree of composure. Now his countenance betokened a
violent internal struggle. It was a considerable time before he could
command his speech. When he had so far effected the conquest of his
feelings, he began.




Chapter IV.


You call upon me for a confession of my offences. What a strange fortune
is mine! That a human being, in the present circumstances, should make
this demand, and that I should be driven, by an irresistible necessity,
to comply with it! That here should terminate my calamitous series! That
my destiny should call upon me to lie down and die, in a region so
remote from the scene of my crime; at a distance so great from all that
witnessed and endured their consequences!

You believe me to be an assassin. You require me to explain the motives
that induced me to murder the innocent. While this is your belief, and
this the scope of your expectations, you may be sure of my compliance. I
could resist every demand but this.

For what purpose have I come hither? Is it to relate my story? Shall I
calmly sit here, and rehearse the incidents of my life? Will my strength
be adequate to this rehearsal? Let me recollect the motives that
governed me, when I formed this design. Perhaps a strenuousness may be
imparted by them which, otherwise, I cannot hope to obtain. For the sake
of those, I consent to conjure up the ghost of the past, and to begin a
tale that, with a fortitude like mine, I am not sure that I shall live
to finish.

You are unacquainted with the man before you. The inferences which you
have drawn, with regard to my designs and my conduct, are a tissue of
destructive errors. You, like others, are blind to the most momentous
consequences of your own actions. You talk of imparting consolation. You
boast the beneficence of your intentions. You set yourself to do me a
benefit. What are the effects of your misguided zeal and random efforts?
They have brought my life to a miserable close. They have shrouded the
last scene of it in blood. They have put the seal to my perdition.

My misery has been greater than has fallen to the lot of mortals. Yet it
is but beginning. My present path, full as it is of asperities, is
better than that into which I must enter when this is abandoned.
Perhaps, if my pilgrimage had been longer, I might, at some future day,
have lighted upon hope. In consequence of your interference, I am
forever debarred from it. My existence is henceforward to be invariable.
The woes that are reserved for me are incapable alike of alleviation or
intermission.

But I came not hither to recriminate. I came not hither to accuse
others, but myself. I know the retribution that is appointed for guilt
like mine. It is just. I may shudder at the foresight of my punishment
and shrink in the endurance of it; but I shall be indebted for part of
my torment to the vigour of my understanding, which teaches me that my
punishment is just. Why should I procrastinate my doom and strive to
render my burden more light? It is but just that it should crush me. Its
procrastination is impossible. The stroke is already felt. Even now I
drink of the cup of retribution. A change of being cannot aggravate my
woe. Till consciousness itself be extinct, the worm that gnaws me will
never perish.

Fain would I be relieved from this task. Gladly would I bury in oblivion
the transactions of my life. But no! My fate is uniform. The demon that
controlled me at first is still in the fruition of power. I am entangled
in his fold, and every effort that I make to escape only involves me in
deeper ruin. I need not conceal, for all the consequences of disclosure
are already experienced. I cannot endure a groundless imputation, though
to free me from it I must create and justify imputations still more
atrocious. My story may at least be brief. If the agonies of remembrance
must be awakened afresh, let me do all that in me lies to shorten them.

I was born in the county of Armagh. My parents were of the better sort
of peasants, and were able to provide me with the rudiments of
knowledge. I should doubtless have trodden in their footsteps, and have
spent my life in the cultivation of their scanty fields, if an event had
not happened, Which, for a long time, I regarded as the most fortunate
of my life, but which I now regard as the scheme of some infernal agent,
and as the primary source of all my calamities.

My father's farm was a portion of the demesne of one who resided wholly
in the metropolis and consigned the management of his estates to his
stewards and retainers. This person married a lady who brought him great
accession of fortune. Her wealth was her only recommendation in the eyes
of her husband, (whose understanding was depraved by the prejudices of
luxury and rank,) but was the least of her attractions in the estimate
of reasonable beings.

They passed some years together. If their union were not a source of
misery to the lady, she was indebted for her tranquillity to the force
of her mind. She was, indeed, governed, in every action of her life, by
the precepts of duty, while her husband listened to no calls but those
of pernicious dissipation. He was immersed in all the vices that grow
out of opulence and a mistaken education.

Happily for his wife, his career was short. He was enraged at the
infidelity of his mistress, to purchase whose attachment he had lavished
two-thirds of his fortune. He called the paramour, by whom he had been
supplanted, to the field. The contest was obstinate, and terminated in
the death of the challenger.

This event freed the lady from many distressful and humiliating
obligations. She determined to profit by her newly-acquired
independence, to live thenceforward conformably to her notions of right,
to preserve and improve, by schemes of economy, the remains of her
fortune, and to employ it in the diffusion of good. Her plans made it
necessary to visit her estates in the distant provinces.

During her abode in the manor of which my father was a vassal, she
visited his cottage. I was at that time a child. She was pleased with my
vivacity and promptitude, and determined to take me under her own
protection. My parents joyfully acceded to her proposal, and I returned
with her to the capital.

She had an only son of my own age. Her design, in relation to me, was
that I should be educated with her child, and that an affection, in this
way, might be excited in me towards my young master, which might render
me, when we should attain to manhood, one of his most faithful and
intelligent dependants. I enjoyed, equally with him, all the essential
benefits of education. There were certain accomplishments, from which I
was excluded, from the belief that they were unsuitable to my rank and
station. I was permitted to acquire others, which, had she been actuated
by true discernment, she would, perhaps, have discovered to be far more
incompatible with a servile station. In proportion as my views were
refined and enlarged by history and science, I was likely to contract a
thirst of independence, and an impatience of subjection and poverty.

When the period of childhood and youth was past, it was thought proper
to send her son to improve his knowledge and manners by a residence on
the continent. This young man was endowed with splendid abilities. His
errors were the growth of his condition. All the expedients that
maternal solicitude and wisdom could suggest were employed to render him
a useful citizen. Perhaps this wisdom was attested by the large share of
excellence which he really possessed; and that his character was not
unblemished proved only that no exertions could preserve him from the
vices that are inherent in wealth and rank, and which flow from the
spectacle of universal depravity.

As to me, it would be folly to deny that I had benefited by my
opportunities of improvement. I fulfilled the expectation of my
mistress, in one respect. I was deeply imbued with affection for her
son, and reverence for herself. Perhaps the force of education was
evinced in those particulars, without reflecting any credit on the
directors of it. Those might merit the name of defects, which were
regarded by them as accomplishments. My unfavourable qualities, like
those of my master, were imputed to my condition, though, perhaps, the
difference was advantageous to me, since the vices of servitude are less
hateful than those of tyranny.

It was resolved that I should accompany my master in his travels, in
quality of favourite domestic. My principles, whatever might be their
rectitude, were harmonious and flexible. I had devoted my life to the
service of my patron. I had formed conceptions of what was really
conducive to his interest, and was not to be misled by specious
appearances. If my affection had not stimulated my diligence, I should
have found sufficient motives in the behaviour of his mother. She
condescended to express her reliance on my integrity and judgment. She
was not ashamed to manifest, at parting, the tenderness of a mother, and
to acknowledge that all her tears were not shed on her son's account. I
had my part in the regrets that called them forth.

During our absence, I was my master's constant attendant. I corresponded
with his mother, and made the conduct of her son the principal theme of
my letters. I deemed it my privilege, as well as duty, to sit in
judgment on his actions, to form my opinions without regard to selfish
considerations, and to avow them whenever the avowal tended to benefit.
Every letter which I wrote, particularly those in which his behaviour
was freely criticized, I allowed him to peruse. I would, on no account,
connive at or participate in the slightest irregularity. I knew the duty
of my station, and assumed no other control than that which resulted
from the avoiding of deceit, and the open expression of my sentiments.
The youth was of a noble spirit, but his firmness was wavering. He
yielded to temptations which a censor less rigorous than I would have
regarded as venial, or, perhaps, laudable. My duty required me to set
before him the consequences of his actions, and to give impartial and
timely information to his mother.

He could not brook a monitor. The more he needed reproof the less
supportable it became. My company became every day less agreeable, till
at length there appeared a necessity of parting. A separation took
place, but not as enemies. I never lost his respect. In his
representations to his mother, he was just to my character and services.
My dismission was not allowed to injure my fortune, and his mother
considered this event merely as a new proof of the inflexible
consistency of my principles.

On this change in my situation, she proposed to me to become a member of
her own family. No proposal could be more acceptable. I was fully
acquainted with the character of this lady, and had nothing to fear from
injustice and caprice. I did not regard her with filial familiarity, but
my attachment and reverence would have done honour to that relation. I
performed for her the functions of a steward. Her estates in the city
were put under my direction. She placed boundless confidence in my
discretion and integrity, and consigned to me the payment, and, in some
degree, the selection and government, of her servants. My station was a
servile one, yet most of the evils of servitude were unknown to me. My
personal ease and independence were less infringed than that of those
who are accounted the freest members of society. I derived a sort of
authority and dignity from the receipt and disbursement of money. The
tenants and debtors of the lady were, in some respects, mine. It was,
for the most part, on my justice and lenity that they depended for their
treatment. My lady's household-establishment was large and opulent. Her
servants were my inferiors and menials. My leisure was considerable, and
my emoluments large enough to supply me with every valuable instrument
of improvement or pleasure.

These were reasons why I should be contented with my lot. These
circumstances alone would have rendered it more eligible than any other,
but it had additional and far more powerful recommendations, arising
from the character of Mrs. Lorimer, and from the relation in which she
allowed me to stand to her.

How shall I enter upon this theme? How shall I expatiate upon
excellencies which it was my fate to view in their genuine colours, to
adore with an immeasurable and inextinguishable ardour, and which,
nevertheless, it was my hateful task to blast and destroy? Yet I will
not be spared. I shall find, in the rehearsal, new incitements to
sorrow. I deserve to be supreme in misery, and will not be denied the
full measure of a bitter retribution.

No one was better qualified to judge of her excellencies. A casual
spectator might admire her beauty, and the dignity of her demeanour.
From the contemplation of those, he might gather motives for loving or
revering her. Age was far from having withered her complexion, or
destroyed the evenness of her skin; but no time could rob her of the
sweetness and intelligence which animated her features. Her habitual
beneficence was bespoken in every look. Always in search of occasions
for doing good, always meditating scenes of happiness, of which she was
the author, or of distress, for which she was preparing relief, the most
torpid insensibility was, for a time, subdued, and the most depraved
smitten by charms of which, in another person, they would not perhaps
have been sensible.

A casual visitant might enjoy her conversation, might applaud the
rectitude of her sentiments, the richness of her elocution, and her
skill in all the offices of politeness. But it was only for him who
dwelt constantly under the same roof, to mark the inviolable consistency
of her actions and opinions, the ceaseless flow of her candour, her
cheerfulness, and her benevolence. It was only for one who witnessed her
behaviour at all hours, in sickness and in health, her management of
that great instrument of evil and good, money, her treatment of her son,
her menials, and her kindred, rightly to estimate her merits.

The intercourse between us was frequent, but of a peculiar kind. My
office in her family required me often to see her, to submit schemes to
her consideration, and receive her directions. At these times she
treated me in a manner in some degree adapted to the difference of rank
and the inferiority of my station, and yet widely dissimilar from that
which a different person would have adopted in the same circumstances.
The treatment was not that of an equal and a friend, but still more
remote was it from that of a mistress. It was merely characterized by
affability and condescension, but as such it had no limits.

She made no scruple to ask my counsel in every pecuniary affair, to
listen to my arguments, and decide conformably to what, after sufficient
canvassings and discussions, should appear to be right. When the direct
occasions of our interview were dismissed, I did not of course withdraw.
To detain or dismiss me was indeed at her option; but, if no engagement
interfered, she would enter into general conversation. There was none
who could with more safety to herself have made the world her confessor;
but the state of society in which she lived imposed certain limitations
on her candour. In her intercourse with me there were fewer restraints
than on any other occasion. My situation had made me more intimately
acquainted with domestic transactions, with her views respecting her
son, and with the terms on which she thought proper to stand with those
whom old acquaintance or kindred gave some title to her good offices. In
addition to all those motives to a candid treatment of me, there were
others which owed their efficacy to her maternal regard for me, and to
the artless and unsuspecting generosity of her character.

Her hours were distributed with the utmost regularity, and appropriated
to the best purposes. She selected her society without regard to any
qualities but probity and talents. Her associates were numerous, and her
evening conversations embellished with all that could charm the senses
or instruct the understanding. This was a chosen field for the display
of her magnificence; but her grandeur was unostentatious, and her
gravity unmingled with haughtiness. From these my station excluded me;
but I was compensated by the freedom of her communications in the
intervals. She found pleasure in detailing to me the incidents that
passed on those occasions, in rehearsing conversations and depicting
characters. There was an uncommon portion of dramatic merit in her
recitals, besides valuable and curious information. One uniform effect
was produced in me by this behaviour. Each day I thought it impossible
for my attachment to receive any new accessions, yet the morrow was sure
to produce some new emotion of respect or of gratitude, and to set the
unrivalled accomplishments of this lady in a new and more favourable
point of view. I contemplated no change in my condition. The necessity
of change, whatever were the alternative, would have been a subject of
piercing regret. I deemed my life a cheap sacrifice in her cause. No
time would suffice to discharge the debt of gratitude that was due to
her. Yet it was continually accumulating. If an anxious thought ever
invaded my bosom, it arose from this source.

It was no difficult task faithfully to execute the functions assigned to
me. No merit could accrue to me from this source. I was exposed to no
temptation. I had passed the feverish period of youth. No contagious
example had contaminated my principles. I had resisted, the allurements
of sensuality and dissipation incident to my age. My dwelling was in
pomp and splendour. I had amassed sufficient to secure me, in case of
unforeseen accidents, in the enjoyment of competence. My mental
resources were not despicable, and the external means of intellectual
gratification were boundless. I enjoyed an unsullied reputation. My
character was well known in that sphere which my lady occupied, not only
by means of her favourable report, but in numberless ways in which it
was my fortune to perform personal services to others.




Chapter V.


