University of Virginia Library

CHAPTER X.

With these determinations, I proceeded. The entrance
was low, and compelled me to resort to hands as well as
feet. At a few yards from the mouth the light disappeared,
and I found myself immersed in the dunnest obscurity.
Had I not been persuaded that another had gone before
me, I should have relinquished the attempt. I proceeded
with the utmost caution, always ascertaining, by out-stretched
arms, the height and breadth of the cavity before me. In
a short time the dimensions expanded on all sides, and permitted
me to resume my feet.

I walked upon a smooth and gentle declivity. Presently
the wall, on one side, and the ceiling receded beyond my
reach. I began to fear that I should be involved in a maze,
and should be disabled from returning. To obviate this
danger it was requisite to adhere to the nearest wall, and
conform to the direction which it should take, without straying
through the palpable obscurity. Whether the ceiling
was lofty or low, whether the opposite wall of the passage
was distant or near, this, I deemed no proper opportunity to
investigate.

In a short time, my progress was stopped by an abrupt
descent. I set down the advancing foot with caution, being
aware that I might at the next step encounter a bottomless
pit. To the brink of such a one I seemed now to have
arrived. I stooped, and stretched my hand forward and
downward, but all was vacuity.

Here it was needful to pause. I had reached the brink
of a cavity whose depth it was impossible to ascertain. It
might be a few inches beyond my reach, or hundreds of
feet. By leaping down I might incur no injury, or might
plunge into a lake or dash myself to pieces on the points of
rocks.

I now saw with new force the propriety of being furnished
with a light. The first suggestion was to return upon
my footsteps, and resume my undertaking on the morrow.
Yet, having advanced thus far, I felt reluctance to recede
without accomplishing my purposes. I reflected likewise

that Clithero had boldly entered this recess, and had certainly
come forth at a different avenue from that at which
he entered.

At length it occurred to me, that though I could not go
forward, yet I might proceed along the edge of this cavity.
This edge would be as safe a guidance, and would serve as
well for a clue by which I might return, as the wall which
it was now necessary to forsake.

Intense dark is always the parent of fears. Impending
injuries cannot in this state be descried, nor shunned, nor
repelled. I began to feel some faltering of my courage and
seated myself, for a few minutes, on a stony mass which
arose before me. My situation was new. The caverns I
had hitherto met with in this desert, were chiefly formed of
low browed rocks. They were chambers, more or less
spacious, into which twilight was at least admitted; but here
it seemed as if I were surrounded by barriers that would forever
cut off my return to air and to light.

Presently I resumed my courage and proceeded. My
road appeared now to ascend. On one side I seemed still
upon the verge of a precipice, and, on the other, all was
empty and waste. I had gone no inconsiderable distance,
and persuaded myself that my career would speedily terminate.
In a short time, the space on the left hand was
again occupied, and I cautiously proceeded between the
edge of the gulf and a rugged wall. As the space between
them widened I adhered to the wall.

I was not insensible that my path became more intricate
and more difficult to retread in proportion as I advanced. I
endeavored to preserve a vivid conception of the way which
I had already passed, and to keep the images of the left, and
right-hand wall, and the gulf, in due succession in my
memory.

The path which had hitherto been considerably smooth,
now became rugged and steep. Chilling damps, the secret
trepidation which attended me, the length and difficulties of
my way, enhanced by the ceaseless caution and the numerous
expedients which the utter darkness obliged me to
employ, began to overpower my strength. I was frequently
compelled to stop and recruit myself by rest. These respites
from toil were of use, but they could not enable me to prosecute

an endless journey, and to return was scarcely a
less arduous task than to proceed.

I looked anxiously forward in the hope of being comforted
by some dim ray, which might assure me that my
labors were approaching an end. At last this propitious token
appeared, and I issued forth into a kind of chamber, one
side of which was open to the air and allowed me to catch
a portion of the chequered sky. This spectacle never
before excited such exquisite sensations in my bosom. The
air, likewise, breathed into the cavern, was unspeakably
delicious.

I now found myself on the projecture of a rock. Above
and below the hillside was nearly perpendicular. Opposite,
and at the distance of fifteen or twenty yards, was a similar
ascent. At the bottom was a glen, cold, narrow and obscure.
The projecture, which served as a kind of vestibule to the
cave, was connected with a ledge, by which, though not
without peril and toil, I was conducted to the summit.

This summit was higher than any of those which were interposed
between itself and the river. A large part of this
chaos of rocks and precipices was subjected, at one view, to
the eye. The fertile lawns and vales which lay beyond this,
the winding course of the river, and the slopes which rose
on its farther side, were parts of this extensive scene. These
objects were at any time fitted to inspire rapture. Now my
delight was enhanced by the contrast which this lightsome
and serene element bore to the glooms from which I had
lately emerged. My station, also, was higher, and the limits
of my view, consequently more ample than any which I had
hitherto enjoyed.

