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 exertmyself 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 heardwas too extraordinary, too completely the reverse of all myexpectations, to allow me to attend to the intimations of self-murderwhich he dropped.
The secret which I imagined was about to be disclosed was as inscrutableas ever. Not a circumstance, from the moment when Clithero's characterbecame the subject of my meditations, till the conclusion of his talk,but served to confirm my suspicion. Was this error to be imputed tocredulity. Would not any one, from similar appearances, have drawnsimilar conclusions? Or is there a criterion by which truth can alwaysbe distinguished? Was it owing to my imperfect education that theinquietudes of this man were not traced to a deed performed at thedistance of a thousand leagues, to the murder of his patroness andfriend?
I had heard a tale which apparently related to scenes and persons fardistant: 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 mistakenbenevolence?
But I did not consider this tale merely in relation to myself. My lifehad been limited and uniform. I had communed with romancers andhistorians, but the impression made upon me by this incident wasunexampled in my experience. My reading had furnished me with noinstance in any degree parallel to this, and I found that to be adistant and second-hand spectator of events was widely different fromwitnessing them myself and partaking in their consequences. My judgmentwas, for a time, sunk into imbecility and confusion. My mind was full ofthe images unavoidably suggested by this tale, but they existed in akind of chaos, and not otherwise than gradually was I able to reducethem to distinct particulars, and subject them to a deliberate andmethodical inspection.
How was I to consider this act of Clithero? What a deplorableinfatuation! Yet it was the necessary result of a series of ideasmutually linked and connected. His conduct was dictated by a motiveallied to virtue. It was the fruit of an ardent and grateful spirit.
The death of Wiatte could not be censured. The life of Clithero wasunspeakably more valuable than that of his antagonist. It was theinstinct of self-preservation that swayed him. He knew not his adversaryin time enough to govern himself by that knowledge. Had the assailantbeen an unknown ruffian, his death would have been followed by noremorse. The spectacle of his dying agonies would have dwelt upon thememory of his assassin like any other mournful sight, in the productionof which he bore no part.
It must at least be said that his will was not concerned in thistransaction. He acted in obedience to an impulse which he could notcontrol 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 isnot enough to say that he was actuated by no culpable intention, butthat he was swayed by no intention whatever? If consequences arise thatcannot be foreseen, shall we find no refuge in the persuasion of ourrectitude and of human frailty? Shall we deem ourselves criminal becausewe do not enjoy the attributes of Deity? Because our power and ourknowledge are confined by impassable boundaries?
But whence arose the subsequent intention? It was the fruit of adreadful mistake. His intents were noble and compassionate. But this isof no avail to free him from the imputation of guilt. No remembrance ofpast beneficence can compensate for this crime. The scale loaded withthe recriminations of his conscience, is immovable by anycounter-weight.
But what are the conclusions to be drawn by dispassionate observers? Isit possible to regard this person with disdain or with enmity? The crimeoriginated in those limitations which nature has imposed upon humanfaculties. Proofs of a just intention are all that are requisite toexempt 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 tosuperintend his childhood, to select his instructors and examples, tomark the operations of his principles, to see him emerging into youth,to follow him through various scenes and trying vicissitudes, and markthe uniformity of his integrity? Who would have predicted his futureconduct? Who would not have affirmed the impossibility of an action likethis?
How mysterious was the connection between the fate of Wiatte and hissister! By such circuitous and yet infallible means were the predictionof the lady and the vengeance of the brother accomplished! In how manycases may it be said, as in this, that the prediction was the cause ofits own fulfilment! That the very act which considerate observers, andeven himself, for a time, imagined to have utterly precluded theexecution of Wiatte's menaces, should be that inevitably leading to it!That the execution should be assigned to him who, abounding inabhorrence, and in the act of self-defence, was the slayer of themenacer!
As the obstructer of his designs, Wiatte waylaid and assaulted Clithero.He perished in the attempt. Were his designs frustrated? No. It was thusthat he secured the gratification of his vengeance. His sister was cutoff in the bloom of life and prosperity. By a refinement of goodfortune, the voluntary minister of his malice had entailed upon himselfexile without reprieve and misery without end.