Mrs. Lorimer had a twin-brother. Nature had impressed the same image
upon them, and had modelled them after the same pattern. The resemblance
between them was exact to a degree almost incredible. In infancy and
childhood they were perpetually liable to be mistaken for each other. As
they grew up, nothing, to a superficial examination, appeared to
distinguish them, but the sexual characteristics. A sagacious observer
would, doubtless, have noted the most essential differences. In all
those modifications of the features which are produced by habits and
sentiments, no two persons were less alike. Nature seemed to have
intended them as examples of the futility of those theories which
ascribe every thing to conformation and instinct and nothing to external
circumstances; in what different modes the same materials may be
fashioned, and to what different purposes the same materials may be
applied. Perhaps the rudiments of their intellectual character, as well
as of their form, were the same; but the powers that in one case were
exerted in the cause of virtue were, in the other, misapplied to sordid
and flagitious purposes.

Arthur Wiatte (that was his name) had ever been the object of his
sister's affection. As long as he existed, she never ceased to labour in
the promotion of his happiness. All her kindness was repaid by a stern
and inexorable hatred. This man was an exception to all the rules which
govern us in our judgments of human nature. He exceeded in depravity all
that has been imputed to the arch-foe of mankind. His wickedness was
without any of those remorseful intermissions from which it has been
supposed that the deepest guilt is not entirely exempt. He seemed to
relish no food but pure unadulterated evil. He rejoiced in proportion to
the depth of that distress of which he was the author.

His sister, by being placed most within the reach of his enmity,
experienced its worst effects. She was the subject on which, by being
acquainted with the means of influencing her happiness, he could try his
malignant experiments with most hope of success. Her parents being high
in rank and wealth, the marriage of their daughter was, of course, an
object of anxious attention. There is no event on which our felicity and
usefulness more materially depends, and with regard to which, therefore,
the freedom of choice and the exercise of our own understanding ought to
be less infringed; but this maxim is commonly disregarded in proportion
to the elevation of our rank and extent of our property.

The lady made her own election; but she wras one of those who acted on a
comprehensive plan, and would not admit her private inclination to
dictate her decision. The happiness of others, though founded on
mistaken views, she did not consider as unworthy of her regard. The
choice was such as was not likely to obtain the parental sanction, to
whom the moral qualities of their son-in-law, though not absolutely
weightless in the balance, were greatly inferior to the considerations
of wealth and dignity.

The brother set no value on any thing but the means of luxury and power.
He was astonished at that perverseness which entertained a different
conception of happiness from himself. Love and friendship he considered
as groundless and chimerical, and believed that those delusions would,
in people of sense, be rectified by experience; but he knew the
obstinacy of his sister's attachment to these phantoms, and that to
bereave her of the good they promised was the most effectual means of
rendering her miserable. For this end he set himself to thwart her
wishes. In the imbecility and false indulgence of his parents he found
the most powerful auxiliaries. He prevailed upon them to forbid that
union which wanted nothing but their concurrence, and their consent to
endow her with a small portion of their patrimony, to render completely
eligible. The cause was that of her happiness and the happiness of him
on whom she had bestowed her heart. It behooved her, therefore, to call
forth all her energies in defence of it, to weaken her brother's
influence on the minds of her parents, or to win him to be her advocate.
When I reflect upon her mental powers, and the advantages which should
seem to flow from the circumstance of pleading in the character of
daughter arid sister, I can scarcely believe that her attempts
miscarried. I should have imagined that all obstacles would yield before
her, and particularly in a case like this, in which she must have
summoned all her forces, and never have believed that she had struggled
sufficiently.

Certain it is that her lot was fixed. She was not only denied the
husband of her choice, but another was imposed upon her, whose
recommendations were irresistible in every one's apprehension but her
own. The discarded lover was treated with every sort of contumely.
Deceit and violence were employed by her brother to bring his honour,
his liberty, and even his life, into hazard. All these iniquities
produced no inconsiderable effect on the mind of the lady. The
machinations to which her love was exposed would have exasperated him
into madness, had not her most strenuous exertions been directed to
appease him.

She prevailed on him at length to abandon his country, though she
thereby merely turned her brother's depravity into a new channel. Her
parents died without consciousness of the evils they inflicted, but they
experienced a bitter retribution in the conduct of their son. He was the
darling and stay of an ancient and illustrious house, but his actions
reflected nothing but disgrace upon his ancestry, and threatened to
bring the honours of their line to a period in his person. At their
death the bulk of their patrimony devolved upon him. This he speedily
consumed in gaming and riot. From splendid he descended to meaner vices.
The efforts of his sister to recall him to virtue were unintermitted and
fruitless. Her affection for him he converted into a means of prolonging
his selfish gratifications. She decided for the best. It was no argument
of weakness that she was so frequently deceived. If she had judged truly
of her brother, she would have judged not only without example, but in
opposition to the general experience of mankind. But she was not to be
forever deceived. Her tenderness was subservient to justice. And when
his vices had led him from the gaming-table to the highway, when seized
at length by the ministers of law, when convicted and sentenced to
transportation, her intercession was solicited, when all the world knew
that pardon would readily be granted to a suppliant of her rank,
fortune, and character, when the criminal himself, his kindred, his
friends, and even indifferent persons, implored her interference, her
justice was inflexible. She knew full well the incurableness of his
depravity; that banishment was the mildest destiny that would befall
him; that estrangement from ancient haunts and associates was the
condition from which his true friends had least to fear. Finding
entreaties unavailing, the wretch delivered himself to the suggestions
of his malice, and he vowed to be bloodily revenged on her
inflexibility. The sentence was executed. That character must indeed be
monstrous from which the execution of such threats was to be dreaded.
The event sufficiently showed that our fears on this head were well
grounded. This event, however, was at a great distance. It was reported
that the felons, of whom he was one, mutinied on board the ship in which
they had been embarked. In the affray that succeeded, it was said that
he was killed.

Among the nefarious deeds which he perpetrated was to be numbered the
seduction of a young lady, whose heart was broken by the detection of
his perfidy. The fruit of this unhappy union was a daughter. Her mother
died shortly after her birth. Her father was careless of her destiny.
She was consigned to the care of a hireling, who, happily for the
innocent victim, performed the maternal offices for her own sake, and
did not allow the want of a stipulated recompense to render hor cruel or
neglectful.

This orphan was sought out by the benevolence of Mrs. Lorimer and placed
under her own protection. She received from her the treatment of a
mother. The ties of kindred, corroborated by habit, was not the only
thing that united them. That resemblance to herself which had been so
deplorably defective in her brother was completely realized in his
offspring. Nature seemed to have precluded every difference between them
but that of age. This darling object excited in her bosom more than
maternal sympathies. Her soul clung to the happiness of her
_Clarice_ with more ardour than to that of her own son. The latter
was not only less worthy of affection, but their separation necessarily
diminished their mutual confidence.

It was natural for her to look forward to the future destiny of
_Clarice_. On these occasions she could not help contemplating the
possibility of a union between her son and niece. Considerable
advantages belonged to this scheme, yet it was the subject of hope
rather than the scope of a project. The contingencies were numerous and
delicate on which the ultimate desirableness of this union depended. She
was far from certain that her son would be worthy of this benefit, or
that, if he were worthy, his propensities would not select for
themselves a different object. It was equally dubious whether the young
lady would not think proper otherwise to dispose of her affections.
These uncertainties could be dissipated only by time. Meanwhile she was
chiefly solicitous to render them virtuous and wise.

As they advanced in years, the hopes that she had formed were
annihilated. The youth was not exempt from egregious errors. In addition
to this, it was manifest that the young people were disposed to regard
each other in no other light than that of brother and sister. I was not
unapprized of her views. I saw that their union was impossible. I was
near enough to judge of the character of Clarice. My youth and
intellectual constitution made me peculiarly susceptible to female
charms. I was her playfellow in childhood, and her associate in studies
and amusements at a maturer age. This situation might have been
suspected of a dangerous tendency. This tendency, however, was obviated
by motives of which I was, for a long time, scarcely conscious.

I was habituated to consider the distinctions of rank as indelible. The
obstructions that existed, to any wish that I might form, were like
those of time and space, and, in their own nature, as insuperable.

Such was the state of things previous to our setting out upon our
travels. Clarice was indirectly included in our correspondence. My
letters were open to her inspection, and I was sometimes honoured with a
few complimentary lines under her own hand. On returning to my ancient
abode, I was once more exposed to those sinister influences which
absence had at least suspended. Various suitors had, meanwhile, been
rejected. Their character, for the most part, had been such as to
account for her refusal, without resorting to the supposition of a
lurking or unavowed attachment.

On our meeting she greeted me in a respectful but dignified manner.
Observers could discover in it nothing not corresponding to that
difference of fortune which subsisted between us. If her joy, on that
occasion, had in it some portion of tenderness, the softness of her
temper, and the peculiar circumstances in which we had been placed,
being considered, the most rigid censor could find no occasion for blame
or suspicion.

A year passed away, but not without my attention being solicited by
something new and inexplicable in my own sensations. At first I was not
aware of their true cause; but the gradual progress of my feelings left
me not long in doubt as to their origin. I was alarmed at the discovery,
but my courage did not suddenly desert me. My hopes seemed to be
extinguished the moment that I distinctly perceived the point to which
they led. My mind had undergone a change. The ideas with which it was
fraught wrere varied. The sight or recollection of Clarice was sure to
occasion my mind to advert to the recent discovery, and to revolve the
considerations naturally connected with it. Some latent glows and secret
trepidations were likewise experienced, when, by some accident, our
meetings were abrupt or our interviews unwitnessed; yet my usual
tranquillity was not as yet sensibly diminished. I could bear to think
of her marriage with another without painful emotions, and was anxious
only that her choice should be judicious and fortunate.

My thoughts could not long continue in this state. They gradually became
more ardent and museful. The image of Clarice occurred with unseasonable
frequency. Its charms were enhanced by some nameless and indefinable
additions. When it met me in the way I was irresistibly disposed to stop
and survey it with particular attention. The pathetic cast of her
features, the deep glow of her cheek, and some catch of melting music
she had lately breathed, stole incessantly upon my fancy. On recovering
from my thoughtful moods, I sometimes found my cheeks wet with tears
that had fallen unperceived, and my bosom heaved with involuntary sighs.
These images did not content themselves with invading my wakeful hours,
but, likewise, encroached upon my sleep. I could no longer resign myself
to slumber with the same ease as before. When I slept, my visions were
of the same impassioned tenor.

There was no difficulty in judging rightly of my situation. I knew what
it was that duty exacted from me. To remain in my present situation was
a chimerical project. That time and reflection would suffice to restore
me to myself was a notion equally fallacious. Yet I felt an
insupportable reluctance to change it. This reluctance was owing, not
wholly or chiefly to my growing passion, but to the attachment which
bound me to the service of my lady. All my contemplations had hitherto
been modelled on the belief of my remaining in my present situation
during my life. My mildest anticipations had never fashioned an event
like this. Any misfortune was light in comparison with that which tore
me from her presence and service. But, should I ultimately resolve to
separate, how should I communicate my purpose? The pain of parting would
scarcely be less on her side than on mine. Could I consent to be the
author of disquietude to her? I had consecrated all my faculties to her
service. This was the recompense which it was in my power to make for
the benefits that I had received. Would not this procedure bear the
appearance of the basest ingratitude? The shadow of an imputation like
this was more excruciating than the rack.

What motive could I assign for my conduct? The truth must not be told.
This would be equivalent to supplicating for a new benefit. It would
more become me to lessen than increase my obligations. Among all my
imaginations on this subject, the possibility of a mutual passion never
occurred to me. I could not be blind to the essential distinctions that
subsist among men. I could expatiate, like others, on the futility of
ribbons and titles, and on the dignity that was annexed to skill and
virtue; but these, for the most part, were the incoherences of
speculation, and in no degree influenced the stream of my actions and
practical sentiments. The barrier that existed in the present case I
deemed insurmountable. This was not even the subject of doubt. In
disclosing the truth, I should be conceived to be soliciting my lady's
mercy and intercession; but this would be the madness of presumption.
Let me impress her with any other opinion than that I go in search of
the happiness that I have lost under her roof. Let me save her generous
heart from the pangs which this persuasion would infallibly produce.

I could form no stable resolutions. I seemed unalterably convinced of
the necessity of separation, and yet could not execute my design. When I
had wrought up my mind to the intention of explaining myself on the next
interview, when the next interview took place my tongue was powerless. I
admitted any excuse for postponing my design, and gladly admitted any
topic, however foreign to my purpose.

It must not be imagined that my health sustained no injury from this
conflict of my passions. My patroness perceived this alteration. She
inquired with the most affectionate solicitude into the cause. It could
not be explained. I could safely make light of it, and represented it as
something which would probably disappear of itself, as it originated
without any adequate cause. She was obliged to acquiesce in my imperfect
account.

Day after day passed in this state of fluctuation. I was conscious of
the dangers of delay, and that procrastination, without rendering the
task less necessary, augmented its difficulties. At length, summoning my
resolution, I demanded an audience. She received me with her usual
affability. Common topics were started; but she saw the confusion and
trepidation of my thoughts, and quickly relinquished them. She then
noticed to me what she had observed, and mentioned the anxiety which
these appearances had given her She reminded me of the maternal regard
which she had always manifested towards me, and appealed to my own heart
whether any thing could be said in vindication of that reserve with
which I had lately treated her, and urged me, as I valued her good
opinion, to explain the cause of a dejection _that was too
visible_.

To all this I could make but one answer:--"Think me not, madam, perverse
or ungrateful. I came just now to apprize you of a resolution that I had
formed. I cannot explain the motives that induce me. In this case, to
lie to you would be unpardonable, and, since I cannot assign my true
motives, I will not mislead you by false representations. I came to
inform you of my intention to leave your service, and to retire, with
the fruits of your bounty, to my native village, where I shall spend my
life, I hope, in peace."

Her surprise at this declaration was beyond measure. She could not
believe her ears. She had not heard me rightly. She compelled me to
repeat it. Still I was jesting. I could not possibly mean what my words
imported.

I assured her, in terms still more explicit, that my resolution was
taken and was unalterable, and again entreated her to spare me the task
of assigning my motives.

