University of Virginia Library

26. EDGAR HUNTLY.
CHAPTER XXVI.

I hung over the unhappy wretch
whose emaciated form and rueful features,
sufficiently bespoke that savage
hands had only completed that destruction
which his miseries had begun. He
was mangled by the tom-hawk in a shocking
manner, and there was little hope
that human skill could save his life.

I was sensible of nothing but compassion.
I acted without design, when
seating myself on the floor I raised his
head and placed it on my knees. This
movement awakened his attention, and
opening his eyes he fixed them on my

countenance. They testified neither insensibility,
nor horror nor distraction. A
faint emotion of surprise gave way to an
appearance of tranquillity—Having perceived
these tokens of a state less hopeless
than I at first imagined, I spoke to
him:—My friend! How do you feel?
Can any thing be done for you?

He answered me, in a tone more firm
and with more coherence of ideas than
previous appearances had taught me to
expect. No, said he, thy kindness good
youth, can avail me nothing. The end
of my existence here is at hand. May
my guilt be expiated by the miseries that
I have suffered, and my good deeds only
attend me to the presence of my divine
judge.

I am waiting, not with trembling or
dismay, for this close of my sorrows. I
breathed but one prayer, and that prayer
has been answered. I asked for an interview

with thee, young man, but feeling
as I now feel, this interview, so much
desired, was beyond my hope. Now
thou art come, in due season, to hear
the last words that I shall need to utter.

I wanted to assure thee that thy
efforts for my benefit were not useless.
They have saved me from murdering
myself, a guilt more inexpiable than any
which it was in my power to commit.

I retired to the innermost recess of
Norwalk, and gained the summit of an
hill, by subterranean paths. This hill
I knew to be on all sides inaccessible to
human footsteps, and the subterranean
passages was closed up by stones. Here
I believed my solitude exempt from interruption
and my death, in consequence
of famine, sure.

This persuasion was not taken away
by your appearance on the opposite
steep. The chasm which severed us I

knew to be impassable. I withdrew
from your sight.

Some time after, awakening from a
long sleep, I found victuals beside me.
He that brought it was invisible. For a
time, I doubted whether some messenger
of heaven had not interposed for my salvation.
How other than by supernatural
means, my retreat should be explored,
I was unable to conceive. The summit
was encompassed by dizzy and profound
gulfs, and the subterranean passages was
still closed.

This opinion, though corrected by
subsequent reflection, tended to change
the course of my desperate thoughts.
My hunger, thus importunately urged,
would not abstain, and I ate of the food
that was provided. Henceforth I determined
to live, to resume the path of
obscurity and labour, which I had relinquished,
and wait till my God should
summon me to retribution. To anticipate

his call, is only to redouble our
guilt.

I designed not to return to Inglefield's
service, but to chuse some other
and remoter district. Meanwhile, I had
left in his possession, a treasure, which
my determination to die, had rendered of
no value, but which, my change of resolution,
restored. Inclosed in a box at
Inglefield's, were the memoirs of Euphemia
Lorimer, by which in all my vicissitudes,
I had been hitherto accompanied,
and from which I consented to part only
because I had refused to live. My existence
was now to be prolonged and this
manuscript was once more to constitute
the torment and the solace of my being.

I hastened to Inglefield's by night.
There was no need to warn him of my
purpose. I desired that my fate should
be an eternal secret to my ancient master
and his neighbours. The apartment,

containing my box was well known, and
easily accessible.

The box was found but broken and
rifled of its treasure. My transports of
astonishment, and indignation and grief
yielded to the resumption of my fatal
purpose. I hastened back to the hill,
and determined anew to perish.

This mood continued to the evening
of the ensuing day. Wandering over
rocks and pits, I discovered the manuscript,
lying under a jutting precipice.
The chance that brought it hither was
not less propitious and miraculous than
that by which I had been supplied with
food. It produced a similar effect upon
my feelings, and, while in possession of
this manuscript I was reconciled to the
means of life. I left the mountain, and
traversing the wilderness, stopped in
Chetasco. That kind of employment
which I sought was instantly procured;
but my new vocation was scarcely assumed

when a band of savages invaded
our security.

Rambling in the desert, by moonlight,
I encountered these foes. They rushed
upon me, and after numerous wounds
which, for the present, neither killed nor
disabled me, they compelled me to keep
pace with them in their retreat. Some
hours have passed since the troop was
overtaken, and my liberty redeemed.
Hardships, and repeated wounds, inflicted
at the moment when the invaders
were surprised and slain, have brought
me to my present condition. I rejoice
that my course is about to terminate.