But what chiefly excited my wonder was the connection of this tale withthe destiny of Sarsefield. This was he whom I have frequently mentionedto you as my preceptor. About four years previous to this era, heappeared in this district without fortune or friend. He desired, oneevening, to be accommodated at my uncle's house. The conversationturning on the objects of his journey and his present situation, heprofessed himself in search of lucrative employment. My uncle proposedto him to become a teacher, there being a sufficient number of youngpeople in this neighbourhood 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 asspeedily to grow into a favourite. He communicated to us no part of hisearly history, but informed us sufficiently of his adventures in Asiaand Italy to make it plain that this was the same person alluded to byClithero. During his abode among us his conduct was irreproachable. Whenhe left us, he manifested the most poignant regret, but this originatedchiefly in his regard to me. He promised to maintain with me anepistolary intercourse. Since his departure, however, I had heardnothing respecting him. It was with unspeakable regret that I now heardof the disappointment of his hopes, and was inquisitive respecting themeasures which he would adopt in his new situation. Perhaps he would'once more return to America, and I should again be admitted to theenjoyment of his society. This event I anticipated with the highestsatisfaction.
At present, the fate of the unhappy Clithero was the subject of abundantanxiety. On his suddenly leaving me, at the conclusion of his tale, Isupposed that he had gone upon one of his usual rambles, and that itwould terminate only with the day. Next morning a message was receivedfrom Inglefield, inquiring if any one knew what had become of hisservant. I could not listen to this message with tranquillity, Irecollected 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 hadnot apprized them of any intention to change his abode. His boxes, andall that composed his slender property, were found in their ordinarystate. He had expressed no dissatisfaction with his present condition.
Several days passed, and no tidings could be procured of him. Hisabsence was a topic of general speculation, but was a source ofparticular anxiety to no one but myself. My apprehensions were surelybuilt upon sufficient grounds. From the moment that we parted, no onehad seen or heard of him. What mode of suicide he had selected, he haddisabled us from discovering, by the impenetrable secrecy in which hehad involved it.
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bsp; In the midst of my reflections upon this subject, the idea of thewilderness occurred. Could he have executed his design in the deepest ofits recesses? These were unvisited by human footsteps, and his bonesmight lie for ages in this solitude without attracting observation. Toseek them where they lay, to gather them together and provide for them agrave, was a duty which appeared incumbent on me, and of which theperformance was connected with a thousand habitual sentiments and mixedpleasures.
Thou knowest my devotion to the spirit that breathes its inspiration inthe gloom of forests and on the verge of streams. I love to immersemyself in shades and dells, and hold converse with the solemnities andsecrecies of nature in the rude retreats of Norwalk. The disappearanceof Clithero had furnished new incitements to ascend its cliffs andpervade its thickets, as I cherished the hope of meeting in my rambleswith some traces of this man. But might he not still live? His words hadimparted the belief that he intended to destroy himself. Thiscatastrophe, however, was far from certain. Was it not in my power toavert it? Could I not restore a mind thus vigorous, to tranquil andwholesome existence? Could I not subdue his perverse disdain andimmeasurable abhorrence of himself? His upbraiding and his scorn wereunmerited and misplaced. Perhaps they argued frenzy rather thanprejudice; but frenzy, like prejudice, was curable. Reason was no lessan antidote to the illusions of insanity like his, than to the illusionsof error.
I did not immediately recollect that to subsist in this desert wasimpossible. Nuts were the only fruits it produced, and these wereinadequate to sustain human life. If it were haunted by Clithero, hemust occasionally pass its limits and beg or purloin victuals. Thisdeportment was too humiliating and flagitious to be imputed to him.There was reason to suppose him smitten with the charms of solitude, ofa lonely abode in the midst of mountainous and rugged nature; but thiscould not be uninterruptedly enjoyed. Life could be supported only byoccasionally visiting the haunts of men, in the guise of a thief or amendicant. Hence, since Clithero was not known to have reappeared at anyfarm-house in the neighbourhood, I was compelled to conclude either thathe had retired far from this district, or that he was dead.
Though I designed that my leisure should chiefly be consumed in thebosom of Norwalk, I almost dismissed the hope of meeting with thefugitive. There were indeed two sources of my hopelessness on thisoccasion. Not only it was probable that Clithero had fled far away, but,should he have concealed himself in some nook or cavern within theseprecincts, his concealment was not to be traced. This arose from thenature of that sterile region.
It would not be easy to describe the face of this district, in a fewwords. Half of Solesbury, thou knowest, admits neither of plough norspade. The cultivable space lies along the river, and the desert, lyingon the north, has gained, by some means, the appellation of Norwalk.Canst thou imagine a space, somewhat circular, about six miles indiameter, and exhibiting a perpetual and intricate variety of craggyeminences and deep dells?
