University of Virginia Library

CHAPTER XIII.

Since my return home, my mind had been fully occupied
by schemes and reflections relative to Clithero. The project
suggested by thee, and to which I had determined to devote
my leisure, was forgotten, or remembered for a moment and
at wide intervals. What, however, was nearly banished
from my waking thoughts, occurred, in an incongruous and
half seen form, to my dreams. During my sleep, the image
of Waldegrave flitted before me. Methought the sentiment
that impelled him to visit me, was not affection or complacency,
but inquietude and anger. Some service or duty
remained to be performed by me, which I had culpably
neglected; to inspirit my zeal, to awaken my remembrance,
and incite me to the performance of this duty, did this glimmering
messenger, this half indignant apparition, come.

I commonly awake soon enough to mark the youngest
dawn of the morning. Now, in consequence perhaps of my
perturbed sleep, I opened my eyes before the stars had lost
any of their lustre. This circumstance produced some surprise,
until the images that lately hovered in my fancy, were
recalled, and furnished somewhat like a solution of the
problem. Connected with the image of my dead friend,
was that of his sister. The discourse that took place at our
last interview; the scheme of transcribing, for thy use, all
the letters which, during his short but busy life, I received
from him; the nature of this correspondence, and the opportunity
which this employment would afford me of contemplating

these ample and precious monuments of the intellectual
existence and moral preeminence of my friend,
occurred to my thoughts.

The resolution to prosecute the task was revived. The
obligation of benevolence, with regard to Clithero, was not
discharged. This, neither duty nor curiosity would permit
to be overlooked or delayed; but why should my whole
attention and activity be devoted to this man. The hours
which were spent at home and in my chamber, could not
be more usefully employed than in making my intended
copy.

In a few hours after sunrise I purposed to resume my
way to the mountain. Could this interval be appropriated
to a better purpose than in counting over my friend's letters,
setting them apart from my own, and preparing them for
that transcription from which I expected so high and yet so
mournful a gratification.

This purpose, by no violent union, was blended with the
recollection of my dream. This recollection infused some
degree of wavering and dejection into my mind. In transcribing
these letters I should violate pathetic and solemn injunctions
frequently repeated by the writer. Was there
some connexon between this purpose and the incidents of
my vision. Was the latter sent to enforce the interdictions
which had been formerly imposed?

Thou art not fully acquainted with the intellectual history
of thy brother. Some information on that head will be necessary
to explain the nature of that reluctance which I now
feel to comply with thy request, and which had formerly so
much excited thy surprise.

Waldegrave, like other men, early devoted to meditation
and books, had adopted, at different periods, different systems
of opinion, on topics connected with religion and
morals. His earliest creeds, tended to efface the impressions
of his education; to deify necessity and universalize
matter; to destroy the popular distinctions between soul and
body, and to dissolve the supposed connexion between the
moral condition of man, anterior and subsequent to death.

This creed he adopted with all the fulness of conviction,
and propagated with the utmost zeal. Soon after our

friendship commenced, fortune placed us at a distance from
each other, and no intercourse was allowed but by the pen.
Our letters, however, were punctual and copious. Those
of Waldegrave were too frequently devoted to the defence
of his favorite tenets.

Thou art acquainted with the revolution that afterwards
took place in his mind. Placed within the sphere of religious
influence, and listening daily to the reasonings and
exhortations of Mr. S—, whose benign temper and
blameless deportment was a visible and constant lesson, he
insensibly resumed the faith which he had relinquished, and
became the vehement opponent of all that he had formerly
defended. The chief object of his labors, in this new state
of his mind, was to counteract the effect of his former reasonings
on my opinions.

At this time, other changes took place in his situation, in
consequence of which we were once more permitted to reside
under the same roof. The intercourse now ceased to
be by letter, and the subtle and laborious argumentations
which he had formerly produced against religion, and which
were contained in a permanent form, were combatted in
transient conversation. He was not only eager to subvert
those opinions, which he had contributed to instil into me,
but was anxious that the letters and manuscripts, which had
been employed in their support, should be destroyed. He
did not fear wholly or chiefly on my own account. He believed
that the influence of former reasonings on my faith
would be sufficiently eradicated by the new; but he dreaded
lest these manuscripts might fall into other hands, and thus
produce mischiefs which it would not be in his power to
repair. With regard to me, the poison had been followed
by its antidote; but with respect to others, these letters
would communicate the poison when the antidote could not
be administered.

I would not consent to this sacrifice. I did not entirely
abjure the creed which had, with great copiousness and
eloquence, been defended in these letters. Besides, mixed
up with abstract reasonings, were numberless passages which
elucidated the character and history of my friend. These
were too precious to be consigned to oblivion, and to take

them out of their present connexion and arrangement,
would be to mutilate and deform them.

His entreaties and remonstrances were earnest and frequent,
but always ineffectual. He had too much purity of
motives to be angry at my stubbornness, but his sense of the
mischievious tendency of these letters, was so great, that
my intractability cost him many a pang.