Here the speaker was interrupted by
the tumultuous entrance of the party,
by whom he had been brought hither.
Their astonishment at seeing me, sustaining
the head of the dying man, may
be easily conceived. Their surprise was
more strongly excited by the disappearance
of the captive whom they had left

in this apartment, bound hand and foot.
It now appeared that of the savage troop
who had adventured thus far in search
of pillage and blood, all had been destroyed
but two, who, had been led hither
as prisoners. On their entrance into this
house, one of the party had been sent
to Walcot's to summon Sarsefield to the
aid of the wounded man, while others
had gone in search of chords to secure
the arms and legs of the captives, who
had hitherto been manacled imperfectly.

The chords were brought and one
of them was bound, but the other, before
the same operation was begun upon him,
broke, by a sudden effort, the feeble ligatures
by which he was at present constrained,
and seizing a musquet that lay
near him, fired on his enemies, and then
rushed out of doors. All eagerly engaged
in the pursuit. The savage was
fleet as a deer and finally eluded his
pursuers.

While their attention was thus engaged
abroad, he that remained found
means to extricate his wrists and ancles
from his bonds and betaking himself to
the stairs, escaped, as I before described,
through the window of the room which
I had occupied. They pestered me with
their curiosity and wonder, for I was
known to all of them; but waving the
discussion of my own concerns I intreated
their assistance to carry Clithero
to the chamber and the bed which I had
just deserted.

I now in spite of pain, fatigue and
watchfulness, set out to go to Walton's.
Sarsefield was ready to receive me at
the door, and the kindness and compassion
of the family were active in my
behalf. I was conducted to a chamber
and provided with suitable attendance
and remedies.

I was not unmindful of the more
deplorable condition of Clithero. I incessantly

meditated on the means for
his relief. His case stood in need of
all the vigilance and skill of a physician,
and Sarsefield was the only one of that
profession whose aid could be seasonably
administered. Sarsefield therefore must
be persuaded to bestow this aid.

There was but one mode of conquering
his abhorrence of this man.
To prepossess my friend with the belief
of the innocence of Clithero, or to soothe
him into pity by a picture of remorse
and suffering. This could best be done,
and in the manner most conformable to
truth, by a simple recital of the incidents
that had befallen, and by repeating the
confession which had been extorted from
Clithero.

I requested all but my friend to
leave my chamber, and then, soliciting a
patient hearing, began the narrative
of Waldegrave's death! of the detection

of Clithero beneath the shade of the elm!
of the suspicions which were thence
produced; and of the forest interview to
which these suspicions gave birth; I
then repeated, without variation or addition,
the tale which was then told. I likewise
mentioned my subsequent transactions
in Norwalk so far as they illustrated
the destiny of Clithero.

During this recital, I fixed my eyes
upon the countenance of Sarsefield,
and watched every emotion as it rose or
declined. With the progress of my tale,
his indignation and his fury grew less,
and at length gave place to horror and
compassion.

His seat became uneasy, his pulse
throbbed with new vehemence. When I
came to the motives which prompted
the unhappy man to visit the chamber of
his mistress, he started from his seat,
and sometimes strode across the floor
in a troubled mood, and sometimes stood

before me, with his breath almost suspended
in the eagerness of his attention.
When I mentioned the lifted dagger,
the shriek from behind, and the apparition
that interposed, he shuddered and
drew back as if a dagger had been aimed
at his breast.

When the tale was done, some time
elapsed in mutual and profound silence.
My friend's thoughts were involved in
a mournful and indefinable reverie.
From this he at length recovered and
spoke.

It is true. A tale like this could
never be the fruit of invention or be invented
to deceive. He has done himself
injustice. His character was spotless
and fair: All his moral properties seemed
to have resolved themselves into gratitude
fidelity and honour.

We parted at the door, late in the
evening, as he mentioned, and he guessed
truly that subsequent reflection had induced

me to return and to disclose the
truth to Mrs. Lorimer. Clarice relieved
by the sudden death of her friend, and
unexpectedly by all, arrived at the same
hour.

These tidings, astonished, afflicted,
and delighted the lady. Her brother's
death had been long believed by all but
herself. To find her doubts verified,
and his existence ascertained was the
dearest consolation that he ever could
bestow. She was afflicted at the proofs
that had been noted of the continuance
of his depravity, but she dreaded no
danger to herself from his malignity or
vengeance.

The ignorance and prepossessions of
this woman were remarkable. On this
subject only she was perverse, headlong,
obstinate. Her anxiety to benefit this
arch-ruffian occupied her whole thoughts
and allowed her no time to reflect upon
the reasonings or remonstrances of

others. She could not be prevailed on
to deny herself to his visits, and I parted
from her in the utmost perplexity.

