Since my return home, my mind had been fully occupied by schemes and
reflections relative to Clithero. The project suggested by thee, and to
which I had determined to devote my leisure, was forgotten, or
remembered for a moment and at wide intervals. What, however, was nearly
banished from my waking thoughts, occurred in an incongruous and
half-seen form, to my dreams. During my sleep, the image of Waldegrave
flitted before me. Methought the sentiment that impelled him to visit me
was not affection or complacency, but inquietude and anger. Some service
or duty remained to be performed by me, which I had culpably neglected:
to inspirit my zeal, to awaken my remembrance, and incite me to the
performance of this duty, did this glimmering messenger, this
half-indignant apparition, come.
I commonly awake soon enough to mark the youngest dawn of the morning.
Now, in consequence perhaps of my perturbed sleep, I opened my eyes
before the stars had lost any of their lustre. This circumstance
produced some surprise, until the images that lately hovered in my fancy
were recalled, and furnished somewhat like a solution of the problem.
Connected with the image of my dead friend was that of his sister. The
discourse that took place at our last interview; the scheme of
transcribing, for thy use, all the letters which, during his short but
busy life, I received from him; the nature of this correspondence, and
the opportunity which this employment would afford me of contemplating
these ample and precious monuments of the intellectual existence and
moral pre-eminence of my friend, occurred to my thoughts.
The resolution to prosecute the task was revived. The obligation of
benevolence, with regard to Clithero, was not discharged. This, neither
duty nor curiosity would permit to be overlooked or delayed; but why
should my whole attention and activity be devoted to this man? The hours
which were spent at home and in my chamber could not be more usefully
employed than in making my intended copy.
In a few hours after sunrise I purposed to resume my way to the
mountain. Could this interval be appropriated to a better purpose than
in counting over my friend's letters, setting them apart from my own,
and preparing them for that transcription from which I expected so high
and yet so mournful a gratification?
This purpose, by no violent union, was blended with the recollection of
my dream. This recollection infused some degree of wavering and
dejection into my mind. In transcribing these letters I should violate
pathetic and solemn injunctions frequently repeated by the writer. Was
there some connection between this purpose and the incidents of my
vision? Was the latter sent to enforce the interdictions which had been
formerly imposed?
Thou art not fully acquainted with the intellectual history of thy
brother. Some information on that head will be necessary to explain the
nature of that reluctance which I now feel to comply with thy request,
and which had formerly so much excited thy surprise.
Waldegrave, like other men early devoted to meditation and books, had
adopted, at different periods, different systems of opinion on topics
connected with religion and morals. His earliest creeds tended to efface
the impressions of his education; to deify necessity and universalize
matter; to destroy the popular distinctions between soul and body, and
to dissolve the supposed connection between the moral condition of man
anterior and subsequent to death.
This creed he adopted with all the fulness of conviction, and propagated
with the utmost zeal. Soon after our friendship commenced, fortune
placed us at a distance from each other, and no intercourse was allowed
but by the pen. Our letters, however, were punctual and copious. Those
of Waldegrave were too frequently devoted to the defence of his
favourite tenets.
Thou art acquainted with the revolution that afterwards took place in
his mind. Placed within the sphere of religious influence, and listening
daily to the reasonings and exhortations of Mr. S----, whose benign
temper and blameless deportment was a visible and constant lesson, he
insensibly resumed the faith which he had relinquished, and became the
vehement opponent of all that he had formerly defended. The chief object
of his labours, in this new state of his mind, was to counteract the
effect of his former reasonings on my opinions.
At this time, other changes took place in his situation, in consequence
of which we were once more permitted to reside under the same roof. The
intercourse now ceased to be by letter, and the subtle and laborious
argumentations which he had formerly produced against religion, and
which were contained in a permanent form, were combated in transient
conversation. He was not only eager to subvert those opinions which he
had contributed to instil into me, but was anxious that the letters and
manuscripts which had been employed in their support should be
destroyed. He did not fear wholly or chiefly on my own account. He
believed that the influence of former reasonings on my faith would be
sufficiently eradicated by the new; but he dreaded lest these
manuscripts might fall into other hands, and thus produce mischiefs
which it would not be in his power to repair. With regard to me, the
poison had been followed by its antidote; but with respect to others,
these letters would communicate the poison when the antidote could not
be administered.
I would not consent to this sacrifice. I did not entirely abjure the
creed which had, with great copiousness and eloquence, been defended in
these letters. Besides, mixed up with abstract reasonings were
numberless passages which elucidated the character and history of my
friend. These were too precious to be consigned to oblivion; and to take
them out of their present connection and arrangement would be to
mutilate and deform them.
His entreaties and remonstrances were earnest and frequent, but always
ineffectual. He had too much purity of motives to be angry at my
stubbornness; but his sense of the mischievous tendency of these letters
was so great, that my intractability cost him many a pang.