This was a strange determination. What could be the grounds of this new
scheme? What could be the necessity of hiding them from her? This
mystery was not to be endured. She could by no means away with it. She
thought it hard that I should abandon her at this time, when she stood
in particular need of my assistance and advice. She would refuse nothing
to make my situation eligible. I had only to point out where she was
deficient in her treatment of me, and she would endeavour to supply it.
She was willing to augment my emoluments in any degree that I desired.
She could not think of parting with me; but, at any rate, she must be
informed of my motives.

"It is a hard task," answered I, "that I have imposed upon myself. I
foresaw its difficulties, and this foresight has hitherto prevented me
from undertaking it; but the necessity by which I am impelled will no
longer be withstood. I am determined to go; but to say why is
impossible. I hope I shall not bring upon myself the imputation of
ingratitude; but this imputation, more intolerable than any other, must
be borne, if it cannot be avoided but by this disclosure.

"Keep your motives to yourself," said she. "I have too good an opinion
of you to suppose that you would practise concealment without good
reason. I merely desire you to remain where you are. Since you will not
tell me why you take up this new scheme, I can only say that it is
impossible there should be any advantage in this scheme. I will not hear
of it, I tell you. Therefore, submit to my decree with a good grace."

Notwithstanding this prohibition, I persisted in declaring that my
determination was fixed, and that the motives that governed me would
allow of no alternative.

"So, you will go, will you, whether I will or no? I have no power to
detain you? You will regard nothing that I can say?"

"Believe me, madam, no resolution ever was formed after a more vehement
struggle. If my motives were known, you would not only cease to oppose,
but would hasten, my departure. Honour me so far with your good opinion
as to believe that, in saying this, I say nothing but the truth, and
render my duty less burdensome by cheerfully acquiescing in its
dictates."

"I would," replied the lady, "I could find somebody that has more power
over you than I have. Whom shall I call in to aid me in this arduous
task?"

"Nay, dear madam, if I can resist your entreaties, surely no other can
hope to succeed."

"I am not sure of that," said my friend, archly; "there is one person in
the world whose supplications, I greatly suspect, you would not
withstand."

"Whom do you mean?" said I, in some trepidation.

"You will know presently. Unless I can prevail upon you, I shall be
obliged to call for assistance."

"Spare me the pain of repeating that no power on earth can change my
resolution."

"That's a fib," she rejoined, with increased archness. "You know it is.
If a certain person entreat you to stay, you will easily comply. I see I
cannot hope to prevail by my own strength. That is a mortifying
consideration: but we must not part; that is a point settled. If nothing
else will do, I must go and fetch my advocate. Stay here a moment."

I had scarcely time to breathe, before she returned, leading in Clarice.
I did not yet comprehend the meaning of this ceremony. The lady was
overwhelmed with sweet confusion. Averted eyes and reluctant steps might
have explained to me the purpose of this meeting, if I had believed that
purpose to be possible. I felt the necessity of new fortitude, and
struggled to recollect the motives that had hitherto sustained me.

"There!" said my patroness; "I have been endeavouring to persuade this
young man to live with us a little longer. He is determined, it seems,
to change his abode. He will not tell why, and I do not care to know,
unless I could show his reasons to be groundless. I have merely
remonstrated with him on the folly of his scheme, but he has proved
refractory to all I can say. Perhaps your efforts may meet with better
success."

Clarice said not a word. My own embarrassment equally disabled me from
speaking. Regarding us both, for some time, with a benign aspect, Mrs.
Lorimer resumed, taking a hand of each and joining them together:--

"I very well know what it was that suggested this scheme. It is strange
that you should suppose me so careless an observer as not to note, or
not to understand, your situation. I am as well acquainted with what is
passing in your heart as you yourself are: but why are you so anxious to
conceal it? You know less of the adventurousness of love than I should
have suspected. But I will not trifle with your feelings.

"You, Clithero, know the wishes that I once cherished. I had hoped that
my son would have found, in this darling child, an object worthy of his
choice, and that my girl would have preferred him to all others. But I
have long since discovered that this could not be. They are nowise
suited to each other. There is one thing in the next place desirable,
and now my wishes are accomplished. I see that you love each other; and
never, in my opinion, was a passion more rational and just. I should
think myself the worst of beings if I did not contribute all in my power
to your happiness. There is not the shadow of objection to your union. I
know your scruples, Clithero, and am sorry to see that you harbour them
for a moment. Nothing is more unworthy of your good sense.

"I found out this girl long ago. Take my word for it, young man, she
does not fall short of you in the purity and tenderness of her
attachment. What need is there of tedious preliminaries? I will leave
you together, and hope you will not be long in coming to a mutual
understanding. Your union cannot be completed too soon for my wishes.
Clarice is my only and darling daughter. As to you, Clithero, expect
henceforth that treatment from me, not only to which your own merit
entitles you, but which is due to the husband of my daughter."--With
these words she retired, and left us together.

Great God! deliver me from the torments of this remembrance. That a
being by whom I was snatched from penury and brutal ignorance, exalted
to some rank in the intelligent creation, reared to affluence and
honour, and thus, at last, spontaneously endowed with all that remained
to complete the sum of my felicity, that a being like this-But such
thoughts must not yet be: I must shut them out, or I shall never arrive
at the end of my tale. My efforts have been thus far successful. I have
hitherto been able to deliver a coherent narrative. Let the last words
that I shall speak afford some glimmering of my better days. Let me
execute without faltering the only task that remains for me.




Chapter VI.


How propitious, how incredible, was this event! I could scarcely confide
in the testimony of my senses. Was it true that Clarice was before me,
that she was prepared to countenance my presumption, that she had
slighted obstacles which I had deemed insurmountable, that I was fondly
beloved by her, and should shortly be admitted to the possession of so
inestimable a good? I will not repeat the terms in which I poured forth,
at her feet, the raptures of my gratitude. My impetuosity soon extorted
from Clarice a confirmation of her mother's declaration. An unrestrained
intercourse was thenceforth established between us. Dejection and
languor gave place, in my bosom, to the irradiations of joy and hope. My
flowing fortunes seemed to have attained their utmost and immutable
height.

Alas! They were destined to ebb with unspeakably-greater rapidity, and
to leave me, in a moment, stranded and wrecked.

Our nuptials would have been solemnized without delay, had not a
melancholy duty interfered. Clarice had a friend in a distant part of
the kingdom. Her health had long been the prey of a consumption. She was
now evidently tending to dissolution. In this extremity she entreated
her friend to afford her the consolation of her presence. The only wish
that remained was to die in her arms.

This request could not but be willingly complied with. It became me
patiently to endure the delay that would thence arise to the completion
of my wishes. Considering the urgency and mournfulness of the occasion,
it was impossible for me to murmur, and the affectionate Clarice would
suffer nothing to interfere with the duty which she owed to her dying
friend. I accompanied her on this journey, remained with her a few days,
and then parted from her to return to the metropolis. It was not
imagined that it would be necessary to prolong her absence beyond a
month. When I bade her farewell, and informed her on what day I proposed
to return for her, I felt no decay of my satisfaction. My thoughts were
bright and full of exultation. Why was not some intimation afforded me
of the snares that lay in my path? In the train laid for my destruction,
the agent had so skilfully contrived that my security was not molested
by the faintest omen.

I hasten to the crisis of my tale. I am almost dubious of my strength.
The nearer I approach to it, the stronger is my aversion. My courage,
instead of gathering force as I proceed, decays. I am willing to dwell
still longer on preliminary circumstances. There are other incidents
without which my story would be lame. I retail them because they afford
me a kind of respite from horrors at the thought of which every joint in
my frame trembles. They must be endured, but that infirmity may be
forgiven which makes me inclined to procrastinate my suffering.

I mentioned the lover whom my patroness was compelled, by the
machinations of her brother, to discard. More than twenty years had
passed since their separation. His birth was mean and he was without
fortune. His profession was that of a surgeon. My lady not only
prevailed upon him to abandon his country, but enabled him to do this by
supplying his necessities from her own purse. His excellent
understanding was, for a time, obscured by passion; but it was not
difficult for my lady ultimately to obtain his concurrence to all her
schemes. He saw and adored the rectitude of her motives, did not disdain
to accept her gifts, and projected means for maintaining an epistolary
intercourse during their separation.

Her interest procured him a post in the service of the East India
Company. She was, from time to time, informed of his motions. A war
broke out between the Company and some of the native powers. He was
present at a great battle in which the English were defeated. She could
trace him by his letters and by other circumstances thus far, but here
the thread was discontinued, and no means which she employed could
procure any tidings of him. Whether he was captive, or dead, continued,
for several years, to be merely matter of conjecture.

On my return to Dublin, I found my patroness engaged in conversation
with a stranger. She introduced us to each other in a manner that
indicated the respect which she entertained for us both. I surveyed and
listened to him with considerable attention. His aspect was noble and
ingenuous, but his sunburnt and rugged features bespoke a various and
boisterous pilgrimage. The furrows of his brow were the products of
vicissitude and hardship, rather than of age. His accents were fiery and
energetic, and the impassioned boldness of his address, as well as the
tenor of his discourse, full of allusions to the past, and regrets that
the course of events had not been different, made me suspect something
extraordinary in his character.

As soon as he left us, my lady explained who he was. He was no other
than the object of her youthful attachment, who had, a few days before,
dropped among us as from the skies. He had a long and various story to
tell. He had accounted for his silence by enumerating the incidents of
his life. He had escaped from the prisons of Hyder, had wandered on
foot, and under various disguises, through the northern district of
Hindostan. He was sometimes a scholar of Benares, and sometimes a
disciple of the Mosque. According to the exigencies of the times, he was
a pilgrim to Mecca or to Juggernaut. By a long, circuitous, and perilous
route, he at length arrived at the Turkish capital. Here he resided for
several years, deriving a precarious subsistence from the profession of
a surgeon. He was obliged to desert this post, in consequence of a duel
between two Scotsmen. One of them had embraced the Greek religion, and
was betrothed to the daughter of a wealthy trader of that nation. He
perished in the conflict, and the family of the lady not only procured
the execution of his antagonist, but threatened to involve all those who
were known to be connected with him in the same ruin.

His life being thus endangered, it became necessary for him to seek a
new residence. He fled from Constantinople with such precipitation as
reduced him to the lowest poverty. He had traversed the Indian conquests
of Alexander, as a mendicant. In the same character, he now wandered
over the native country of Philip and Philopoemen. He passed safely
through multiplied perils, and finally, embarking at Salonica, he
reached Venice. He descended through the passes of the Apennines into
Tuscany. In this journey he suffered a long detention from banditti, by
whom he was waylaid. In consequence of his harmless deportment, and a
seasonable display of his chirurgical skill, they granted him his life,
though they, for a time, restrained him of his liberty, and compelled
him to endure their society. The time was not misemployed which he spent
immured in caverns and carousing with robbers. His details were
eminently singular and curious, and evinced the acuteness of his
penetration, as well as the steadfastness of his courage.

After emerging from these wilds, he found his way along the banks of the
Arno to Leghorn. Thence he procured a passage to America, whence he had
just returned, with many additions to his experience, but none to his
fortune.

This was a remarkable event. It did not at first appear how far its
consequences would extend. The lady was, at present, disengaged and
independent. Though the passion which clouded her early prosperity was
extinct, time had not diminished the worth of her friend, and they were
far from having reached that age when love becomes chimerical and
marriage folly. A confidential intercourse was immediately established
between them. The bounty of Mrs. Lorimer soon divested her friend of all
fear of poverty. "At any rate," said she, "he shall wander no farther,
but shall be comfortably situated for the rest of his life." All his
scruples were vanquished by the reasonableness of her remonstrances and
the vehemence of her solicitations.

A cordial intimacy grew between me and the newly-arrived. Our interviews
were frequent, and our communications without reserve. He detailed to me
the result of his experience, and expatiated without end on the history
of his actions and opinions. He related the adventures of his youth, and
dwelt upon all the circumstances of his attachment to my patroness. On
this subject I had heard only general details. I continually found
cause, in the course of his narrative, to revere the illustrious
qualities of my lady, and to weep at the calamities to which the
infernal malice of her brother had subjected her.

The tale of that man's misdeeds, amplified and dramatized by the
indignant eloquence of this historian, oppressed me with astonishment.
If a poet had drawn such a portrait, I should have been prone to suspect
the soundness of his judgment. Till now I had imagined that no character
was uniform and unmixed, and my theory of the passions did not enable me
to account for a propensity gratified merely by evil, and delighting in
shrieks and agony for their own sake.

It was natural to suggest to my friend, when expatiating on this theme,
an inquiry as to how far subsequent events had obliterated the
impressions that were then made, and as to the plausibility of reviving,
at this more auspicious period, his claims on the heart of his friend.
When he thought proper to notice these hints, he gave me to understand
that time had made no essential alteration in his sentiments in this
respect; that he still fostered a hope, to which every day added new
vigour; that, whatever was the ultimate event, he trusted in his
fortitude to sustain it, if adverse, and in his wisdom to extract from
it the most valuable consequences, if it should prove prosperous.

The progress of things was not unfavourable to his hopes. She treated
his insinuations and professions with levity; but her arguments seemed
to be urged with no other view than to afford an opportunity of
confutation; and, since there was no abatement of familiarity and
kindness, there was room to hope that the affair would terminate
agreeably to his wishes.




Chapter VII.


Clarice, meanwhile, was absent. Her friend seemed, at the end of a
month, to be little less distant from the grave than at first. My
impatience would not allow me to wait till her death. I visited her, but
was once more obliged to return alone. I arrived late in the city, and,
being greatly fatigued, I retired almost immediately to my chamber.

On hearing of my arrival, Sarsefield hastened to see me. He came to my
bedside, and such, in his opinion, was the importance of the tidings
which he had to communicate, that he did not scruple to rouse me from a
deep sleep----


At this period of his narrative, Clithero stopped. His complexion varied
from one degree of paleness to another. His brain appeared to suffer
some severe constriction. He desired to be excused, for a few minutes,
from proceeding. In a short time he was relieved from this paroxysm, and
resumed his tale with an accent tremulous at first, but acquiring
stability and force as he went on:--


On waking, as I have said, I found my friend seated at my bedside. His
countenance exhibited various tokens of alarm. As soon as I perceived
who it was, I started, exclaiming, "What is the matter?"

