University of Virginia Library

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 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
instructers 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 connexion 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 obstructor 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 connexion
of this tale with the destiny of Sarsefield. This was be
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 neighborhood
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 favorite. 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 apprised 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 phrenzy rather than prejudice;
but phrenzy, 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 neighborhood, 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 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 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 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. Hiccory 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
favorite 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 intention to reexamine 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.