A messenger came to me at mid-night
intreating my immediate presence. Some
disaster had happened, but of what
kind the messenger was unable to tell.
My fears easily conjured up the image
of Wiatte. Terror scarcely allowed me
to breathe. When I entered the house of
Mrs. Lorimer, I was conducted to her
chamber. She lay upon the bed in a
state of stupefaction, that rose from
some mental cause. Clarice sat by her,
wringing her hands and pouring forth
her tears without intermission. Neither
could explain to me the nature of the scene.
I made inquiries of the servants and attendants.
They merely said that the family
as usual had retired to rest, but their
lady's bell rung with great violence, and
called them in haste, to her chamber,

where they found her in a swoon upon
the floor and the young lady in the utmost
affright and perturbation.

Suitable means being used Mrs.
Lorimer had, at length, recovered, but
was still nearly insensible. I went to
Clithero's apartments but he was not to
be found, and the domestics informed me
that since he had gone with me, he had
not returned. The doors between this
chamber and the court were open; hence
that some dreadful interview had taken
place, perhaps with Wiatte, was an
unavoidable conjecture. He had withdrawn,
however, without committing any
personal injury.

I need not mention my reflections
upon this scene. All was tormenting
doubt and suspence till the morning
arrived, and tidings were received that
Wiatte had been killed in the streets:
This event was antecedent to that which
had occasioned Mrs. Lorimer's distress

and alarm. I now remembered that
fatal prepossession by which the lady was
governed, and her frantic belief that
her death and that of her brother were
to fall out at the same time. Could
some witness of his death, have brought
her tidings of it: Had he penetrated,
unexpected and unlicensed to her chamber,
and were these the effects produced
by the intelligence?

Presently I knew that not only Wiatte
was dead, but that Clithero had killed him.
Clithero had not been known to return
and was no where to be found. He
then was the bearer of these tidings, for
none but he could have found access or
egress without disturbing the servants.

These doubts were at length at an
end. In a broken and confused manner,
and after the lapse of some days the
monstrous and portentous truth was
disclosed. After our interview, the lady
and her daughter had retired to the same

chamber; the former had withdrawn to
her closet and the latter to bed. Some
one's entrance alarmed the lady, and
coming forth after a moment's pause,
the spectacle which Clithero has too
faithfully described, presented itself.

What could I think? A life of uniform
hypocrisy or a sudden loss of reason
were the only suppositions to be formed.
Clithero was the parent of fury and abhorrence
in my heart. In either case I
started at the name. I shuddered at the
image of the apostate or the maniac.

What? Kill the brother whose existence
was interwoven with that of his
benefactress and his friend? Then
hasten to her chamber, and attempt
her life? Lift a dagger to destroy her
who had been the author of his being
and his happiness?

He that could meditate a deed like
this was no longer man. An agent from
Hell had mastered his faculties. He was

become the engine of infernal malice
against whom it was the duty of all mankind
to rise up in arms and never to
desist till, by shattering it to atoms, its
power to injure was taken away.

All inquiries to discover the place of
his retreat were vain. No wonder methought
that he wrapt himself in the
folds of impenetrable secrecy. Curbed,
checked, baffled in the midst of his
career, no wonder that he shrunk into
obscurity, that he fled from justice and
revenge, that he dared not meet the rebukes
of that eye which, dissolving in
tenderness or flashing with disdain, had
ever been irresistable.

But how shall I describe the lady's
condition? Clithero she had cherished
from his infancy. He was the stay, the
consolation, the pride of her life. His
projected alliance with her daughter,
made him still more dear. Her eloquence
was never tired of expatiating

on his purity and rectitude. No wonder
that she delighted in this theme, for he
was her own work. His virtues were
the creatures of her bounty.

How hard to be endured was this sad
reverse? She can be tranquil, but
never more will she be happy. To promote
her forgetfulness of him, I persuaded
her to leave her country, which
contained a thousand memorials of past
calamity, and which was lapsing fast
into civil broils. Clarice has accompanied
us, and time may effect the happiness
of others, by her means, though
she can never remove the melancholy of
her mother.

I have listened to your tale, not
without compassion. What would you
have me to do? To prolong his life,
would be merely to protract his misery.

He can never be regarded with complacency
by my wife. He can never be
thought of without shuddering by Clarice.

Common ills are not without a cure
less than death, but here, all remedies
are vain. Consciousness itself is the
malady; the pest; of which he only is
cured who ceases to think.

I could not but assent to this mournful
conclusion; yet, though death was better
to Clithero than life, could not some
of his mistakes be rectified? Euphemia
Lorimer, contrary to his belief, was still
alive. He dreamed that she was dead,
and a thousand evils were imagined to
flow from that death. This death and
its progeny of ills, haunted his fancy,
and added keenness to his remorse. Was
it not our duty to rectify this error?

Sarsefield reluctantly assented to the
truth of my arguments on this head.
He consented to return, and afford the
dying man, the consolation of knowing
that the being whom he adored as a benefactor
and parent, had not been deprived

of existence, though bereft of peace by
his act.