He sighed. "Pardon," said he, "this unseasonable intrusion. A light
matter would not have occasioned it. I have waited, for two days past,
in an agony of impatience, for your return. Happily you are, at last,
come. I stand in the utmost need of your counsel and aid."

"Heaven defend!" cried I. "This is a terrible prelude. You may, of
course, rely upon my assistance and advice. What is it that you have to
propose?"

"Tuesday evening," he answered, "I spent here. It was late before I
returned to my lodgings. I was in the act of lifting my hand to the
bell, when my eye was caught by a person standing close to the wall, at
the distance of ten paces. His attitude was that of one employed in
watching my motions. His face was turned towards me, and happened, at
that moment, to be fully illuminated by the rays of a globe-lamp that
hung over the door. I instantly recognised his features. I was
petrified. I had no power to execute my design, or even to move, but
stood, for some seconds, gazing upon him. He was, in no degree,
disconcerted by the eagerness of my scrutiny. He seemed perfectly
indifferent to the consequences of being known. At length he slowly
turned his eyes to another quarter, but without changing his posture, or
the sternness of his looks. I cannot describe to you the shock which
this encounter produced in me. At last I went into the house, and have
ever since been excessively uneasy."

"I do not see any ground for uneasiness."

"You do not then suspect who this person is?"

"No."

"It is Arthur Wiatte."

"Good heaven! It is impossible. What! my lady's brother?"

"The same."

"It cannot be. Were we not assured of his death? That he perished in a
mutiny on board the vessel in which he was embarked for transportation?"

"Such was rumour, which is easily mistaken. My eyes cannot be deceived
in this case. I should as easily fail to recognise his sister, when I
first met her, as him. This is the man; whether once dead or not, he is
at present alive, and in this city."

"But has any thing since happened to confirm you in this opinion?"

"Yes, there has. As soon as I had recovered from my first surprise, I
began to reflect upon the measures proper to be taken. This was the
identical Arthur Wiatte. You know his character. No time was likely to
change the principles of such a man, but his appearance sufficiently
betrayed the incurableness of his habits. The same sullen and atrocious
passions were written in his visage. You recollect the vengeance which
Wiatte denounced against his sister. There is every thing to dread from
his malignity. How to obviate the danger, I know not. I thought,
however, of one expedient. It might serve a present purpose, and
something better might suggest itself on your return.

"I came hither early the next day. Old Gowan, the porter, is well
acquainted with Wiatte's story. I mentioned to him that I had reason to
think that he had returned. I charged him to have a watchful eye upon
every one that knocked at the gate, and that, if this person should
come, by no means to admit him. The old man promised faithfully to abide
by my directions. His terrors, indeed, were greater than mine, and he
knew the importance of excluding Wiatte from these walls."

"Did you not inform my lady of this?"

"No. In what way could I tell it to her? What end could it answer? Why
should I make her miserable? But I have not done. Yesterday morning
Gowan took me aside, and informed me that Wiatte had made his
appearance, the day before, at the gate. He knew him, he said, in a
moment. He demanded to see the lady, but the old man told him she was
engaged, and could not be seen. He assumed peremptory and haughty airs,
and asserted that his business was of such importance as not to endure a
moment's delay. Gowan persisted in his first refusal. He retired with
great reluctance, but said he should return to-morrow, when he should
insist upon admission to the presence of the lady. I have inquired, and
find that he has not repeated his visit. What is to be done?"

I was equally at a loss with my friend. This incident was so
unlooked-for. What might not be dreaded from the monstrous depravity of
Wiatte? His menaces of vengeance against his sister still rung in my ears.
Some means of eluding them were indispensable. Could law be resorted to?
Against an evil like this, no legal provision had been made. Nine years
had elapsed since his transportation. Seven years was the period of his
exile. In returning, therefore, he had committed no crime. His person
could not be lawfully molested. We were justified merely in repelling an
attack. But suppose we should appeal to law: could this be done without
the knowledge and concurrence of the lady? She would never permit it.
Her heart was incapable of fear from this quarter. She would spurn at
the mention of precautions against the hatred of her brother. Her
inquietude would merely be awakened on his own account.

I was overwhelmed with perplexity. Perhaps if he were sought out, and
some judgment formed of the kind of danger to be dreaded from him, by a
knowledge of his situation and views, some expedient might be thence
suggested.

But how should his haunts be discovered? This was easy. He had intimated
the design of applying again for admission to his sister. Let a person
be stationed near at hand, who, being furnished with an adequate
description of his person and dress, shall mark him when he comes, and
follow him when he retires, and shall forthwith impart to us the
information on that head which he shall be able to collect.

My friend concurred in this scheme. No better could, for the present, be
suggested. Here ended our conference.

I was thus supplied with a new subject of reflection. It was calculated
to fill my mind with dreary forebodings. The future was no longer a
scene of security and pleasure. It would be hard for those to partake of
our fears who did not partake of our experience. The existence of Wiatte
was the canker that had blasted the felicity of my patroness. In his
reappearance on the stage there was something portentous. It seemed to
include in it consequences of the utmost moment, without my being able
to discover what these consequences were.

That Sarsefield should be so quickly followed by his arch-foe; that they
started anew into existence, without any previous intimation, in a
manner wholly unexpected, and at the same period,--it seemed as if there
lurked, under those appearances, a tremendous significance, which human
sagacity could not uncover. My heart sunk within me when I reflected
that this was the father of my Clarice. He by whose cruelty her mother
was torn from the enjoyment of untarnished honour, and consigned to
infamy and an untimely grave. He by whom herself was abandoned in the
helplessness of infancy, and left to be the prey of obdurate avarice,
and the victim of wretches who traffic in virgin innocence. Who had done
all that in him lay to devote her youth to guilt and misery. What were
the limits of his power? How may he exert the parental prerogatives?

To sleep, while these images were haunting me, was impossible. I passed
the night in continual motion. I strode, without ceasing, across the
floor of my apartment. My mind was wrought to a higher pitch than I had
ever before experienced. The occasion, accurately considered, was far
from justifying the ominous inquietudes which I then felt. How, then,
should I account for them?

Sarsefield probably enjoyed his usual slumber. His repose might not be
perfectly serene, but when he ruminated on impending or possible
calamities his tongue did not cleave to his mouth, his throat was not
parched with unquenchable thirst, he was not incessantly stimulated to
employ his superfluous fertility of thought in motion. If I trembled for
the safety of her whom I loved, and whose safety was endangered by being
the daughter of this miscreant, had he not equal reason to fear for her
whom he also loved, and who, as the sister of this ruffian, was
encompassed by the most alarming perils? Yet he probably was calm while
I was harassed by anxieties.

Alas! The difference was easily explained. Such was the beginning of a
series ordained to hurry me to swift destruction. Such were the primary
tokens of the presence of that power by whose accursed machinations I
was destined to fall. You are startled at this declaration. It is one to
which you have been little accustomed. Perhaps you regard it merely as
an effusion of frenzy. I know what I am saying. I do not build upon
conjectures and surmises. I care not, indeed, for your doubts. Your
conclusion may be fashioned at your pleasure. Would to Heaven that my
belief were groundless, and that I had no reason to believe my
intellects to have been perverted by diabolical instigations!

I could procure no sleep that night. After Sarsefield's departure I did
not even lie down. It seemed to me that I could not obtain the benefits
of repose otherwise than by placing my lady beyond the possibility of
danger.

I met Sarsefield the next day. In pursuance of the scheme which had been
adopted by us on the preceding evening, a person was selected and
commissioned to watch the appearance of Wiatte. The day passed as usual
with respect to the lady. In the evening she was surrounded by a few
friends. Into this number I was now admitted. Sarsefield and myself made
a part of this company. Various topics were discussed with ease and
sprightliness. Her societies were composed of both sexes, and seemed to
have monopolized all the ingenuity and wit that existed in the
metropolis.

After a slight repast the company dispersed. This separation took place
earlier than usual, on account of a slight indisposition in Mrs.
_Lorimer_. Sarsefield and I went out together. We took that
opportunity of examining our agent, and, receiving no satisfaction from
him, we dismissed him for that night, enjoining him to hold himself in
readiness for repeating the experiment to-morrow. My friend directed his
steps homeward, and I proceeded to execute a commission with which I had
charged myself.

A few days before, a large sum had been deposited in the hands of a
banker, for the use of my lady. It was the amount of a debt which had
lately been recovered. It was lodged here for the purpose of being paid
on demand of her or her agents. It was my present business to receive
this money. I had deferred the performance of this engagement to this
late hour, on account of certain preliminaries which were necessary to
be adjusted.

Having received this money, I prepared to return home. The inquietude
which had been occasioned by Sarsefield's intelligence had not
incapacitated me from performing my usual daily occupations. It was a
theme to which, at every interval of leisure from business or discourse,
I did not fail to return. At those times I employed myself in examining
the subject on all sides; in supposing particular emergencies, and
delineating the conduct that was proper to be observed on each. My daily
thoughts were, by no means, so fear-inspiring as the meditations of the
night had been.

As soon as I left the banker's door, my meditations fell into this
channel. I again reviewed the recent occurrences, and imagined the
consequences likely to flow from them. My deductions were not, on this
occasion, peculiarly distressful. The return of darkness had added
nothing to my apprehensions. I regarded Wiatte merely as one against
whose malice it was wise to employ the most vigilant precautions. In
revolving these precautions nothing occurred that was new. The danger
appeared without unusual aggravations, and the expedients that offered
themselves to my choice were viewed with a temper not more sanguine or
despondent than before.

In this state of mind I began and continued my walk. The distance was
considerable between my own habitation and that which I had left. My way
lay chiefly through populous and well-frequented streets. In one part of
the way, however, it was at the option of the passenger either to keep
along the large streets, or considerably to shorten the journey by
turning into a dark, crooked, and narrow lane. Being familiar with every
part of this metropolis, and deeming it advisable to take the shortest
and obscurest road, I turned into the alley. I proceeded without
interruption to the next turning. One night-officer, distinguished by
his usual ensigns, was the only person who passed me. I had gone three
steps beyond when I perceived a man by my side. I had scarcely time to
notice this circumstance, when a hoarse voice exclaimed, "Damn ye,
villain, ye're a dead man!"

At the same moment a pistol flashed at my ear, and a report followed.
This, however, produced no other effect than, for a short space, to
overpower my senses. I staggered back, but did not fall.

The ball, as I afterwards discovered, had grazed my forehead, but
without making any dangerous impression. The assassin, perceiving that
his pistol had been ineffectual, muttered, in an enraged tone, "This
shall do your business!" At the same time, he drew a knife forth from
his bosom.

I was able to distinguish this action by the rays of a distant lamp,
which glistened on the blade. All this passed in an instant. The attack
was so abrupt that my thoughts could not be suddenly recalled from the
confusion into which they were thrown. My exertions were mechanical. My
will might be said to be passive, and it was only by retrospect and a
contemplation of consequences that I became fully informed of the nature
of the scene.

If my assailant had disappeared as soon as he had discharged the pistol,
my state of extreme surprise might have slowly given place to resolution
and activity. As it was, my sense was no sooner struck by the reflection
from the blade, than my hand, as if by spontaneous energy, was thrust
into my pocket. I drew forth a pistol.

He lifted up his weapon to strike, but it dropped from his powerless
fingers. He fell, and his groans informed me that I had managed my arms
with more skill than my adversary. The noise of this encounter soon
attracted spectators. Lights were brought, and my antagonist discovered
bleeding at my feet. I explained, as briefly as I was able, the scene
which they witnessed. The prostrate person was raised by two men, and
carried into a public house nigh at hand.

I had not lost my presence of mind. I at once perceived the propriety of
administering assistance to the wounded man. I despatched, therefore,
one of the bystanders for a surgeon of considerable eminence, who lived
at a small distance, and to whom I was well known. The man was carried
into an inner apartment and laid upon the floor. It was not till now
that I had a suitable opportunity of ascertaining who it was with whom I
had been engaged. I now looked upon his face. The paleness of death
could not conceal his well-known features. It was Wiatte himself who was
breathing his last groans at my feet!

The surgeon, whom I had summoned, attended; but immediately perceived
the condition of his patient to be hopeless. In a quarter of an hour he
expired. During this interval, he was insensible to all around him. I
was known to the surgeon, the landlord, and some of the witnesses. The
case needed little explanation. The accident reflected no guilt upon me.
The landlord was charged with the care of the corpse till the morning,
and I was allowed to return home, without further impediment.




Chapter VIII.


Till now my mind had been swayed by the urgencies of this occasion.
These reflections were excluded, which rushed tumultuously upon me the
moment I was at leisure to receive them. Without foresight of a previous
moment, an entire change had been wrought in my condition.

I had been oppressed with a sense of the danger that flowed from the
existence of this man. By what means the peril could be annihilated, and
we be placed in security from his attempts, no efforts of mind could
suggest. To devise these means, and employ them with success, demanded,
as I conceived, the most powerful sagacity and the firmest courage. Now
the danger was no more. The intelligence in which plans of mischief
might be generated was extinguished or flown. Lifeless were the hands
ready to execute the dictates of that intelligence. The contriver of
enormous evil was, in one moment, bereft of the power and the will to
injure. Our past tranquillity had been owing to the belief of his death.
Fear and dismay had resumed their dominion when the mistake was
discovered. But now we might regain possession of our wonted confidence.
I had beheld with my own eyes the lifeless corpse of our implacable
adversary. Thus, in a moment, had terminated his long and flagitious
career. His restless indignation, his malignant projects, that had so
long occupied the stage and been so fertile of calamity, were now at an
end!

In the course of my meditations, the idea of the death of this man had
occurred, and it bore the appearance of a desirable event. Yet it was
little qualified to tranquillize my fears. In the long catalogue of
contingencies, this, indeed, was to be found; but it was as little
likely to happen as any other. It could not happen without a series of
anterior events paving the way for it. If his death came from us, it
must be the theme of design. It must spring from laborious circumvention
and deep-laid stratagems.