He was now gone, and I had not only determined to
preserve these monuments, but had consented to copy them
for the use of another; for the use of one whose present
and eternal welfare had been the chief object of his cares
and efforts. Thou, like others of thy sex, art unaccustomed
to metaphysical refinements. Thy religion is the growth
of sensibility and not of argument. Thou art not fortified
and prepossessed against the subtleties, with which the being
and attributes of the deity have been assailed. Would it
be just to expose thee to pollution and depravity from this
source? To make thy brother the instrument of thy apostacy,
the author of thy fall? That brother, whose latter
days were so ardently devoted to cherishing the spirit of
devotion in thy heart?

These ideas now occurred with more force than formerly.
I had promised, not without reluctance, to give thee the
entire copy of his letters; but I now receded from this promise.
I resolved merely to select for thy perusal such as
were narrative or descriptive. This could not be done with
too much expedition. It was still dark, but my sleep was
at an end, and, by a common apparatus, that lay beside my
bed, I could instantly produce a light.

The light was produced, and I proceeded to the cabinet
where all my papers and books are deposited. This was
my own contrivance and workmanship, undertaken by the
advice of Sarsefield, who took infinite pains to foster that
mechanical genius, which displayed itself so early and so
forcibly in thy friend. The key belonging to this, was, like
the cabinet itself, of singular structure. For greater safety,
it was constantly placed in a closet, which was likewise
locked.

The key was found as usual, and the cabinet opened.
The letters were bound together in a compact form, lodged
in a parchment case, and placed in a secret drawer. This

drawer would not have been detected by common eyes, and
it opened by the motion of a spring, of whose existence
none but the maker was conscious. This drawer I had
opened before I went to sleep and the letters were then safe.

Thou canst not imagine my confusion and astonishment,
when, on opening the drawer, I perceived that the packet
was gone. I looked with more attention, and put my hand
within it, but the space was empty. Whither had it gone,
and by whom was it purloined? I was not conscious of
having taken it away, yet no hands but mine could have
done it. On the last evening I had doubtless removed it to
some other corner, but had forgotten it. I tasked my understanding
and my memory. I could not conceive the possibility
of any motives inducing me to alter my arrangements
in this respect, and was unable to recollect that I had made
this change.

What remained? This invaluable relic had disappeared.
Every thought and every effort must be devoted to the
single purpose of regaining it. As yet I did not despair.
Until I had opened and ransacked every part of the cabinet
in vain, I did not admit the belief that I had lost it.
Even then this persuasion was tumultuous and fluctuating.
It had vanished to my senses, but these senses were abused
and depraved. To have passed, of its own accord, through
the pores of this wood, was impossible; but if it were gone,
thus did it escape.

I was lost in horror and amazement. I explored every
nook a second and a third time, but still it eluded my eye
and my touch. I opened my closets and cases. I pryed
every where, unfolded every article of clothing, turned and
scrutinized every instrument and tool, but nothing availed.

My thoughts were not speedily collected or calmed. I
threw myself on the bed and resigned myself to musing.
That my loss was irretrievable, was a supposition not to be
endured. Yet ominous terrors haunted me. A whispering
intimation that a relic which I valued more than life was
torn forever away by some malignant and inscrutable destiny.
The same power that had taken it from this receptacle, was
able to waft it over the ocean or the mountains, and condemn
me to a fruitless and eternal search.

But what was he that committed the theft? Thou only,

of the beings who live, wast acquainted with the existence of
these manuscripts. Thou art many miles distant, and art
utterly a stranger to the mode or place of their concealment.
Not only access to the cabinet, but access to the
room, without my knowledge and permission, was impossible.
Both were locked during this night. Not five hours had
elapsed since the cabinet and drawer had been opened, and
since the letters had been seen and touched, being in their
ordinary position. During this interval, the thief had entered,
and despoiled me of my treasure.

This event, so inexplicable and so dreadful, threw my
soul into a kind of stupor or distraction, from which I was
suddenly roused by a foot-step, softly moving in the entry
near my door. I started from my bed, as if I had gained a
glimpse of the robber. Before I could run to the door, some
one knocked. I did not think upon the propriety of answering
the signal, but hastened with tremulous fingers and
throbbing heart to open the door. My uncle, in his nightdress,
and apparently just risen from his bed, stood before
me!

He marked the eagerness and perturbation of my looks,
and inquired into the cause. I did not answer his inquiries.
His appearance in my chamber and in this guise, added to
my surprise. My mind was full of the late discovery, and
instantly conceived some connexion between this unseasonable
visit and my lost manuscript. I interrogated him in my
turn as to the cause of his coming.

Why, said he, I came to ascertain whether it was you or
not who amused himself so strangely at this time of night.
What is the matter with you? Why are you up so early?

I told him that I had been roused by my dreams, and
finding no inclination to court my slumber back again, I had
risen, though earlier by some hours than the usual period of
my rising.