The hollows are single, and walled around by cliffs, ever varying inshape and height, and have seldom any perceptible communication witheach other. These hollows are of all dimensions, from the narrowness anddepth of a well, to the amplitude of one hundred yards. Winter's snow isfrequently found in these cavities at midsummer. The streams that burstforth from every crevice are thrown, by the irregularities of thesurface, into numberless cascades, often disappear in mists or inchasms, and emerge from subterranean channels, and, finally, eithersubside into lakes, or quietly meander through the lower and more levelgrounds.
Wherever nature left a flat it is made rugged and scarcely passable byenormous and fallen trunks, accumulated by the storms of ages, andforming, by their slow decay, a moss-covered soil, the haunt of rabbitsand lizards. These spots are obscured by the melancholy umbrage ofpines, whose eternal murmurs are in unison with vacancy and solitude,with the reverberations of the torrents and the whistling of the blasts.Hickory and poplar, which abound in the lowlands, find here no fosteringelements.
A sort of continued vale, winding and abrupt, leads into the midst ofthis region and through it. This vale serves the purpose of a road. Itis a tedious maze and perpetual declivity, and requires, from thepassenger, a cautious and sure foot. Openings and ascents occasionallypresent themselves on each side, which seem to promise you access to theinterior region, but always terminate, sooner or later, in insuperabledifficulties, at the verge of a precipice or the bottom of a steep.
Perhaps no one was more acquainted with this wilderness than I, but myknowledge was extremely imperfect. I had traversed parts of it, at anearly age, in pursuit of berries and nuts, or led by a roamingdisposition. Afterwards the sphere of my rambles was enlarged and theirpurpose changed. When Sarsefield came among us, I became his favouritescholar and the companion of all his pedestrian excursions. He was fondof penetrating into these recesses, partly from the love of picturesquescenes, partly to investigate its botanical and mineral productions, andpartly to carry on more effectually that species of instruction which hehad adopted with regard to me, and which chiefly consisted in moralizingnarratives or synthetical reasonings. These excursions had familiarizedme with its outlines and most accessible parts; but there was muchwhich, perhaps, could never be reached without wings, and much the onlypaths to which I might forever overlook.
Every new excursion, indeed, added somewhat to my knowledge. New trackswere pursued, new prospects detected, and new summits were gained. Myrambles were productive of incessant novelty, though they alwaysterminated in the prospect of limits that could not be overleaped. Butnone of these had led me wider from my customary paths than that whichhad taken place when in pursuit of Clithero. I had a faint remembranceof the valley into which I had descended after him; but till then I hadviewed it at a distance, and supposed it impossible to reach the bottombut by leaping from a precipice some hundred feet in height. Theopposite steep seemed no less inaccessible, and the cavern at the bottomwas impervious to any views which my former positions had enabled me totake of it.
My intention to re-examine this cave and ascertain whither it led had,for a time, been suspended by different considerations. It was nowrevived with more energy than ever. I reflected that this had formerlybeen haunted by Clithero, and might possibly have been the scene of thedesperate act which he had meditated. It might at least conceal sometoken of his past existence. It might lead into spaces hithertounvisited, and to summits from which wider landscapes might be seen.
One morning I set out to explore this scene. The road which Clithero hadtaken was laboriously circuitous. On my return from the first pursuit ofhim, I ascended the cliff in my former footsteps, but soon lighted onthe beaten track which I have already described. This enabled me to shuna thousand obstacles which had lately risen before me, and opened aneasy passage to the cavern.
I once more traversed this way. The brow of the hill was gained. Theledges of which it consisted afforded sufficient footing, when theattempt was made, though viewed at a distance they seemed to be toonarrow for that purpose. As I descended the rugged stair, I could notbut wonder at the temerity and precipitation with which this descent hadformerly been made. It seemed as if the noonday light and the tardiestcircumspection would scarcely enable me to accomplish it; yet then ithad been done with headlong speed, and with no guidance but the moon'suncertain rays.
I reached the mouth of the cave. Till now I had forgotten that a lamp ora torch might be necessary to direct my subterranean footsteps. I wasunwilling to defer the attempt. Light might possibly be requisite, ifthe cave had no other outlet. Somewhat might present itself within tothe eyes, which might forever elude the hands, but I was more inclinedto consider it merely as an avenue terminating in an opening on thesummit of the steep, or on the opposite side of the ridge. Caution mightsupply the place of light, or, having explored the cave as far aspossible at present, I might hereafter return, better furnished for thescrutiny.
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