No. He was dead. I had killed him. What had I done? I had meditated
nothing. I was impelled by an unconscious necessity. Had the assailant
been my father, the consequence would have been the same. My
understanding had been neutral. Could it be? In a space so short, was it
possible that so tremendous a deed had been executed? Was I not deceived
by some portentous vision? I had witnessed the convulsions and last
agonies of Wiatte. He was no more, and I was his destroyer!

Such was the state of my mind for some time after this dreadful event.
Previously to it I was calm, considerate, and self-collected. I marked
the way that I was going. Passing objects were observed. If I adverted
to the series of my own reflections, my attention was not seized and
fastened by them. I could disengage myself at pleasure, and could pass,
without difficulty, from attention to the world within, to the
contemplation of that without.

Now my liberty, in this respect, was at an end. I was fettered,
confounded, smitten with excess of thought, and laid prostrate with
wonder! I no longer attended to my steps. When I emerged from my stupor,
I found that I had trodden back the way which I had lately come, and had
arrived within sight of the banker's door. I checked myself, and once
more turned my steps homeward.

This seemed to be a hint for entering into new reflections. "The deed,"
said I, "is irretrievable. I have killed the brother of my patroness,
the father of my love."

This suggestion was new. It instantly involved me in terror and
perplexity. How shall I communicate the tidings? What effect will they
produce? My lady's sagacity is obscured by the benevolence of her
temper. Her brother was sordidly wicked,--a hoary ruffian, to whom the
language of pity was as unintelligible as the gabble of monkeys. His
heart was fortified against compunction, by the atrocious habits of
forty years; he lived only to interrupt her peace, to confute the
promises of virtue, and convert to rancour and reproach the fair dame of
fidelity.

He was her brother still. As a human being, his depravity was never
beyond the health-restoring power of repentance. His heart, so long as
it beat, was accessible to remorse. The singularity of his birth had
made her regard this being as more intimately her brother, than would
have happened in different circumstances. It was her obstinate
persuasion that their fates were blended. The rumour of his death she
had never credited. It was a topic of congratulation to her friends, but
of mourning and distress to her. That he would one day reappear upon the
stage, and assume the dignity of virtue, was a source of consolation
with which she would never consent to part.

Her character was now known. When the doom of exile was pronounced upon
him, she deemed it incumbent on her to vindicate herself from aspersions
founded on misconceptions of her motives in refusing her interference.
The manuscript, though unpublished, was widely circulated. None could
resist her simple and touching eloquence, nor rise from the perusal
without resigning his heart to the most impetuous impulses of
admiration, and enlisting himself among the eulogists of her justice and
her fortitude. This was the only monument, in a written form, of her
genius. As such it was engraven on my memory. The picture that it
described was the perpetual companion of my thoughts.

Alas! It had, perhaps, been well for me if it had been buried in eternal
oblivion. I read in it the condemnation of my deed, the agonies she was
preparing to suffer, and the indignation that would overflow upon the
author of so signal a calamity.

I had rescued my life by the sacrifice of his. Whereas I should have
died. Wretched and precipitate coward! What had become of my boasted
gratitude? Such was the zeal that I had vowed to her. Such the services
which it was the business of my life to perform. I had snatched her
brother from existence. I had torn from her the hope which she so
ardently and indefatigably cherished. From a contemptible and dastardly
regard to my own safety I had failed in the moment of trial and when
called upon by Heaven to evince the sincerity of my professions.

She had treated my professions lightly. My vows of eternal devotion she
had rejected with lofty disinterestedness. She had arraigned my
impatience of obligation as criminal, and condemned every scheme I had
projected for freeing myself from the burden which her beneficence had
laid upon me. The impassioned and vehement anxiety with which, in former
days, she had deprecated the vengeance of her lover against Wiatte, rung
in my ears. My senses were shocked anew by the dreadful sounds, "Touch
not my brother. Wherever you meet with him, of whatever outrage he be
guilty, suffer him to pass in safety. Despise me; abandon me; kill me.
All this I can bear even from you; but spare, I implore you, my unhappy
brother. The stroke that deprives him of life will not only have the
same effect upon me, but will set my portion in everlasting misery."

To these supplications I had been deaf. It is true I had not rushed upon
him unarmed, intending no injury nor expecting any. Of that degree of
wickedness I was, perhaps, incapable. Alas! I have immersed myself
sufficiently deep in crimes. I have trampled under foot every motive
dear to the heart of honour. I have shown myself unworthy the society of
men.

Such were the turbulent suggestions of that moment. My pace slackened. I
stopped, and was obliged to support myself against a wall. The sickness
that had seized my heart penetrated every part of my frame. There was
but one thing wanting to complete my distraction.--"My lady," said I,
"believed her fate to be blended with that of Wiatte. Who shall affirm
that the persuasion is a groundless one? She had lived and prospered,
notwithstanding the general belief that her brother was dead. She would
not hearken to the rumour. Why? Because nothing less than indubitable
evidence would suffice to convince her? Because the counter-intimation
flowed from an infallible source? How can the latter supposition be
confuted? Has she not predicted the event?

"The period of terrible fulfilment has arrived. The same blow that
bereaved _him_ of life has likewise ratified her doom.

"She has been deceived. It is nothing more, perhaps, than a fond
imagination. It matters not. Who knows not the cogency of faith? That
the pulses of life are at the command of the will? The bearer of these
tidings will be the messenger of death. A fatal sympathy will seize her.
She will shrink, and swoon, and perish, at the news!

"Fond and short-sighted wretch! This is the price thou hast given for
security. In the rashness of thy thought, thou saidst, 'Nothing is
wanting but his death to restore us to confidence and safety.' Lo! the
purchase is made. Havoc and despair, that were restrained during his
life, were let loose by his last sigh. Now only is destruction made
sure. Thy lady, thy Clarice, thy friend, and thyself, are, by this act,
involved in irretrievable and common ruin!"

I started from my attitude. I was scarcely conscious of any transition.
The interval was fraught with stupor, and amazement. It seemed as if my
senses had been hushed in sleep, while the powers of locomotion were
unconsciously exerted to bear me to my chamber. By whatever means the
change was effected, there I was.

I have been able to proceed thus far. I can scarcely believe the
testimony of my memory that assures me of this. My task is almost
executed; but whence shall I obtain strength enough to finish it? What I
have told is light as gossamer, compared with the insupportable and
crushing horrors of that which is to come. Heaven, in token of its
vengeance, will enable me to proceed. It is fitting that my scene should
thus close.

My fancy began to be infected with the errors of my understanding. The
mood into which my mind was plunged was incapable of any propitious
intermission. All within me was tempestuous and dark. My ears were
accessible to no sounds but those of shrieks and lamentations. It was
deepest midnight, and all the noises of a great metropolis were hushed.
Yet I listened as if to catch some strain of the dirge that was begun.
Sable robes, sobs, and a dreary solemnity encompassed me on all sides, I
was haunted to despair by images of death, imaginary clamours, and the
train of funeral pageantry. I seemed to have passed forward to a distant
era of my life. The effects which were come were already realized. The
foresight of misery created it, and set me in the midst of that hell
which I feared.

From a paroxysm like this the worst might reasonably be dreaded, yet the
next step to destruction was not suddenly taken. I paused on the brink
of the precipice, as if to survey the depth of that frenzy that invaded
me; was able to ponder on the scene, and deliberate, in a state that
partook of calm, on the circumstances of my situation. My mind was
harassed by the repetition of one idea. Conjecture deepened into
certainty. I could place the object in no light which did not
corroborate the persuasion that, in the act committed, I had insured the
destruction of my lady. At length my mind, somewhat relieved from the
tempest of my fears, began to trace and analyze the consequences which I
dreaded.

The fate of Wiatte would inevitably draw along with it that of his
sister. In what way would this effect be produced? Were they linked
together by a sympathy whose influence was independent of sensible
communication? Could she arrive at a knowledge of his miserable and by
other than verbal means? I had heard of such extraordinary
copartnerships in being and modes of instantaneous intercourse among
beings locally distant. Was this a new instance of the subtlety of mind?
Had she already endured his agonies, and like him already ceased to
breathe?

Every hair bristled at this horrible suggestion. But the force of
sympathy might be chimerical. Buried in sleep, or engaged in careless
meditation, the instrument by which her destiny might be accomplished
was the steel of an assassin. A series of events, equally beyond the
reach of foresight with those which had just happened, might introduce,
with equal abruptness, a similar disaster. What, at that moment, was her
condition? Reposing in safety in her chamber, as her family imagined.
But were they not deceived? Was she not a mangled corpse? Whatever were
her situation, it could not be ascertained, except by extraordinary
means, till the morning. Was it wise to defer the scrutiny till then?
Why not instantly investigate the truth?

These ideas passed rapidly through my mind. A considerable portion of
time and amplification of phrase are necessary to exhibit, verbally,
ideas contemplated in a space of incalculable brevity. With the same
rapidity I conceived the resolution of determining the truth of my
suspicions. All the family, but myself, were at rest. Winding passages
would conduct me, without danger of disturbing them, to the hall, from
which double staircases ascended. One of these led to a saloon above, on
the east side of which was a door that communicated with a suite of
rooms occupied by the lady of the mansion. The first was an antechamber,
in which a female servant usually lay. The second was the lady's own
bedchamber. This was a sacred recess, with whose situation, relative to
the other apartments of the building, I was well acquainted, but of
which I knew nothing from my own examination, having never been admitted
into it.

Thither I was now resolved to repair. I was not deterred by the sanctity
of the place and hour. I was insensible to all consequences but the
removal of my doubts. Not that my hopes were balanced by my fears. That
the same tragedy had been performed in her chamber and in the street,
nothing hindered me from believing with as much cogency as if my own
eyes had witnessed it, but the reluctance with which we admit a
detestable truth.

To terminate a state of intolerable suspense, I resolved to proceed
forthwith to her chamber. I took the light and paced, with no
interruption, along the galleries. I used no precaution. If I had met a
servant or robber, I am not sure that I should have noticed him. My
attention was too perfectly engrossed to allow me to spare any to a
casual object. I cannot affirm that no one observed me. This, however,
was probable from the distribution of the dwelling. It consisted of a
central edifice and two wings, one of which was appropriated to
domestics and the other, at the extremity of which my apartment was
placed, comprehended a library, and rooms for formal and social and
literary conferences. These, therefore, were deserted at night, and my
way lay along these. Hence it was not likely that my steps would be
observed.

I proceeded to the hall. The principal parlour was beneath her chamber.
In the confusion of my thoughts, I mistook one for the other. I
rectified, as soon as I detected, my mistake. I ascended, with a beating
heart, the staircase. The door of the antechamber was unfastened. I
entered, totally regardless of disturbing the girl who slept within. The
bed which she occupied was concealed by curtains. Whether she were
there, I did not stop to examine. I cannot recollect that any tokens
were given of wakefulness or alarm. It was not till I reached the door
of her own apartment that my heart began to falter.

It was now that the momentousness of the question I was about to decide
rushed with its genuine force upon my apprehension. Appalled and aghast,
I had scarcely power to move the bolt. If the imagination of her death
was not to be supported, how should I bear the spectacle of wounds and
blood? Yet this was reserved for me. A few paces would set me in the
midst of a scene of which I was the abhorred contriver. Was it right to
proceed? There were still the remnants of doubt. My forebodings might
possibly be groundless. All within might be safety and serenity. A
respite might be gained from the execution of an irrevocable sentence.
What could I do? Was not any thing easy to endure in comparison with the
agonies of suspense? If I could not obviate the evil I must bear it, but
the torments of suspense were susceptible of remedy.

I drew back the bolt, and entered with the reluctance of fear, rather
than the cautiousness of guilt. I could not lift my eyes from the
ground. I advanced to the middle of the room. Not a sound like that of
the dying saluted my-ear. At length, shaking off the fetters of
hopelessness, I looked up.

I saw nothing calculated to confirm my fears. Everywhere there reigned
quiet and order. My heart leaped with exultation. "Can it be," said I,
"that I have been betrayed with shadows?--But this is not sufficient."

Within an alcove was the bed that belonged to her. If her safety were
inviolate, it was here that she reposed. What remained to convert
tormenting doubt into ravishing certainty? I was insensible to the
perils of my present situation. If she, indeed, were there, would not my
intrusion awaken her? She would start and perceive me, at this hour,
standing at her bedside. How should I account for an intrusion so
unexampled and audacious? I could not communicate my fears. I could not
tell her that the blood with which my hands were stained had flowed from
the wounds of her brother.

My mind was inaccessible to such considerations. They did not even
modify my predominant idea. Obstacles like these, had they existed,
would have been trampled under foot.

Leaving the lamp, that I bore, on the table, I approached the bed. I
slowly drew aside the curtain, and beheld her tranquilly slumbering. I
listened, but so profound was her sleep, that not even her breathings
could be overheard. I dropped the curtain and retired.

How blissful and mild were the illuminations of my bosom at this
discovery! A joy that surpassed all utterance succeeded the fierceness
of desperation. I stood, for some moments, wrapped in delightful
contemplation. Alas! it was a luminous but transient interval. The
madness to whose black suggestions it bore so strong a contrast began
now to make sensible approaches on my understanding.

"True," said I, "she lives. Her slumber is serene and happy. She is
blind to her approaching destiny. Some hours will at least be rescued
from anguish and death. When she wakes, the phantom that soothed her
will vanish. The tidings cannot be withheld from her. The murderer of
thy brother cannot hope to enjoy thy smiles. Those ravishing accents,
with which thou hast used to greet me, will be changed. Scowling and
reproaches, the invectives of thy anger and the maledictions of thy
justice, will rest upon my head,

"What is the blessing which I made the theme of my boastful arrogance?
This interval of being and repose is momentary. She will awake, but only
to perish at the spectacle of my ingratitude. She will awake only to the
consciousness of instantly-impending death. When she again sleeps she
will wake no more. I, her son,--I, whom the law of my birth doomed to
poverty and hardship, but whom her unsolicited beneficence snatched from
those evils, and endowed with the highest good known to intelligent
beings, the consolations of science and the blandishments of
affluence,--to whom the darling of her life, the offspring in whom are
faithfully preserved the lineaments of its angelic mother, she has not
denied! What is the recompense that I have made? How have I discharged
the measureless debt of gratitude to which she is entitled? Thus!--

"Cannot my guilt be extenuated? Is there not a good that I can do thee?
Must I perpetrate unmingled evil? Is the province assigned me that of an
infernal emissary, whose efforts are concentred in a single purpose, and
that purpose a malignant one? I am the author of thy calamities.
Whatever misery is reserved for thee, I am the source whence it flows.
Can I not set bounds to the stream? Cannot I prevent thee from returning
to a consciousness which, till it ceases to exist, will not cease to be
rent and mangled?