I advanced to the outer verge of the hill, which I found
to overlook a steep, no less inaccessible, and a glen equally
profound. I changed frequently my station in order to diversify
the scenery. At length it became necessary to
inquire by what means I should return. I traversed the
edge of the hill, but on every side it was equally steep and
always too lofty to permit me to leap from it. As I kept
along the verge, I perceived that it tended in a circular direction,
and brought me back, at last, to the spot from which
I had set out. From this inspection, it seemed as if return

was impossible by any other way than that through the
cavern.

I now turned my attention to the interior space. If you
imagine a cylindrical mass, with a cavity dug in the centre,
whose edge conforms to the exterior edge; and, if you
place in this cavity another cylinder, higher than that which
surrounds it, but so small as to leave between its sides and
those of the cavity, a hollow space, you will gain as distinct
an image of this hill as words can convey. The summit of
the inner rock was rugged and covered with trees of unequal
growth. To reach this summit would not render my return
easier; but its greater elevation would extend my view, and
perhaps furnish a spot from which the whole horizon was
conspicuous.

As I had traversed the outer, I now explored the inner
edge of this hill. At length I reached a spot where the chasm,
separating the two rocks, was narrower than at any other
part. At first view, it seemed as if it were possible to leap
over it, but a nearer examination shewed me that the passage
was impracticable. So far as my eye could estimate it,
the breadth was thirty or forty feet. I could scarcely venture
to look beneath. The height was dizzy, and the walls,
which approached each other at top, receded at the bottom,
so as to form the resemblance of an immense hall, lighted
from a rift, which some convulsion of nature had made in
the roof. Where I stood there ascended a perpetual mist,
occasioned by a torrent that dashed along the rugged pavement
below.

From these objects I willingly turned my eye upon those
before and above me, on the opposite ascent. A stream,
rushing from above, fell into a cavity, which its own force
seemed gradually to have made. The noise and the motion
equally attracted my attention. There was a desolate and
solitary grandeur in the scene, enhanced by the circumstances
in which it was beheld, and by the perils through
which I had recently passed, that had never before been
witnessed by me.

A sort of sanctity and awe environed it, owing to the consciousness
of absolute and utter loneliness. It was probable
that human feet had never before gained this recess, that

human eyes had never been fixed upon these gushing waters.
The aboriginal inhabitants had no motives to lead them into
caves like this, and ponder on the verge of such a precipice.
Their successors were still less likely to have wandered
hither. Since the birth of this continent, I was probably
the first who had deviated thus remotely from the customary
paths of men.

While musing upon these ideas, my eye was fixed upon
the foaming current. At length, I looked upon the rocks
which confined and embarrassed its course. I admired
their fantastic shapes, and endless irregularities. Passing
from one to the other of these, my attention lighted, at
length, as if by some magical transition, on—a human countenance!

My surprise was so abrupt, and my sensations so tumultuous
that I forgot for a moment the perilous nature of my
situation. I loosened my hold of a pine branch, which had
been hitherto one of my supports, and almost started from
my seat. Had my station been in a slight degree nearer
the brink than it was, I should have fallen headlong into the
abyss.

To meet a human creature, even on that side of the
chasm which I occupied, would have been wholly adverse
to my expectation. My station was accessible by no other
road than that through which I had passed, and no motives
were imaginable by which others could be prompted to explore
this road. But he whom I now beheld, was seated
where it seemed impossible for human efforts to have placed
him.

But this affected me but little in comparison with other
incidents. Not only the countenance was human, but in
spite of shaggy and tangled locks, and an air of melancholy
wildness, I speedily recognized the features of the fugitive
Clithero!

One glance was not sufficient to make me acquainted
with this scene. I had come hither partly in pursuit of this
man, but some casual appendage of his person, something
which should indicate his past rather than his present existence,
was all that I hoped to find. That he should be found
alive in this desert; that he should have gained this summit,

access to which was apparently impossible, were scarcely
within the boundaries of belief.

His scanty and coarse garb, had been nearly rent away
by brambles and thorns; his arms, bosom and cheek were
overgrown and half-concealed by hair. There was somewhat
in his attitude and looks denoting more than anarchy
of thoughts and passions. His rueful, ghastly, and immoveable
eyes, testified not only that his mind was ravaged
by despair, but that he was pinched with famine.

These proofs of his misery thrilled to my inmost heart.
Horror and shuddering invaded me as I stood gazing upon
him, and, for a time, I was without the power of deliberating
on the measures which it was my duty to adopt for
his relief. The first suggestion was, by calling, to inform
him of my presence. I knew not what counsel or comfort
to offer. By what words to bespeak his attention, or by
what topics to mollify his direful passions I knew not.
Though so near, the gulf by which we were separated was
impassable. All that I could do was to speak.