During Sarsefield's absence my mind
was busy in revolving the incidents that
had just occured. I ruminated the last
words of Clithero. There was somewhat
in his narrative that was obscure and
contradictory. He had left the manuscript
which he so much and so justly
prized, in his cabinet. He entered the
chamber in my absence, and found the
cabinet unfastened and the manuscript
gone. It was I by whom the cabinet
was opened, but the manuscript supposed
to be contained in it, was buried
in the earth beneath the elm. How
should Clithero be unacquainted with its
situation, since none but Clithero could
have dug for it this grave?

This mystery vanished when I reflected
on the history of my own manuscript.
Clithero had buried his treasure
with his own hands as mine had been

secreted by myself, but both acts had
been performed during sleep. The deed
was neither prompted by the will, nor
noticed by the senses of him, by whom it
was done. Disastrous and humiliating
is the state of man! By his own hands,
is constructed the mass of misery and
error in which his steps are forever invol
ved.

Thus it was with thy friend. Hurried
on by phantoms too indistinct to be
now recalled, I wandered from my
chamber to the desart. I plunged into
some unvisited cavern, and easily proceeded
till I reached the edge of a pit.
There my step was deceived, and I tumbled
headlong from the precipice. The
fall bereaved me of sense, and I continued
breathless and motionless during the
remainder of the night and the ensuing
day.

How little cognizance have men over
the actions and motives of each other?
How total is our blindness with regard
to our own performances! Who would
have sought me in the bowels of this
mountain? Ages might have passed
away, before my bones would be discovered
in this tomb, by some traveller
whom curiosity had prompted to explore
it.

I was roused from these reflections
by Sarsefield's return. Inquiring into
Clithero's condition; he answered that
the unhappy man was insensible, but
that notwithstanding numerous and
dreadful gashes, in different parts of
his body, it was possible that by submitting
to the necessary treatment, he might
recover.

Encouraged by this information, I
endeavoured to awaken the zeal and
compassion of my friend in Clithero's
behalf. He recoiled with involuntary

shuddering from any task which would
confine him to the presence of this man.
Time and reflection he said, might introduce
different sentiments and feelings,
but at present he could not but regard
this person as a maniac, whose disease
was irremediable, and whose existence
could not be protracted, but to his own
misery and the misery of others.

Finding him irreconcilably averse to
any scheme, connected with the welfare
of Clithero, I began to think that his
assistance as a surgeon was by no means
necessary. He had declared that the
sufferer needed nothing more than common
treatment, and to this the skill of a
score of aged women in this district,
furnished with simples culled from the
forest, and pointed out, of old time, by
Indian Leeches was no less adequate
than that of Sarsefield. These women
were ready and officious in their charity,
and none of them were prepossessed

against the sufferer by a knowledge of his
genuine story.

Sarsefield, meanwhile, was impatient
for my removal to Inglefield's habitation,
and that venerable friend was no less
impatient to receive me. My hurts were
superficial, and my strength sufficiently
repaired by a night's repose. Next day,
I went thither, leaving Clithero to the
care of his immediate neighbours.

Sarsefield's engagements compelled
him to prosecute his journey into Virginia,
from which he had somewhat
deviated, in order to visit Solebury. He
proposed to return in less than a month
and then to take me in his company to
New-York. He has treated me with
paternal tenderness, and insists upon the
previlege of consulting for my interest,
as if he were my real father. Meanwhile,
these views have been disclosed
to Inglefield, and it is with him that I

am to remain, with my sisters, until his
return.

My reflections have been various and
tumultuous. They have been busy in
relation to you, to Weymouth, and especially
to Clithero. The latter polluted
with gore and weakened by abstinence,
fatigue and the loss of blood, appeared in
my eyes, to be in a much more dangerous
condition than the event proved him
to be. I was punctually informed of
the progress of his cure, and proposed in
a few days to visit him. The duty of
explaining the truth, respecting the present
condition of Mrs. Lorimer, had
devolved upon me. By imparting this
intelligence, I hoped to work the most
auspicious revolutions in his feelings,
and prepared therefore, with alacrity, for
an interview.

In this hope I was destined to be
disappointed. On the morning on which

I intended to visit him, a messenger
arrived from the house in which he was
entertained, and informed us that the
family on entering the sick man's apartment,
had found it deserted. It appeared
that Clithero, had, during the night, risen
from his bed, and gone secretly forth.
No traces of his flight have since been
discovered.

But, O! my friend? The death of
Waldegrave, thy brother, is at length
divested of uncertainty and mystery.
Hitherto, I had been able to form no
conjecture respecting it, but the solution
was found shortly after this time.