"Yes. It is in my power to screen thee from the coming storm; to
accelerate thy journey to rest. I will do it."

The impulse was not to be resisted. I moved with the suddenness of
lightning. Armed with a pointed implement that lay----it was a dagger.
As I set down the lamp, I struck the edge. Yet I saw it not, or noticed
it not till I needed its assistance. By what accident it came hither, to
what deed of darkness it had already been subservient, I had no power to
inquire. I stepped to the table and seized it.

The time which this action required was insufficient to save me. My doom
was ratified by powers which no human energies can counterwork.--Need I
go further? Did you entertain any imagination of so frightful a
catastrophe? I am overwhelmed by turns with dismay and with wonder. I am
prompted by turns to tear my heart from my breast and deny faith to the
verdict of my senses.

Was it I that hurried to the deed? No. It was the demon that possessed
me. My limbs were guided to the bloody office by a power foreign and
superior to mine. I had been defrauded, for a moment, of the empire of
my muscles. A little moment for that sufficed.  If my destruction had
not been decreed, why was the image of Clarice so long excluded? Yet why
do I say long? The fatal resolution was conceived, and I hastened to the
execution, in a period too brief for more than itself to be viewed by
the intellect.

What then? Were my hands imbrued in this precious blood? Was it to this
extremity of horror that my evil genius was determined to urge me? Too
surely this was his purpose; too surely I was qualified to be its
minister.

I lifted the weapon. Its point was aimed at the bosom of the sleeper.
The impulse was given.

At the instant a piercing shriek was uttered behind me, and a
stretched-out hand, grasping the blade, made it swerve widely from its
aim. It descended, but without inflicting a wound. Its force was spent
upon the bed.

Oh for words to paint that stormy transition! I loosed my hold of the
dagger. I started back, and fixed eyes of frantic curiosity on the
author of my rescue. He that interposed to arrest my deed, that started
into being and activity at a moment so pregnant with fate, without
tokens of his purpose or his coming being previously imparted, could
not, methought, be less than divinity.

The first glance that I darted on this being corroborated my conjecture.
It was the figure and lineaments of Mrs. Lorimer. Negligently habited in
flowing and brilliant white, with features bursting with terror and
wonder, the likeness of that being who was stretched upon the bed now
stood before me.

All that I am able to conceive of angel was comprised in the moral
constitution of this woman. That her genius had overleaped all bounds,
and interposed to save her, was no audacious imagination. In the state
in which my mind then was, no other belief than this could occupy the
first place.

My tongue was tied. I gazed by turns upon her who stood before me, and
her who lay upon the bed, and who, awakened by the shriek that had been
uttered, now opened her eyes. She started from her pillow, and, by
assuming a new and more distinct attitude, permitted me to recognise
_Clarice herself_!

Three days before, I had left her, beside the bed of a dying friend, at
a solitary mansion in the mountains of Donegal. Here it had been her
resolution to remain till her friend should breathe her last. Fraught
with this persuasion, knowing this to be the place and hour of repose of
my lady, hurried forward by the impetuosity of my own conceptions,
deceived by the faint gleam which penetrated through the curtain and
imperfectly-irradiated features which bore, at all times, a powerful
resemblance to those of Mrs. Lorimer, I had rushed to the brink of this
terrible precipice!

Why did I linger on the verge? Why, thus perilously situated, did I not
throw myself headlong? The steel was yet in my hand. A single blow would
have pierced my heart, and shut out from my remembrance and foresight
the past and the future.

The moment of insanity had gone by, and I was once more myself. Instead
of regarding the act which I had meditated as the dictate of compassion
or of justice, it only added to the sum of my ingratitude, and gave
wings to the whirlwind that was sent to bear me to perdition.

Perhaps I was influenced by a sentiment which I had not leisure to
distribute into parts. My understanding was, no doubt, bewildered in the
maze of consequences which would spring from my act. How should I
explain my coming hither in this murderous guise, my arm lifted to
destroy the idol of my soul and the darling child of my patroness? In
what words should I unfold the tale of Wiatte, and enumerate the motives
that terminated in the present scene? What penalty had not my
infatuation and cruelty deserved? What could I less than turn the
dagger's point against my own bosom?

A second time, the blow was thwarted and diverted. Once more this
beneficent interposer held my arm from the perpetration of a new
iniquity. Once more frustrated the instigations of that demon, of whose
malice a mysterious destiny had consigned me to be the sport and the
prey.

Every new moment added to the sum of my inexpiable guilt. Murder was
succeeded, in an instant, by the more detestable enormity of suicide.
She to whom my ingratitude was flagrant in proportion to the benefits of
which she was the author, had now added to her former acts that of
rescuing me from the last of mischiefs.

I threw the weapon on the floor. The zeal which prompted her to seize my
arm, this action occasioned to subside, and to yield place to those
emotions which this spectacle was calculated to excite. She watched me
in silence, and with an air of ineffable solicitude. Clarice, governed
by the instinct of modesty, wrapped her bosom and face in the
bedclothes, and testified her horror by vehement but scarcely-articulate
exclamations.

I moved forward, but my steps were random and tottering. My thoughts
were fettered by reverie, and my gesticulations destitute of meaning. My
tongue faltered without speaking, and I felt as if life and death were
struggling within me for the mastery.

My will, indeed, was far from being neutral in this contest. To such as
I, annihilation is the supreme good. To shake off the ills that fasten
on us by shaking off existence, is a lot which the system of nature has
denied to man. By escaping from life, I should be delivered from this
scene, but should only rush into a world of retribution, and be immersed
in new agonies.

I was yet to live. No instrument of my deliverance was within reach. I
was powerless. To rush from the presence of these women to hide me
forever from their scrutiny and their upbraiding, to snatch from their
minds all traces of the existence of Clithero, was the scope of
unutterable longings.

Urged to flight by every motive of which my nature was susceptible, I
was yet rooted to the spot. Had the pause been only to be interrupted by
me, it would have lasted forever.

At length, the lady, clasping her hands and lifting them, exclaimed, in
a tone melting into pity and grief,--

"Clithero! what is this? How came you hither, and why?"

I struggled for utterance:--"I came to murder you. Your brother has
perished by my hands. Fresh from the commission of this deed, I have
hastened hither to perpetrate the same crime upon you."

"My brother!" replied the lady, with new vehemence. "Oh, say not so! I
have just heard of his return, from Sarsefield, and that he lives."

"He is dead," repeated I, with fierceness; "I know it. It was I that
killed him."

"Dead!" she faintly articulated. "And by thee, Clithero? Oh! cursed
chance that hindered thee from killing me also! Dead! Then is the omen
fulfilled! Then am I undone! Lost forever!"

Her eyes now wandered from me, and her countenance sunk into a wild and
rueful expression. Hope was utterly extinguished in her heart, and life
forsook her at the same moment. She sunk upon the floor pallid and
breathless.

How she came into possession of this knowledge I know not. It is
possible that Sarsefield had repented of concealment, and, in the
interval that passed between our separation and my encounter with
Wiatte, had returned, and informed her of the reappearance of this
miscreant.

Thus, then, was my fate consummated. I was rescued from destroying her
by a dagger, only to behold her perish by the tidings which I brought.
Thus was every omen of mischief and misery fulfilled. Thus was the
enmity of Wiatte rendered efficacious, and the instrument of his
destruction changed into the executioner of his revenge.

Such is the tale of my crimes. It is not for me to hope that the curtain
of oblivion will ever shut out the dismal spectacle. It will haunt me
forever. The torments that grow out of it can terminate only with the
thread of my existence, but that, I know full well, will never end.
Death is but a shifting of the scene; and the endless progress of
eternity, which to the good is merely the perfection of felicity, is to
the wicked an accumulation of woe. The self-destroyer is his own enemy:
this has ever been my opinion. Hitherto it has influenced my actions.
Now, though the belief continues, its influence on my conduct is
annihilated. I am no stranger to the depth of that abyss into which I
shall plunge. No matter. Change is precious for its own sake.

Well, I was still to live. My abode must be somewhere fixed. My conduct
was henceforth the result of a perverse and rebellious principle. I
banished myself forever from my native soil. I vowed never more to
behold the face of my Clarice, to abandon my friends, my books, all my
wonted labours and accustomed recreations.

I was neither ashamed nor afraid. I considered not in what way the
justice of the country would affect me. It merely made no part of my
contemplations. I was not embarrassed by the choice of expedients for
trammelling up the visible consequences and for eluding suspicion. The
idea of abjuring my country and flying forever from the hateful scene
partook, to my apprehension, of the vast, the boundless, and strange; of
plunging from the height of fortune to obscurity and indigence,
corresponded with my present state of mind. It was of a piece with the
tremendous and wonderful events that had just happened.

These were the images that haunted me, while I stood speechlessly gazing
at the ruin before me. I heard a noise from without, or imagined that I
heard it. My reverie was broken, and my muscular power restored. I
descended into the street, through doors of which I possessed one set of
keys, and hurried by the shortest way beyond the precincts of the city.
I had laid no plan. My conceptions with regard to the future were
shapeless and confused. Successive incidents supplied me with a clue,
and suggested, as they rose, the next step to be taken. I threw off the
garb of affluence, and assumed a beggar's attire. That I had money about
me for the accomplishment of my purposes was wholly accidental. I
travelled along the coast, and, when I arrived at one town, knew not why
I should go farther; but my restlessness was unabated, and change was
some relief. I it length arrived at Belfast. A vessel was preparing for
America. I embraced eagerly the opportunity of passing into a new world.
I arrived at Philadelphia. As soon as I landed I wandered hither, and
was content to wear out my few remaining days in the service of
Inglefield.

I have no friends. Why should I trust my story to mother? I have no
solicitude about concealment; but who is there who will derive pleasure
or benefit from my rehearsal? And why should I expatiate on so hateful a
scheme? Yet now have I consented to this. I have confided in you the
history of my disasters. I am not fearful of the use that you may be
disposed to make of it. I shall quickly set myself beyond the reach of
human tribunals. I shall relieve the ministers of law from the trouble
of punishing. The recent events which induced you to summon me to this
conference have likewise determined me to make this disclosure.

I was not aware, for some time, of my perturbed sleep. No wonder that
sleep cannot soothe miseries like mine; that I am alike infested by
memory in wakefulness and slumber. Yet I was anew distressed by the
discovery that my thoughts found their way to my lips, without my being
conscious of it, and that my steps wandered forth unknowingly and
without the guidance of my will.

The story you have told is not incredible. The disaster to which you
allude did not fail to excite my regret. I can still weep over the
untimely fall of youth and worth. I can no otherwise account for my
frequenting his shade than by the distant resemblance which the death of
this man bore to that of which I was the perpetrator. This resemblance
occurred to me at first. If he were able to weaken the impression which
was produced by my crime, this similitude was adapted to revive and
enforce them.

The wilderness, and the cave to which you followed me, were familiar to
my Sunday rambles. Often have I indulged in audible griefs on the cliffs
of that valley. Often have I brooded over my sorrows in the recesses of
that cavern. This scene is adapted to my temper. Its mountainous
asperities supply me with images of desolation and seclusion, and its
headlong streams lull me into temporary forgetfulness of mankind.

I comprehend you. You suspect me of concern in the death of Waldegrave.
You could not do otherwise. The conduct that you have witnessed was that
of a murderer. I will not upbraid you for your suspicions, though I have
bought exemption from them at a high price.




Chapter IX.


There ended his narrative. He started from the spot where he stood, and,
without affording me any opportunity of replying or commenting,
disappeared amidst the thickest of the wood. I had no time to exert
myself for his detention. I could have used no arguments for this end,
to which it is probable he would have listened. The story I had heard
was too extraordinary, too completely the reverse of all my
expectations, to allow me to attend to the intimations of self-murder
which he dropped.

The secret which I imagined was about to be disclosed was as inscrutable
as ever. Not a circumstance, from the moment when Clithero's character
became the subject of my meditations, till the conclusion of his talk,
but served to confirm my suspicion. Was this error to be imputed to
credulity. Would not any one, from similar appearances, have drawn
similar conclusions? Or is there a criterion by which truth can always
be distinguished? Was it owing to my imperfect education that the
inquietudes of this man were not traced to a deed performed at the
distance of a thousand leagues, to the murder of his patroness and
friend?

I had heard a tale which apparently related to scenes and persons far
distant: but, though my suspicions have appeared to have been misplaced,
what should hinder but that the death of my friend was, in like manner,
an act of momentary insanity and originated in a like spirit of mistaken
benevolence?

But I did not consider this tale merely in relation to myself. My life
had been limited and uniform. I had communed with romancers and
historians, but the impression made upon me by this incident was
unexampled in my experience. My reading had furnished me with no
instance in any degree parallel to this, and I found that to be a
distant and second-hand spectator of events was widely different from
witnessing them myself and partaking in their consequences. My judgment
was, for a time, sunk into imbecility and confusion. My mind was full of
the images unavoidably suggested by this tale, but they existed in a
kind of chaos, and not otherwise than gradually was I able to reduce
them to distinct particulars, and subject them to a deliberate and
methodical inspection.

How was I to consider this act of Clithero? What a deplorable
infatuation! Yet it was the necessary result of a series of ideas
mutually linked and connected. His conduct was dictated by a motive
allied to virtue. It was the fruit of an ardent and grateful spirit.

The death of Wiatte could not be censured. The life of Clithero was
unspeakably more valuable than that of his antagonist. It was the
instinct of self-preservation that swayed him. He knew not his adversary
in time enough to govern himself by that knowledge. Had the assailant
been an unknown ruffian, his death would have been followed by no
remorse. The spectacle of his dying agonies would have dwelt upon the
memory of his assassin like any other mournful sight, in the production
of which he bore no part.

