University of Virginia Library

LETTER II.

To the Same.

I will now relate the particulars which I yesterday
promised to send you. You heard through your neice 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
passed that way, and find that he still lives there.

But how, said I, what is his mode of subsistence. 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 clothing he procures by laboring
on a neighboring 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 employer's 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 a 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 incontestible.
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 labor, 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 footsteps. 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 outroot 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 show 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 resides at this moment in the city of New
York; in Broadway; in a 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 inexpressible.
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
bedside?

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.