Queen Mab, three days after my
adventure, was seized in her hut on suspicion
of having aided and counselled
her countrymen, in their late depredations.
She was not to be awed or
intimidated by the treatment she received,
but readily confessed and gloried
in the mischief she had done; and accounted

for it by enumerating the injuries
which she had received from her neighbours.

These injuries consisted in contemptuous
or neglectful treatment, and in
the rejection of groundless and absurd
claims. The people of Chetasco were
less obsequious to her humours than
those of Solebury, her ancient neighbourhood,
and her imagination brooded for
a long time, over nothing but schemes
of revenge. She became sullen, irascible
and spent more of her time in solitude
than ever.

A troop of her countrymen at length
visited her hut. Their intentions being
hostile, they concealed from the inhabitants
their presence in this quarter of the
country. Some motives induced them
to withdraw and postpone, for the
present, the violence which they meditated.
One of them, however, more sanguinary
and audacious than the rest would

not depart, without some gratification
of his vengeance. He left his associates
and penetrated by night into Solebury,
resolving to attack the first human being
whom he should meet. It was the fate of thy
unhappy brother to encounter this ruffian,
whose sagacity made him forbear to
tear away the usual trophy from the dead,
least he should afford grounds for suspicion
as to the authors of the evil.

Satisfied with this exploit he rejoined
his companions, and after an interval of
three weeks returned with a more numerous
party, to execute a more extensive
project of destruction. They were councelled
and guided, in all their movements,
by Queen Mab, who now explained these
particulars, and boldly defied her oppressors.
Her usual obstinacy and
infatuation induced her to remain in her
ancient dwelling and prepare to meet the
consequences.

This disclosure awakened anew all
the regrets and anguish which flowed
from that disaster. It has been productive,
however, of some benefit. Suspicions
and doubts, by which my soul was
harrassed, and which were injurious to
the innocent are now at an end. It is
likewise some imperfect consolation to
reflect that the assassin has himself been
killed and probably by my own hand.
The shedder of blood no longer lives to
pursue his vocation, and justice is satisfied.

Thus have I fulfilled my promise to
compose a minute relation of my sufferings.
I remembered my duty to thee,
and as soon as I was able to hold a pen,
employed it to inform thee of my welfare.
I could not at that time enter into particulars,
but reserved a more copious
narrative till a period of more health and
leisure.

On looking back I am surprised at
the length to which my story has run. I
thought that a few days would suffice to
complete it, but one page has insensibly
been added to another till I have consumed,
weeks and filled volumes. Here
I will draw to a close; I will send you
what I have written, and discuss with
you in conversation, my other immediate
concerns, and my schemes for the future.
As soon as I have seen Sarsefield, I will
visit you.

FAREWELL.

E. H.
Solebury, November, 10.

TO Mr. SARSEFIELD.
Philadelphia.

I CAME hither but ten minutes
ago, and write this letter in the bar of
the Stagehouse. I wish not to lose a
moment in informing you of what has
happened. I cannot do justice to my own
feelings when I reflect upon the rashness
of which I have been guilty.

I will give you the particulars to-morrow.
At present, I shall only say
that Clithero is alive, is apprised of your
wife's arrival and abode in New-York,
and has set out, with mysterious intentions
to visit her.

May heaven avert the consequences
of such a design. May you be enabled

by some means to prevent their meeting.
If you cannot prevent it—but I
must not reason on such an event, nor
lengthen out this letter.

E. H.

TO THE SAME.

I WILL now relate the particulars
which I yesterday promised to
send you. You heard through your niece
of my arrival at Inglefield's in Solebury:
My inquiries, you may readily suppose,
would turn upon the fate of my friend's
servant, Clithero, whose last disappearance
was so strange and abrupt, and of
whom since that time, I had heard
nothing. You are indifferent to his fate
and are anxious only that his existence
and misfortunes may be speedily forgotten.
I confess that it is somewhat otherwise
with me. I pity him: I wish to
relieve him, and cannot admit the belief

that his misery is without a cure. I
want to find him out? I want to know
his condition, and if possible to afford him
comfort, and inspire him with courage
and hope.

Inglefield replied to my questions.
O yes! He has appeared. The strange
being is again upon the stage. Shortly
after he left his sick bed, I heard from
Philip Beddington, of Chetasco, that
Deb's hut had found a new tenant. At
first, I imagined that the Scotsman who
built it had returned, but making closer
inquiries, I found that the new tenant
was my servant. I had no inclination to
visit him myself, but frequently inquired
respecting him of those, who lived
or past that way, and find that he still lives
there.

But how, said I. What is his mode of
subsistance. The winter has been no
time for cultivation, and he found, I presume,
nothing in the ground.

