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.