He was now gone, and I had not only determined to preserve these
monuments, but had consented to copy them for the use of another; for
the use of one whose present and eternal welfare had been the chief
object of his cares and efforts. Thou, like others of thy sex, art
unaccustomed to metaphysical refinements. Thy religion is the growth of
sensibility and not of argument. Thou art not fortified and prepossessed
against the subtleties with which the being and attributes of the Deity
have been assailed. Would it be just to expose thee to pollution and
depravity from this source? To make thy brother the instrument of thy
apostasy, the author of thy fall? That brother whose latter days were so
ardently devoted to cherishing the spirit of devotion in thy heart?
These ideas now occurred with more force than formerly. I had promised,
not without reluctance, to give thee the entire copy of his letters; but
I now receded from this promise. I resolved merely to select for thy
perusal such as were narrative or descriptive. This could not be done
with too much expedition. It was still dark, but my sleep was at an end,
and, by a common apparatus, that lay beside my bed, I could instantly
produce a light.
The light was produced, and I proceeded to the cabinet where all my
papers and books are deposited. This was my own contrivance and
workmanship, undertaken by the advice of Sarsefield, who took infinite
pains to foster that mechanical genius which displayed itself so early
and so forcibly in thy friend. The key belonging to this was, like the
cabinet itself, of singular structure. For greater safety, it was
constantly placed in a closet, which was likewise locked.
The key was found as usual, and the cabinet opened. The letters were
bound together in a compact form, lodged in a parchment case, and placed
in a secret drawer. This drawer would not have been detected by common
eyes, and it opened by the motion of a spring, of whose existence none
but the maker was conscious. This drawer I had opened before I went to
sleep, and the letters were then safe.
Thou canst not imagine my confusion and astonishment, when, on opening
the drawer, I perceived that the packet was gone. I looked with more
attention, and put my hand within it; but the space was empty. Whither
had it gone, and by whom was it purloined? I was not conscious of having
taken it away, yet no hands but mine could have done it. On the last
evening I had doubtless removed it to some other corner, but had
forgotten it. I tasked my understanding and my memory. I could not
conceive the possibility of any motives inducing me to alter my
arrangements in this respect, and was unable to recollect that I had
made this change.
What remained? This invaluable relic had disappeared. Every thought and
every effort must be devoted to the single purpose of regaining it. As
yet I did not despair. Until I had opened and ransacked every part of
the cabinet in vain, I did not admit the belief that I had lost it. Even
then this persuasion was tumultuous and fluctuating. It had vanished to
my senses, but these senses were abused and depraved. To have passed, of
its own accord, through the pores of this wood, was impossible; but, if
it were gone, thus did it escape.
I was lost in horror and amazement. I explored every nook a second and a
third time, but still it eluded my eye and my touch. I opened my closets
and cases. I pried everywhere, unfolded every article of clothing,
turned and scrutinized every instrument and tool, but nothing availed.
My thoughts were not speedily collected or calmed. I threw myself on the
bed and resigned myself to musing. That my loss was irretrievable was a
supposition not to be endured. Yet ominous terrors haunted me,--a
whispering intimation that a relic which I valued more than life was
torn forever away by some malignant and inscrutable destiny. The same
power that had taken it from this receptacle was able to waft it over
the ocean or the mountains, and condemn me to a fruitless and eternal
search.
But what was he that committed the theft? Thou only, of the beings who
live, wast acquainted with the existence of these manuscripts. Thou art
many miles distant, and art utterly a stranger to the mode or place of
their concealment. Not only access to the cabinet, but access to the
room, without my knowledge and permission, was impossible. Both were
locked during this night. Not five hours had elapsed since the cabinet
and drawer had been opened, and since the letters had been seen and
touched, being in their ordinary position. During this interval, the
thief had entered, and despoiled me of my treasure.
This event, so inexplicable and so dreadful, threw my soul into a kind
of stupor or distraction, from which I was suddenly roused by a footstep
softly moving in the entry near my door. I started from my bed, as if I
had gained a glimpse of the robber. Before I could run to the door, some
one knocked. I did not think upon the propriety of answering the signal,
but hastened with tremulous fingers and throbbing heart to open the
door. My uncle, in his night-dress, and apparently just risen from his
bed, stood before me!
He marked the eagerness and perturbation of my looks, and inquired into
the cause. I did not answer his inquiries. His appearance in my chamber
and in this guise added to my surprise. My mind was full of the late
discovery, and instantly conceived some connection between this
unseasonable visit and my lost manuscript. I interrogated him in my turn
as to the cause of his coming.
"Why," said he, "I came to ascertain whether it was you or not who
amused himself so strangely at this time of night. What is the matter
with you? Why are you up so early?"
I told him that I had been roused by my dreams, and, finding no
inclination to court my slumber back again, I had risen, though earlier
by some hours than the usual period of my rising.
"But why did you go up-stairs? You might easily imagine that the sound
of your steps would alarm those below, who would be puzzled to guess who
it was that had thought proper to amuse himself in this manner."