But why did you go up stairs? You might easily imagine
that the sound of your steps would alarm those below, who
would be puzzled to guess who it was that had thought
proper to amuse himself in this manner.

Up stairs? I have not left my room this night. It is not

ten minutes since I awoke, and my door has not since been
opened.

Indeed! That is strange. Nay, it is impossible. It
was your feet surely that I heard pacing so solemnly and
indefatigably across the long-room for near an hour. I could
not for my life conjecture, for a time, who it was, but finally
concluded that it was you. There was still, however, some
doubt, and I came hither to satisfy myself.

These tidings were adapted to raise all my emotions to a
still higher pitch. I questioned him with eagerness as to
the circumstances he had noticed. He said he had been
roused by a sound, whose power of disturbing him arose,
not from its loudness, but from its uncommonness. He distinctly
heard some one pacing to and fro with bare feet, in
the long room; this sound continued, with little intermission,
for an hour. He then noticed a cessation of the walking,
and a sound as if some one were lifting the lid of the
large cedar chest, that stood in the corner of this room.
The walking was not resumed, and all was silent. He listened
for a quarter of an hour, and busied himself in conjecturing
the cause of this disturbance. The most probable
conclusion was, that the walker was his nephew, and his
curiosity had led him to my chamber to ascertain the truth.

This dwelling has three stories. The two lower stories
are divided into numerous apartments. The upper story
constitutes a single room whose sides are the four walls of
the house, and whose ceiling is the roof. This room is
unoccupied, except by lumber, and imperfectly lighted by a
small casement at one end. In this room, were footsteps
heard by my uncle.

The staircase leading to it terminated in a passage near
my door. I snatched the candle, and desiring him to follow
me, added, that I would ascertain the truth in a moment.
He followed, but observed that the walking had ceased long
enough for the person to escape.

I ascended to the room, and looked behind and among
the tables, and chairs, and casks, which were confusedly
scattered through it, but found nothing in the shape of man.
The cedar chest, spoken of by Mr. Huntly, contained old
books, and remnants of maps and charts, whose worthlessness
unfitted them for accommodation elsewhere. The

lid was without hinges or lock. I examined this repository,
but there was nothing which attracted my attention.

The way between the kitchen door, and the door of the
long-room, had no impediments. Both were usually unfastened
but the motives by which any stranger to the dwelling,
or indeed any one within it, could be prompted to choose
this place and hour, for an employment of this kind, were
wholly incomprehensible.

When the family rose, inquiries were made but no satisfaction
was obtained. The family consisted only of four
persons, my uncle, my two sisters, and myself. I mentioned
to them the loss I had sustained, but their conjectures
were no less unsatisfactory on this than on the former
incident.

There was no end to my restless meditations. Waldegrave
was the only being, besides myself, acquainted with
the secrets of my cabinet. During his life these manuscripts
had been the objects of perpetual solicitude; to gain possession,
to destroy, or secrete them, was the strongest of his
wishes. Had he retained his sensibility on the approach of
death, no doubt he would have renewed, with irresistible
solemnity, his injunctions to destroy them.

Now, however, they had vanished. There were no
materials of conjecture; no probabilities to be weighed, or
suspicions to revolve. Human artifice or power was unequal
to this exploit. Means less than preternatural would
not furnish a conveyance for this treasure.

It was otherwise with regard to this unseasonable walker.
His inducements indeed were beyond my power to conceive,
but to enter these doors and ascend these stairs, demanded
not the faculties of any being more than human.

This intrusion, and the pillage of my cabinet were contemporary
events. Was there no more connexion between
them than that which results from time? Was not the purloiner
of my treasure and the wanderer the same person?
I could not reconcile the former incident with the attributes
of man, and yet a secret faith, not to be outrooted or suspended,
swayed me, and compelled me to imagine that the
detection of this visitant, would unveil the thief.

These thoughts were pregnant with dejection and reverie.
Clithero, during the day, was forgotten. On the succeeding

night, my intentions, with regard to this man, returned.
I derived some slender consolation from reflecting, that
time, in its long lapse and ceaseless revolutions, might dissipate
the gloom that environed me. Meanwhile I struggled
to dismiss the images connected with my loss and to
think only of Clithero.

My impatience was as strong as ever to obtain another
interview with this man. I longed with vehemence for the
return of day. I believed that every moment added to his
sufferings, intellectual and physical, and confided in the
efficacy of my presence to alleviate or suspend them. The
provisions I had left would be speedily consumed, and the
abstinence of three days was sufficient to undermine the
vital energies. I, sometimes, hesitated whether I ought not
instantly to depart. It was night indeed, but the late storm
had purified the air, and the radiance of a full moon was
universal and dazzling.

From this attempt I was deterred by reflecting that my
own frame needed the repairs of sleep. Toil and watchfulness,
if prolonged another day, would deeply injure a constitution
by no means distinguished for its force. I must,
therefore, compel, if it were possible, some hours of repose.
I prepared to retire to bed, when a new incident occurred
to divert my attention for a time from these designs.