University of Virginia Library

9. EDGAR HUNTLY.
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 tale, 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 judgement
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 controul, 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 infalible
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 obstructor of his designs,
Wiatte way-laid 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 accomodated
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 tranquility. 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 foot-steps,
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 phrensy rather than
prejudice; but phrensy, 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 Solebury, 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 apellation 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 mid-summer. 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 rabbets 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 low-lands, find here no fostering
elements.

A sort of continued vale, winding and
abrupt, leads into the midst of this region
and throught 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 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 attention 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 had 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 if
the noon-day-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 neccessary to direct
my subterranean foot-steps. 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.