My surprise and my horror were still strong enough to
give a shrill and piercing tone to my voice. The chasm
and the rocks loudened and reverberated my accents while
I exclaimed—Man! Clithero!

My summons was effectual. He shook off his trance in
a moment. He had been stretched upon his back, with his
eyes fixed upon a craggy projecture above, as if he were
in momentary expectation of its fall, and crushing him to
atoms. Now he started on his feet. He was conscious of
the voice, but not of the quarter whence it came. He was
looking anxiously around when I again spoke—Look hither.
It is I who called.

He looked. Astonishment was now mingled with every
other dreadful meaning in his visage. He clasped his hands
together and bent forward, as if to satisfy himself that his
summoner was real. At the next moment he drew back,
placed his hands upon his breast, and fixed his eyes on the
ground.

This pause was not likely to be broken but by me. I
was preparing again to speak. To be more distinctly heard,
I advanced closer to the brink. During this action, my eye

was necessarily withdrawn from him. Having gained a
somewhat nearer station. I looked again, but—he was gone!

The seat which he so lately occupied was empty. I was
not forewarned of his disappearance, or directed to the
course of his flight by any rustling among leaves. These
indeed would have been overpowered by the noise of the
cataract. The place where he sat was the bottom of a
cavity, one side of which terminated in the verge of the
abyss, but the other sides were perpendicular or overhanging.
Surely he had not leaped into this gulf, and yet that
he had so speedily scaled the steep was impossible.

I looked into the gulf, but the depth and the gloom allowed
me to see nothing with distinctness. His cries or
groans could not be overheard amidst the uproar of the
waters. His fall must have instantly destroyed him, and
that he had fallen was the only conclusion I could draw.

My sensations on this incident cannot be easily described.
The image of this man's despair, and of the sudden catastrophe
to which my inauspicious interference had led, filled
me with compunction and terror. Some of my fears were
relieved by the new conjecture, that, behind the rock on
which he had lain, there might be some aperture or pit into
which he had descended, or in which he might be concealed.

I derived consolation from this conjecture. Not only the
evil which I dreaded might not have happened, but some
alleviation of his misery was possible. Could I arrest his
footsteps and win his attention, I might be able to insinuate
the lessons of fortitude; but if words were impotent, and
arguments were nugatory, yet to sit by him in silence, to
moisten his hand with tears, to sigh in unison, to offer him
the spectacle of sympathy, the solace of believing that his
demerits were not estimated by so rigid a standard by others
as by himself, that one at least among his fellow-men regarded
him with love and pity, could not fail to be of benign
influence.

These thoughts inspired me with new zeal. To effect
my purpose it was requisite to reach the opposite steep. I
was now convinced that this was not an impracticable undertaking,
since Clithero had already performed it. I once

more made the circuit of the hill. Every side was steep
and of enormous height, and the gulf was no where so narrow
as at this spot. I therefore returned hither, and once
mere pondered on the means of passing this tremendous
chasm in safety.

Casting my eyes upward, I noted the tree at the root of
which I was standing. I compared the breadth of the gulf
with the length of the trunk of this tree, and it appeared
very suitable for a bridge. Happily it grew obliquely, and
if felled by an axe, would probably fall of itself, in such a
manner as to be suspended across the chasm. The stock
was thick enough to afford me footing, and would enable
me to reach the opposite declivity without danger or delay.

A more careful examination of the spot, the scite of the
tree, its dimensions, and the direction of its growth, convinced
me fully of the practicability of this expedient, and
I determined to carry it into immediate execution. For
this end I must hasten home, procure an axe, and return
with all expedition hither. I took my former way, once more
entered the subterranean avenue, and slowly re-emerged
into day. Before I reached home, the evening was at
hand, and my tired limbs and jaded spirits obliged me to
defer my undertaking till the morrow.

Though my limbs were at rest, my thoughts were active
through the night. I carefully reviewed the situation of this
hill, and was unable to conjecture by what means Clithero
could place himself upon it. Unless he occasionally returned
to the habitable grounds, it was impossible for him
to escape perishing by famine. He might intend to destroy
himself by this means, and my first efforts were to be employed
to overcome this fatal resolution. To persuade him
to leave his desolate haunts might be a laborious and tedious
task, meanwhile all my benevolent intentions would be frustrated
by his want of sustenance. It was proper, therefore,
to carry bread with me, and to place it before him. The
sight of food, the urgencies of hunger, and my vehement
entreaties might prevail on him to eat, though no expostulations
might suffice to make him seek food at a distance.