Deb's hut, replied my friend, is his
lodging and his place of retirement, but
food and cloathing he procures by
labouring on a neighbouring farm. This
farm is next to that of Beddington, who
consequently knows something of his
present situation. I find little or no
difference in his present deportment; and
those appearances which he assumed,
while living with me, except that he
retires every night to his hut, and holds
as little intercourse as possible with the
rest of mankind. He dines at his employers
table, but his supper, which is nothing
but rye-bread, he carries home with him,
and at all those times when disengaged
from employment, he secludes himself in
his hut, or wanders nobody knows whither.

This was the substance of Inglefield's
intelligence. I gleaned from it some
satisfaction. It proved the condition of

Clithero to be less deplorable and desperate
than I had previously imagined. His
fatal and gloomy thoughts seemed to
have somewhat yielded to tranquillity.

In the course of my reflections, however,
I could not but perceive, that his
condition, though eligible when compared
with what it once was, was likewise
disastrous and humiliating, compared
with his youthful hopes and his actual
merits. For such an one to mope away
his life in this unsocial and savage state,
was deeply to be deplored. It was my
duty, if possible, to prevail on him to
relinquish his scheme. And what would
be requisite, for that end, but to inform
him of the truth?

The source of his dejection was the
groundless belief that he had occasioned
the death of his benefactress. It was this
alone that could justly produce remorse
or grief. It was a distempered imagination
both in him and in me, that had

given birth to this opinion, since the
terms of his narrative, impartially considered,
were far from implying that
catastrophe. To him, however, the evidence
which he possessed was incontestable.
No deductions from probability
could overthrow his belief. This could
only be affected by similar and counter
evidence. To apprize him that she was
now alive, in possession of some degree
of happiness, the wife of Sarsefield, and
an actual resident on this shore, would
dissipate the sanguinary apparition that
haunted him; cure his diseased intellects,
and restore him to those vocations for
which his talents, and that rank in society
for which his education had qualified
him. Influenced by these thoughts, I
determined to visit his retreat. Being
obliged to leave Solebury the next day,
I resolved to set out the same afternoon,
and stopping in Chetasco, for the night,
seek his habitation at the hour when he
had probably retired to it.

This was done. I arrived at Beddington's,
at night-fall. My inquiries respecting
Clithero obtained for me the same
intelligence from him, which I had received
from Inglefield. Deb's hut was
three miles from this habitation, and
thither, when the evening had somewhat
advanced, I repaired. This was the spot
which had witnessed so many perils
during the last year, and my emotions,
on approaching it, were awful. With
palpitating heart and quick steps I traversed
the road, skirted on each side by
thickets, and the area before the house.
The dwelling was by no means in so
ruinous a state as when I last visited it.
The crannies between the logs had been
filled up, and the light within was perceivable
only at a crevice in the door.

Looking through this crevice I perceived
a fire in the chimney, but the

object of my visit was no where to be
seen. I knocked and requested admission,
but no answer was made. At
length I lifted the latch and entered.
Nobody was there.

It was obvious to suppose that Clithero
had gone abroad for a short time, and
would speedily return, or perhaps some
engagement had detained him at his
labour, later than usual. I therefore
seated myself on some straw near the
fire, which, with a woollen rug, appeared
to constitute his only bed. The rude
bedstead which I formerly met with, was
gone. The slender furniture, likewise,
which had then engaged my attention,
had disappeared. There was nothing
capable of human use, but a heap of
faggots in the corner, which seemed intended
for fuel. How slender is the
accommodation which nature has provided
for man, and how scanty is the

portion which our physical necessities
require.

While ruminating upon this scene,
and comparing past events with the objects
before me, the dull whistling of the
gale without gave place to the sound of
foot-steps. Presently the door opened,
and Clithero entered the apartment. His
aspect and guise were not essentially
different from those which he wore when
an inhabitant of Solebury.

To find his hearth occupied by another,
appeared to create the deepest surprise.
He looked at me without any
tokens of remembrance! His features
assumed a more austere expression, and
after scowling on my person for a moment,
he withdrew his eyes, and placing in a
corner, a bundle which he bore in his
hand, he turned and seemed preparing
to withdraw.

I was anxiously attentive to his demeanor,
and as soon as I perceived his

purpose to depart, leaped on my feet to
prevent it. I took his hand, and affectionately
pressing it, said, do you not
know me? Have you so soon forgotten
me who is truly your friend?

He looked at me with some attention,
but again withdrew his eyes, and placed
himself in silence on the seat which I
had left. I seated myself near him, and
a pause of mutual silence ensued.

My mind was full of the purpose that
brought me hither, but I knew not in
what manner to communicate my purpose.
Several times I opened my lips to
speak, but my perplexity continued, and
suitable words refused to suggest themselves.
At length, I said, in a confused
tone;

I came hither with a view to benefit
a man, with whose misfortunes his own
lips have made me acquainted, and who
has awakened in my breast the deepest
sympathy. I know the cause and extent

of his dejection. I know the event
which has given birth to horror and remorse
in his heart. He believes that,
by his means, his patroness and benefactress
has found an untimely death.