It must at least be said that his will was not concerned in this
transaction. He acted in obedience to an impulse which he could not
control nor resist. Shall we impute guilt where there is no design?
Shall a man extract food for self-reproach from an action to which it is
not enough to say that he was actuated by no culpable intention, but
that he was swayed by no intention whatever? If consequences arise that
cannot be foreseen, shall we find no refuge in the persuasion of our
rectitude and of human frailty? Shall we deem ourselves criminal because
we do not enjoy the attributes of Deity? Because our power and our
knowledge are confined by impassable boundaries?

But whence arose the subsequent intention? It was the fruit of a
dreadful mistake. His intents were noble and compassionate. But this is
of no avail to free him from the imputation of guilt. No remembrance of
past beneficence can compensate for this crime. The scale loaded with
the recriminations of his conscience, is immovable by any
counter-weight.

But what are the conclusions to be drawn by dispassionate observers? Is
it possible to regard this person with disdain or with enmity? The crime
originated in those limitations which nature has imposed upon human
faculties. Proofs of a just intention are all that are requisite to
exempt us from blame; he is thus, in consequence of a double mistake.
The light in which he views this event is erroneous. He judges wrong,
and is therefore miserable.

How imperfect are the grounds of all our decisions Was it of no use to
superintend his childhood, to select his instructors and examples, to
mark the operations of his principles, to see him emerging into youth,
to follow him through various scenes and trying vicissitudes, and mark
the uniformity of his integrity? Who would have predicted his future
conduct? Who would not have affirmed the impossibility of an action like
this?

How mysterious was the connection between the fate of Wiatte and his
sister! By such circuitous and yet infallible means were the prediction
of the lady and the vengeance of the brother accomplished! In how many
cases may it be said, as in this, that the prediction was the cause of
its own fulfilment! That the very act which considerate observers, and
even himself, for a time, imagined to have utterly precluded the
execution of Wiatte's menaces, should be that inevitably leading to it!
That the execution should be assigned to him who, abounding in
abhorrence, and in the act of self-defence, was the slayer of the
menacer!

As the obstructer of his designs, Wiatte waylaid and assaulted Clithero.
He perished in the attempt. Were his designs frustrated? No. It was thus
that he secured the gratification of his vengeance. His sister was cut
off in the bloom of life and prosperity. By a refinement of good
fortune, the voluntary minister of his malice had entailed upon himself
exile without reprieve and misery without end.

But what chiefly excited my wonder was the connection of this tale with
the destiny of Sarsefield. This was he whom I have frequently mentioned
to you as my preceptor. About four years previous to this era, he
appeared in this district without fortune or friend. He desired, one
evening, to be accommodated at my uncle's house. The conversation
turning on the objects of his journey and his present situation, he
professed himself in search of lucrative employment. My uncle proposed
to him to become a teacher, there being a sufficient number of young
people in this neighbourhood to afford him occupation and subsistence.
He found it his interest to embrace this proposal.

I, of course, became his pupil, and demeaned myself in such a manner as
speedily to grow into a favourite. He communicated to us no part of his
early history, but informed us sufficiently of his adventures in Asia
and Italy to make it plain that this was the same person alluded to by
Clithero. During his abode among us his conduct was irreproachable. When
he left us, he manifested the most poignant regret, but this originated
chiefly in his regard to me. He promised to maintain with me an
epistolary intercourse. Since his departure, however, I had heard
nothing respecting him. It was with unspeakable regret that I now heard
of the disappointment of his hopes, and was inquisitive respecting the
measures which he would adopt in his new situation. Perhaps he would'
once more return to America, and I should again be admitted to the
enjoyment of his society. This event I anticipated with the highest
satisfaction.

At present, the fate of the unhappy Clithero was the subject of abundant
anxiety. On his suddenly leaving me, at the conclusion of his tale, I
supposed that he had gone upon one of his usual rambles, and that it
would terminate only with the day. Next morning a message was received
from Inglefield, inquiring if any one knew what had become of his
servant. I could not listen to this message with tranquillity, I
recollected the hints that he had given of some design upon his life,
and admitted the most dreary forebodings. I speeded to Inglefield's.
Clithero had not returned, they told me, the preceding evening. He had
not apprized them of any intention to change his abode. His boxes, and
all that composed his slender property, were found in their ordinary
state. He had expressed no dissatisfaction with his present condition.

Several days passed, and no tidings could be procured of him. His
absence was a topic of general speculation, but was a source of
particular anxiety to no one but myself. My apprehensions were surely
built upon sufficient grounds. From the moment that we parted, no one
had seen or heard of him. What mode of suicide he had selected, he had
disabled us from discovering, by the impenetrable secrecy in which he
had involved it.

In the midst of my reflections upon this subject, the idea of the
wilderness occurred. Could he have executed his design in the deepest of
its recesses? These were unvisited by human footsteps, and his bones
might lie for ages in this solitude without attracting observation. To
seek them where they lay, to gather them together and provide for them a
grave, was a duty which appeared incumbent on me, and of which the
performance was connected with a thousand habitual sentiments and mixed
pleasures.

Thou knowest my devotion to the spirit that breathes its inspiration in
the gloom of forests and on the verge of streams. I love to immerse
myself in shades and dells, and hold converse with the solemnities and
secrecies of nature in the rude retreats of Norwalk. The disappearance
of Clithero had furnished new incitements to ascend its cliffs and
pervade its thickets, as I cherished the hope of meeting in my rambles
with some traces of this man. But might he not still live? His words had
imparted the belief that he intended to destroy himself. This
catastrophe, however, was far from certain. Was it not in my power to
avert it? Could I not restore a mind thus vigorous, to tranquil and
wholesome existence? Could I not subdue his perverse disdain and
immeasurable abhorrence of himself? His upbraiding and his scorn were
unmerited and misplaced. Perhaps they argued frenzy rather than
prejudice; but frenzy, like prejudice, was curable. Reason was no less
an antidote to the illusions of insanity like his, than to the illusions
of error.

I did not immediately recollect that to subsist in this desert was
impossible. Nuts were the only fruits it produced, and these were
inadequate to sustain human life. If it were haunted by Clithero, he
must occasionally pass its limits and beg or purloin victuals. This
deportment was too humiliating and flagitious to be imputed to him.
There was reason to suppose him smitten with the charms of solitude, of
a lonely abode in the midst of mountainous and rugged nature; but this
could not be uninterruptedly enjoyed. Life could be supported only by
occasionally visiting the haunts of men, in the guise of a thief or a
mendicant. Hence, since Clithero was not known to have reappeared at any
farm-house in the neighbourhood, I was compelled to conclude either that
he had retired far from this district, or that he was dead.

Though I designed that my leisure should chiefly be consumed in the
bosom of Norwalk, I almost dismissed the hope of meeting with the
fugitive. There were indeed two sources of my hopelessness on this
occasion. Not only it was probable that Clithero had fled far away, but,
should he have concealed himself in some nook or cavern within these
precincts, his concealment was not to be traced. This arose from the
nature of that sterile region.

It would not be easy to describe the face of this district, in a few
words. Half of Solesbury, thou knowest, admits neither of plough nor
spade. The cultivable space lies along the river, and the desert, lying
on the north, has gained, by some means, the appellation of Norwalk.
Canst thou imagine a space, somewhat circular, about six miles in
diameter, and exhibiting a perpetual and intricate variety of craggy
eminences and deep dells?

The hollows are single, and walled around by cliffs, ever varying in
shape and height, and have seldom any perceptible communication with
each other. These hollows are of all dimensions, from the narrowness and
depth of a well, to the amplitude of one hundred yards. Winter's snow is
frequently found in these cavities at midsummer. The streams that burst
forth from every crevice are thrown, by the irregularities of the
surface, into numberless cascades, often disappear in mists or in
chasms, and emerge from subterranean channels, and, finally, either
subside into lakes, or quietly meander through the lower and more level
grounds.

Wherever nature left a flat it is made rugged and scarcely passable by
enormous and fallen trunks, accumulated by the storms of ages, and
forming, by their slow decay, a moss-covered soil, the haunt of rabbits
and lizards. These spots are obscured by the melancholy umbrage of
pines, whose eternal murmurs are in unison with vacancy and solitude,
with the reverberations of the torrents and the whistling of the blasts.
Hickory and poplar, which abound in the lowlands, find here no fostering
elements.

A sort of continued vale, winding and abrupt, leads into the midst of
this region and through it. This vale serves the purpose of a road. It
is a tedious maze and perpetual declivity, and requires, from the
passenger, a cautious and sure foot. Openings and ascents occasionally
present themselves on each side, which seem to promise you access to the
interior region, but always terminate, sooner or later, in insuperable
difficulties, at the verge of a precipice or the bottom of a steep.

Perhaps no one was more acquainted with this wilderness than I, but my
knowledge was extremely imperfect. I had traversed parts of it, at an
early age, in pursuit of berries and nuts, or led by a roaming
disposition. Afterwards the sphere of my rambles was enlarged and their
purpose changed. When Sarsefield came among us, I became his favourite
scholar and the companion of all his pedestrian excursions. He was fond
of penetrating into these recesses, partly from the love of picturesque
scenes, partly to investigate its botanical and mineral productions, and
partly to carry on more effectually that species of instruction which he
had adopted with regard to me, and which chiefly consisted in moralizing
narratives or synthetical reasonings. These excursions had familiarized
me with its outlines and most accessible parts; but there was much
which, perhaps, could never be reached without wings, and much the only
paths to which I might forever overlook.

Every new excursion, indeed, added somewhat to my knowledge. New tracks
were pursued, new prospects detected, and new summits were gained. My
rambles were productive of incessant novelty, though they always
terminated in the prospect of limits that could not be overleaped. But
none of these had led me wider from my customary paths than that which
had taken place when in pursuit of Clithero. I had a faint remembrance
of the valley into which I had descended after him; but till then I had
viewed it at a distance, and supposed it impossible to reach the bottom
but by leaping from a precipice some hundred feet in height. The
opposite steep seemed no less inaccessible, and the cavern at the bottom
was impervious to any views which my former positions had enabled me to
take of it.

My intention to re-examine this cave and ascertain whither it led had,
for a time, been suspended by different considerations. It was now
revived with more energy than ever. I reflected that this had formerly
been haunted by Clithero, and might possibly have been the scene of the
desperate act which he had meditated. It might at least conceal some
token of his past existence. It might lead into spaces hitherto
unvisited, and to summits from which wider landscapes might be seen.

One morning I set out to explore this scene. The road which Clithero had
taken was laboriously circuitous. On my return from the first pursuit of
him, I ascended the cliff in my former footsteps, but soon lighted on
the beaten track which I have already described. This enabled me to shun
a thousand obstacles which had lately risen before me, and opened an
easy passage to the cavern.

I once more traversed this way. The brow of the hill was gained. The
ledges of which it consisted afforded sufficient footing, when the
attempt was made, though viewed at a distance they seemed to be too
narrow for that purpose. As I descended the rugged stair, I could not
but wonder at the temerity and precipitation with which this descent had
formerly been made. It seemed as if the noonday light and the tardiest
circumspection would scarcely enable me to accomplish it; yet then it
had been done with headlong speed, and with no guidance but the moon's
uncertain rays.

I reached the mouth of the cave. Till now I had forgotten that a lamp or
a torch might be necessary to direct my subterranean footsteps. I was
unwilling to defer the attempt. Light might possibly be requisite, if
the cave had no other outlet. Somewhat might present itself within to
the eyes, which might forever elude the hands, but I was more inclined
to consider it merely as an avenue terminating in an opening on the
summit of the steep, or on the opposite side of the ridge. Caution might
supply the place of light, or, having explored the cave as far as
possible at present, I might hereafter return, better furnished for the
scrutiny.




Chapter X.


With these determinations, I proceeded. The entrance was low, and
compelled me to resort to hands as well as feet. At a few yards from the
mouth the light disappeared, and I found myself immersed in the dunnest
obscurity. Had I not been persuaded that another had gone before me, I
should have relinquished the attempt. I proceeded with the utmost
caution, always ascertaining, by outstretched arms, the height and
breadth of the cavity before me. In a short time the dimensions expanded
on all sides, and permitted me to resume my feet.

I walked upon a smooth and gentle declivity. Presently the wall on one
side, and the ceiling, receded beyond my reach. I began to fear that I
should be involved in a maze, and should be disabled from returning. To
obviate this danger it was requisite to adhere to the nearest wall, and
conform to the direction which it should take, without straying through
the palpable obscurity. Whether the ceiling was lofty or low, whether
the opposite wall of the passage was distant or near, this I deemed no
proper opportunity to investigate.

In a short time, my progress was stopped by an abrupt descent. I set
down the advancing foot with caution, being aware that I might at the
next step encounter a bottomless pit. To the brink of such a one I
seemed now to have arrived. I stooped, and stretched my hand forward and
downward, but all was vacuity.

Here it was needful to pause. I had reached the brink of a cavity whose
depth it Avas impossible to ascertain. It might be a few inches beyond
my reach, or hundreds of feet. By leaping down I might incur no injury,
or might plunge into a lake or dash myself to pieces on the points of
rocks.

I now saw with new force the propriety of being furnished with a light.
The first suggestion was to return upon my footsteps, and resume my
undertaking on the morrow. Yet, having advanced thus far, I felt
reluctance to recede without accomplishing my purposes. I reflected
likewise that Clithero had boldly entered this recess, and had certainly
come forth at a different avenue from that at which he entered.

At length it occurred to me that, though I could not go forward, yet I
might proceed along the edge of this cavity. This edge would be as safe
a guidance, and would serve as well for a clue by which I might return,
as the wall which it was now necessary to forsake.

Intense dark is always the parent of fears. Impending injuries cannot in
this state be descried, nor shunned, nor repelled. I began to feel some
faltering of my courage, and seated myself, for a few minutes, on a
stony mass which arose before me. My situation was new. The caverns I
had hitherto met with in this desert were chiefly formed of low-browed
rocks. They were chambers, more or less spacious, into which twilight
was at least admitted; but here it seemed as if I were surrounded by
barriers that would forever cut off my return to air and to light.