"Up-stairs? I have not left my room this night. It is not ten minutes
since I awoke, and my door has not since been opened."
"Indeed! That is strange. Nay, it is impossible! It was your feet surely
that I heard pacing so solemnly and indefatigably across the _long
room_ for near an hour. I could not for my life conjecture, for a
time, who it was, but finally concluded that it was you. There was
still, however, some doubt, and I came hither to satisfy myself."
These tidings were adapted to raise all my emotions to a still higher
pitch. I questioned him with eagerness as to the circumstances he had
noticed. He said he had been roused by a sound, whose power of
disturbing him arose, not from its loudness, but from its uncommonness.
He distinctly heard some one pacing to and fro with bare feet, in the
long room: this sound continued, with little intermission, for an hour.
He then noticed a cessation of the walking, and a sound as if some one
were lifting the lid of the large cedar chest that stood in the corner
of this room. The walking was not resumed, and all was silent. He
listened for a quarter of an hour, and busied himself in conjecturing
the cause of this disturbance. The most probable conclusion was, that
the walker was his nephew, and his curiosity had led him to my chamber
to ascertain the truth.
This dwelling has three stories. The two lower stories are divided into
numerous apartments. The upper story constitutes a single room whose
sides are the four walls of the house, and whose ceiling is the roof.
This room is unoccupied, except by lumber, and imperfectly lighted by a
small casement at one end. In this room were footsteps heard by my
uncle.
The staircase leading to it terminated in a passage near my door. I
snatched the candle, and, desiring him to follow me, added that I would
ascertain the truth in a moment. He followed, but observed that the
walking had ceased long enough for the person to escape.
I ascended to the room, and looked behind and among the tables, and
chairs, and casks, which were confusedly scattered through it, but found
nothing in the shape of man. The cedar chest, spoken of by Mr. Huntly,
contained old books, and remnants of maps and charts, whose
worthlessness unfitted them for accomodation elsewhere. The lid was
without hinges or lock. I examined this repository, but there was
nothing which attracted my attention.
The way between the kitchen-door and the door of the long room had no
impediments. Both were usually unfastened; but the motives by which any
stranger to the dwelling, or indeed any one within it, could be prompted
to choose this place and hour for an employment of this kind, were
wholly incomprehensible.
When the family rose, inquiries were made; but no satisfaction was
obtained. The family consisted only of four persons,--my uncle, my two
sisters, and myself. I mentioned to them the loss I had sustained, but
their conjectures were no less unsatisfactory on this than on the former
incident.
There was no end to my restless meditations. Waldegrave was the only
being, besides myself, acquainted with the secrets of my cabinet. During
his life these manuscripts had been the objects of perpetual solicitude;
to gain possession, to destroy or secrete them, was the strongest of his
wishes. Had he retained his sensibility on the approach of death, no
doubt he would have renewed, with irresistible solemnity, his
injunctions to destroy them.
Now, however, they had vanished. There were no materials of conjecture;
no probabilities to be weighed, or suspicions to revolve. Human artifice
or power was unequal to this exploit. Means less than preternatural
would not furnish a conveyance for this treasure.
It was otherwise with regard to this unseasonable walker. His
inducements indeed were beyond my power to conceive; but to enter these
doors and ascend these stairs demanded not the faculties of any being
more than human.
This intrusion, and the pillage of my cabinet, were contemporary events.
Was there no more connection between them than that which results from
time? Was not the purloiner of my treasure and the wanderer the same
person? I could not reconcile the former incident with the attributes of
man; and yet a secret faith, not to be outrooted or suspended, swayed
me, and compelled me to imagine that the detection of this visitant
would unveil the thief.
These thoughts were pregnant with dejection and reverie. Clithero,
during the day, was forgotten. On the succeeding night, my intentions,
with regard to this man, returned. I derived some slender consolation
from reflecting, that time, in its long lapse and ceaseless revolutions,
might dissipate the gloom that environed me. Meanwhile, I struggled to
dismiss the images connected with my loss and to think only of Clithero.
My impatience was as strong as ever to obtain another interview with
this man. I longed with vehemence for the return of day. I believed that
every moment added to his sufferings, intellectual and physical, and
confided in the efficacy of my presence to alleviate or suspend them.
The provisions I had left would be speedily consumed, and the abstinence
of three days was sufficient to undermine the vital energies. I
sometimes hesitated whether I ought not instantly to depart. It was
night indeed, but the late storm had purified the air, and the radiance
of a full moon was universal and dazzling.
From this attempt I was deterred by reflecting that my own frame needed
the repairs of sleep. Toil and watchfulness, if prolonged another day,
would deeply injure a constitution by no means distinguished for its
force. I must, therefore, compel, if it were possible, some hours of
repose. I prepared to retire to bed, when a new incident occurred to
divert my attention for a time from these designs.