These words produced a visible
shock in my companion, which evinced
that I had at least engaged his attention.
I proceeded:

This unhappy lady was cursed with
a wicked and unnatural brother. She
conceived a disproportionate affection for
this brother, and erroneously imagined
that her fate was blended with his; that
their lives would necessarily terminate at
the same period, and that therefore, whoever
was the contriver of his death, was
likewise, by a fatal and invincible necessity,
the author of her own.

Clithero was her servant, but was
raised by her bounty, to the station of
her son and the rank of her friend.
Clithero, in self-defence took away the

life of that unnatural brother, and, in that
deed, falsely but cogently believed, that
he had perpetrated the destruction of his
benefactress.

To ascertain the truth, he sought
her presence. She was found, the tidings
of her brother's death were communicated,
and she sunk breathless at his
feet.

At these words Clithero started from
the ground, and cast upon me looks of
furious indignation—And come you
hither, he muttered, for this end; to recount
my offences, and drive me again
to despair?

No, answered I, with quickness, I
come to out-root a fatal, but powerful
illusion. I come to assure you that the
woman, with whose destruction you
charge yourself, is not dead.

These words, uttered with the most
emphatical solemnity, merely produced

looks in which contempt was mingled
with anger. He continued silent.

I perceive, resumed I, that my words
are disregarded. Would to Heaven I
were able to conquer your incredulity,
could shew you not only the truth, but
the probability of my tale. Can you not
confide in me? that Euphemia Lorimer
is now alive, is happy, is the wife of
Sarsefield; that her brother is forgotten
and his murderer regarded without enmity
or vengeance?

He looked at me with a strange expression
of contempt—Come, said he, at
length, make out thy assertion to be true.
Fall on thy knees and invoke the thunder
of heaven to light on thy head if
thy words be false. Swear that Euphemia
Lorimer is alive; happy; forgetful of
Wiatte and compassionate of me Swear
that thou hast seen her; talked with her;
received from her own lips the confession
of her pity for him who aimed a dagger

at her bosom. Swear that she is Sarsefield's
wife.

I put my hands together, and lifting
my eyes to heaven, exclaimed: I comply
with your conditions; I call the
omniscient God to witness that Euphemia
Lorimer is alive; that I have seen her
with these eyes; have talked with her;
have inhabited the same house for
months.

These asseverations were listened to
with shuddering. He laid not aside,
however, an air of incredulity and contempt.
Perhaps, said he, thou canst
point out the place of her abode. Canst
guide me to the city, the street, the very
door of her habitation?

I can. She rises at this moment in
the city of New-York; in Broadway; in
an house contiguous to the...

'Tis well, exclaimed my companion,
in a tone, loud, abrupt, and in the utmost

degree, vehement. 'Tis well. Rash
and infatuated youth. Thou hast ratified,
beyond appeal or forgiveness, thy
own doom. Thou hast once more let
loose my steps, and sent me on a fearful
journey. Thou hast furnished the means
of detecting thy imposture. I will fly to
the spot which thou describest. I will
ascertain thy falsehood with my own
eyes. If she be alive then am I reserved
for the performance of a new crime.
My evil destiny will have it so. If she
be dead, I shall make thee expiate.

So saying, he darted through the
door, and was gone in a moment, beyond
my sight and my reach. I ran to the
road, looked on every side, and called;
but my calls were repeated in vain.
He had fled with the swiftness of a deer.

My own embarrassment, confusion
and terror were enexpressible. His last
words were incoherent. They denoted
the tumult and vehemence of phrenzy.

They intimated his resolution to seek the
presence of your wife. I had furnished a
clue, which could not fail to conduct him
to her presence. What might not be
dreaded from the interview? Clithero is
a maniac. This truth cannot be concealed.
Your wife can with difficulty
preserve her tranquillity, when his image
occurs to her remembrance. What
must it be when he starts up before her
in his neglected and ferocious guise, and
armed with purposes, perhaps as terrible
as those, which had formerly led him to
her secret chamber, and her bed side?

His meaning was obscurely conveyed.
He talked of a deed, for the
performance of which, his malignant
fate had reserved him; which was to
ensue their meeting, and which was to
afford disastrous testimony of the infatuation
which had led me hither.

Heaven grant that some means may
suggest themselves to you of intercepting

his approach. Yet I know not what
means can be conceived. Some miraculous
chance may befriend you; yet this
is scarcely to be hoped. It is a visionary
and fantastic base on which to rest
our security.