Presently I resumed my courage and proceeded. My road appeared now to
ascend. On one side I seemed still upon the verge of a precipice, and on
the other all was empty and waste. I had gone no inconsiderable
distance, and persuaded myself that my career would speedily terminate.
In a short time, the space on the left hand was again occupied, and I
cautiously proceeded between the edge of the gulf and a rugged wall. As
the space between them widened I adhered to the wall.

I was not insensible that my path became more intricate and more
difficult to retread in proportion as I advanced. I endeavoured to
preserve a vivid conception of the way which I had already passed, and
to keep the images of the left and right-hand wall, and the gulf, in due
succession in my memory.

The path, which had hitherto been considerably smooth, now became rugged
and steep. Chilling damps, the secret trepidation which attended me, the
length and difficulties of my way, enhanced by the ceaseless caution and
the numerous expedients which the utter darkness obliged me to employ,
began to overpower my strength. I was frequently compelled to stop and
recruit myself by rest. These respites from toil were of use, but they
could not enable me to prosecute an endless journey, and to return was
scarcely a less arduous task than to proceed.

I looked anxiously forward, in the hope of being comforted by some dim
ray, which might assure me that my labours were approaching an end. At
last this propitious token appeared, and I issued forth into a kind of
chamber, one side of which was open to the air and allowed me to catch a
portion of the checkered sky. This spectacle never before excited such
exquisite sensations in my bosom. The air, likewise, breathed into the
cavern, was unspeakably delicious.

I now found myself on the projecture of a rock. Above and below, the
hill-side was nearly perpendicular. Opposite, and at the distance of
fifteen or twenty yards, was a similar ascent. At the bottom was a glen,
cold, narrow, and obscure. This projecture, which served as a kind of
vestibule to the cave, was connected with a ledge, by which, though not
without peril and toil, I was conducted to the summit.

This summit was higher than any of those which were interposed between
itself and the river. A large part of this chaos of rocks and precipices
was subjected, at one view, to the eye. The fertile lawns and vales
which lay beyond this, the winding course of the river, and the slopes
which rose on its farther side, were parts of this extensive scene.
These objects were at any time fitted to inspire rapture. Now my delight
was enhanced by the contrast which this lightsome and serene element
bore to the glooms from which I had lately emerged. My station, also,
was higher, and the limits of my view, consequently, more ample than any
which I had hitherto enjoyed.

I advanced to the outer verge of the hill, which I found to overlook a
steep no less inaccessible, and a glen equally profound. I changed
frequently my station in order to diversify the scenery. At length it
became necessary to inquire by what means I should return. I traversed
the edge of the hill, but on every side it was equally steep and always
too lofty to permit me to leap from it. As I kept along the verge, I
perceived that it tended in a circular direction, and brought me back,
at last, to the spot from which I had set out. From this inspection, it
seemed as if return was impossible by any other way than that through
the cavern.

I now turned my attention to the interior space. If you imagine a
cylindrical mass, with a cavity dug in the centre, whose edge conforms
to the exterior edge; and if you place in this cavity another cylinder,
higher than that which surrounds it, but so small as to leave between
its sides and those of the cavity a hollow space, you will gain as
distinct an image of this hill as words can convey. The summit of the
inner rock was rugged and covered with trees of unequal growth. To reach
this summit would not render my return easier; but its greater elevation
would extend my view, and perhaps furnish a spot from which the whole
horizon was conspicuous.

As I had traversed the outer, I now explored the inner, edge of this
hill. At length I reached a spot where the chasm, separating the two
rocks, was narrower than at any other part. At first view, it seemed as
if it were possible to leap over it, but a nearer examination showed me
that the passage was impracticable. So far as my eye could estimate it,
the breadth was thirty or forty feet. I could scarcely venture to look
beneath. The height was dizzy, and the walls, which approached each
other at top, receded at the bottom, so as to form the resemblance of an
immense hall, lighted from a rift which some convulsion of nature had
made in the roof. Where I stood there ascended a perpetual mist,
occasioned by a torrent that dashed along the rugged pavement below.

From these objects I willingly turned my eye upon those before and above
me, on the opposite ascent. A stream, rushing from above, fell into a
cavity, which its own force seemed gradually to have made. The noise and
the motion equally attracted my attention. There was a desolate and
solitary grandeur in the scene, enhanced by the circumstances in which
it was beheld, and by the perils through which I had recently passed,
that had never before been witnessed by me.

A sort of sanctity and awe environed it, owing to the consciousness of
absolute and utter loneliness. It was probable that human feet had never
before gained this recess, that human eyes had never been fixed upon
these gushing waters. The aboriginal inhabitants had no motives to lead
them into caves like this and ponder on the verge of such a precipice.
Their successors were still less likely to have wandered hither. Since
the birth of this continent, I was probably the first who had deviated
thus remotely from the customary paths of men.

While musing upon these ideas, my eye was fixed upon the foaming
current. At length I looked upon the rocks which confined and
embarrassed its course. I admired their fantastic shapes and endless
irregularities. Passing from one to the other of these, my attention
lighted, at length, as if by some magical transition, on--a human
countenance!

My surprise was so abrupt, and my sensations so tumultuous, that I
forgot for a moment the perilous nature of my situation. I loosened my
hold of a pine-branch, which had been hitherto one of my supports, and
almost started from my seat. Had my station been in a slight degree
nearer the brink than it was, I should have fallen headlong into the
abyss.

To meet a human creature, even on that side of the chasm which I
occupied, would have been wholly adverse to my expectation. My station
was accessible by no other road than that through which I had passed,
and no motives were imaginable by which others could be prompted to
explore this road. But he whom I now beheld was seated where it seemed
impossible for human efforts to have placed him.

But this affected me but little in comparison with other incidents. Not
only the countenance was human, but, in spite of shaggy and tangled
locks, and an air of melancholy wildness, I speedily recognised the
features of the fugitive Clithero!

One glance was not sufficient to make me acquainted with this scene. I
had come hither partly in pursuit of this man, but some casual appendage
of his person, something which should indicate his past rather than his
present existence, was all that I hoped to find. That he should be found
alive in this desert, that he should have gained this summit, access to
which was apparently impossible, were scarcely within the boundaries of
belief.

His scanty and coarse garb had been nearly rent away by brambles and
thorns; his arms, bosom, and cheeks were overgrown and half concealed by
hair. There was somewhat in his attitude and looks denoting more than
anarchy of thoughts and passions. His rueful, ghastly, and immovable
eyes testified not only that his mind was ravaged by despair, but that
he was pinched with famine.

These proofs of his misery thrilled to my inmost heart. Horror and
shuddering invaded me as I stood gazing upon him, and, for a time, I was
without the power of deliberating on the measures which it was my duty
to adopt for his relief. The first suggestion was, by calling, to inform
him of my presence. I knew not what counsel or comfort to offer. By what
words to bespeak his attention, or by what topics to mollify his direful
passions, I knew not. Though so near, the gulf by which we were
separated was impassable. All that I could do was to speak.

My surprise and my horror were still strong enough to give a shrill and
piercing tone to my voice. The chasm and the rocks loudened and
reverberated my accents while I exclaimed,--"_Man! Clithero!_"

My summons was effectual. He shook off his trance in a moment. He had
been stretched upon his back, with his eyes fixed upon a craggy
projecture above, as if he were in momentary expectation of its fall and
crushing him to atoms. Now he started on his feet. He was conscious of
the voice, but not of the quarter whence it came. He was looking
anxiously around when I again spoke:--"Look hither. It is I who called."

He looked. Astonishment was now mingled with every other dreadful
meaning in his visage. He clasped his hands together and bent forward,
as if to satisfy himself that his summoner was real. At the next moment
he drew back, placed his hands upon his breast, and fixed his eyes on
the ground.

This pause was not likely to be broken but by me. I was preparing again
to speak. To be more distinctly heard, I advanced closer to the brink.
During this action, my eye was necessarily withdrawn from him. Having
gained a somewhat nearer station, I looked again, but--he was gone!

The seat which he so lately occupied was empty. I was not forewarned of
his disappearance or directed to the course of his flight by any
rustling among leaves. These, indeed, would have been overpowered by the
noise of the cataract. The place where he sat was the bottom of a
cavity, one side of which terminated in the verge of the abyss, but the
other sides were perpendicular or overhanging. Surely he had not leaped
into this gulf; and yet that he had so speedily scaled the steep was
impossible.

I looked into the gulf, but the depth and the gloom allowed me to see
nothing with distinctness. His cries or groans could not be overheard
amidst the uproar of the waters. His fall must have instantly destroyed
him, and that he had fallen was the only conclusion I could draw.

My sensations on this incident cannot be easily described. The image of
this man's despair, and of the sudden catastrophe to which my
inauspicious interference had led, filled me with compunction and
terror. Some of my fears were relieved by the new conjecture, that,
behind the rock on which he had lain, there might be some aperture or
pit into which he had descended, or in which he might be concealed.

I derived consolation from this conjecture. Not only the evil which I
dreaded might not have happened, but some alleviation of his misery was
possible. Could I arrest his footsteps and win his attention, I might be
able to insinuate the lessons of fortitude; but if words were impotent,
and arguments were nugatory, yet to sit by him in silence, to moisten
his hand with tears, to sigh in unison, to offer him the spectacle of
sympathy, the solace of believing that his demerits were not estimated
by so rigid a standard by others as by himself, that one at least among
his fellow-men regarded him with love and pity, could not fail to be of
benign influence.

These thoughts inspired me with new zeal. To effect my purpose it was
requisite to reach the opposite steep. I was now convinced that this was
not an impracticable undertaking, since Clithero had already performed
it. I once more made the circuit of the hill. Every side was steep and
of enormous height, and the gulf was nowhere so narrow as at this spot.
I therefore returned hither, and once more pondered on the means of
passing this tremendous chasm in safety.

Casting my eyes upward, I noted the tree at the root of which I was
standing. I compared the breadth of the gulf with the length of the
trunk of this tree, and it appeared very suitable for a bridge. Happily
it grew obliquely, and, if felled by an axe, would probably fall of
itself, in such a manner as to be suspended across the chasm. The stock
was thick enough to afford me footing, and would enable me to reach the
opposite declivity without danger or delay.

A more careful examination of the spot, the site of the tree, its
dimensions, and the direction of its growth, convinced me fully of the
practicability of this expedient, and I determined to carry it into
immediate execution. For this end I must hasten home, procure an axe,
and return with all expedition hither. I took my former way, once more
entered the subterranean avenue, and slowly re-emerged into day. Before
I reached home, the evening was at hand, and my tired limbs and jaded
spirits obliged me to defer my undertaking till the morrow.

Though my limbs were at rest, my thoughts were active through the night.
I carefully reviewed the situation of this hill, and was unable to
conjecture by what means Clithero could place himself upon it. Unless he
occasionally returned to the habitable grounds, it was impossible for
him to escape perishing by famine. He might intend to destroy himself by
this means, and my first efforts were to be employed to overcome this
fatal resolution. To persuade him to leave his desolate haunts might be
a laborious and tedious task; meanwhile, all my benevolent intentions
would be frustrated by his want of sustenance. It was proper, therefore,
to carry bread with me, and to place it before him. The sight of food,
the urgencies of hunger, and my vehement entreaties, might prevail on
him to eat, though no expostulations might suffice to make him seek food
at a distance.




Chapter XI.


Next morning I stored a small bag with meat and bread, and, throwing an
axe on my shoulder, set out, without informing any one of my intentions,
for the hill. My passage was rendered more difficult by these
encumbrances, but my perseverance surmounted every impediment, and I
gained, in a few hours, the foot of the tree whose trunk was to serve me
for a bridge. In this journey I saw no traces of the fugitive.

A new survey of the tree confirmed my former conclusions, and I began my
work with diligence. My strokes were repeated by a thousand echoes, and
I paused at first, somewhat startled by reverberations which made it
appear as if not one but a score of axes were employed at the same time
on both sides of the gulf.

Quickly the tree fell, and exactly in the manner which I expected arid
desired. The wide-spread limbs occupied and choked up the channel of the
torrent, and compelled it to seek a new outlet and multiplied its
murmurs. I dared not trust myself to cross it in an upright posture, but
clung, with hands and feet, to its rugged bark. Having reached the
opposite cliff, I proceeded to examine the spot where Clithero had
disappeared. My fondest hopes were realized, for a considerable cavity
appeared, which, on a former day, had been concealed from my distant
view by the rock.

It was obvious to conclude that this was his present habitation, or that
an avenue, conducting hither and terminating in the unexplored sides of
this pit, was that by which he had come hither, and by which he had
retired. I could not hesitate long to slide into the pit. I found an
entrance through which I fearlessly penetrated. I was prepared to
encounter obstacles and perils similar to those which I have already
described, but was rescued from them by ascending, in a few minutes,
into a kind of passage, open above, but walled by a continued rock on
both sides. The sides of this passage conformed with the utmost
exactness to each other. Nature, at some former period, had occasioned
the solid mass to dispart at this place, and had thus afforded access to
the summit of the hill. Loose stones and ragged points formed the
flooring of this passage, which rapidly and circuitously ascended.

I was now within a few yards of the surface of the rock. The passage
opened into a kind of chamber or pit, the sides of which were not
difficult to climb. I rejoiced at the prospect of this termination of my
journey. Here I paused, and, throwing my weary limbs on the ground,
began to examine the objects around me, and to meditate on the steps
that were next to be taken.

My first glance lighted on the very being of whom I was in search.
Stretched upon a bed of moss, at the distance of a few feet from my
station, I beheld Clithero. He had not been roused by my approach,
though my footsteps were perpetually stumbling and sliding. This
reflection gave birth to the fear that he was dead. A nearer inspection
dispelled my apprehensions, and showed me that he was merely buried in
profound slumber. Those vigils must indeed have been long which were at
last succeeded by a sleep so oblivious.

This meeting was, in the highest degree, propitious. It not only assured
me of his existence, but proved that his miseries were capable of being
suspended. His slumber enabled me to pause, to ruminate on the

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