I cannot forget that my unfortunate
temerity has created this evil. Yet who
could foresee this consequence of my
intelligence. I imagined, that Clithero
was merely a victim of erroneous gratitude,
a slave of the errors of his education,
and the prejudices of his rank, that
his understanding was deluded by phantoms
in the mask of virtue and duty, and
not as you have strenuously maintained,
utterly subverted.

I shall not escape your censure, but
I shall, likewise, gain your compassion.
I have erred, not through sinister or
malignant intentions, but from the impulse
of misguided, indeed, but powerful
benevolence.

E. H.

TO EDGAR HUNTLY.

New-York.

Edgar,

After the fatigues of the day,
I returned home. As I entered, my
wife was breaking the seal of a letter,
but, on seeing me, she forbore and presented
the letter to me.

I saw, said she, by the superscription
of this letter, who the writer was. So
agreeably to your wishes, I proceeded to
open it, but you have come just time
enough to save me the trouble.

This letter was from you. It contained
information relative to Clithero.
See how imminent a chance it was that
saved my wife from a knowledge of its

contents. It required all my efforts to
hide my perturbation from her, and
excuse myself from shewing her the
letter.

I know better than you the character
of Clithero, and the consequences of a
meeting between him and my wife. You
may be sure that I would exert myself
to prevent a meeting.

The method for me to pursue was
extremely obvious. Clithero is a madman
whose liberty is dangerous, and who
requires to be fettered and imprisoned as
the most atrocious criminal.

I hastened to the chief Magistrate,
who is my friend, and by proper representations,
obtained from him authority
to seize Clithero wherever I should meet
with him, and effectually debar him from
the perpetration of new mischiefs.

New-York does not afford a place of
confinement for lunatics, as suitable to
his case, as Pennsylvania. I was desirous

of placing him as far as possible
from the place of my wife's residence.
Fortunately there was a packet for
Philadelphia, on the point of setting out
on her voyage. This vessel I engaged
to wait a day or two, for the purpose of
conveying him to the Pennsylvania hospital.
Meanwhile, proper persons were
stationed at Powels-hook, and at the
quays where the various stageboats from
Jersey arrive.

These precautions were effectual.
Not many hours after the receipt of your
intelligence, this unfortunate man applied
for a passage at Elizabeth-town, was
seized the moment he set his foot on
shore, and was forthwith conveyed to
the packet, which immediately set sail.

I designed that all these proceedings
should be concealed from the women, but
unfortunately neglected to take suitable
measures for hindering the letter which
you gave me reason to expect on the

ensuing day, from coming into their
hands. It was delivered to my wife in
my absence and opened immediately by
her.

You know what is, at present, her
personal condition. You know what
strong reasons I had to prevent any danger
or alarm from approaching her. Terror
could not assume a shape, more
ghastly than this. The effects have been
what might have been easily predicted.
Her own life has been imminently endangered
and an untimely birth, has blasted
my fondest hope. Her infant, with whose
future existence so many pleasures were
entwined, is dead.

I assure you Edgar, my philosophy
has not found itself lightsome and active
under this burden. I find it hard to
forbear commenting on your rashness in
no very mild terms. You acted in direct
opposition to my council, and to the
plainest dictates of propriety. Be more

circumspect and more obsequious for the
future.

You knew the liberty that would be
taken of opening my letters; you knew
of my absence from home, during the
greatest part of the day, and the likelihood
therefore that your letters would
fall into my wife's hands before they
came into mine. These considerations
should have prompted you to send them
under cover to Whitworth or Harvey,
with directions to give them immediately
to me.

Some of these events happened in my
absence, for I determined to accompany
the packet myself and see the madman
safely delivered to the care of the hospital.

I will not torture your sensibility by
recounting the incidents of his arrest and
detention. You will imagine that his
strong, but perverted reason exclaimed
loudly against the injustice of his treatment.

It was easy for him to outreason
his antagonist, and nothing but force
could subdue his opposition. On me
devolved the province of his jailor and
his tyrant; a province which required
an heart more steeled by spectacles
of suffering and the exercise of cruelty,
than mine had been.

Scarcely had we passed The Narrows,
when the lunatic, being suffered
to walk the deck, as no apprehensions
were entertained of his escape in such
circumstances, threw himself overboard,
with a seeming intention to gain the
shore. The boat was immediately manned,
the fugitive was pursued, but at the
moment, when his flight was overtaken,
he forced himself beneath the surface,
and was seen no more.

With the life of this wretch, let our
regrets and our forebodings terminate.
He has saved himself from evils, for
which no time would have provided a

remedy, from lingering for years in the
noisome dungeon of an hospital. Having
no reason to continue my voyage, I
put myself on board a coasting sloop,
and regained this city in a few hours.
I persuade myself that my wife's indisposition
will be temporary. It was impossible
to hide from her the death of
Clithero, and its circumstances. May
this be the last arrow in the quiver of
adversity! Farewell.