Edgar Huntly; or, Memoirs of a sleep-walker. By the author of Arthur Mervyn, Wieland,--Ormond, &c. ; Vol I[-III].

EDGAR HUNTLY; OR, MEMOIRS OF A SLEEP-WALKER.

CHAPTER I.

I SIT down, my friend, to comply with thy request. At length does the impetuosity of my fears, the transports of my wonder permit me to recollect my promise and perform it. At length am I somewhat delivered from suspence and from tremors. At length the drama is brought to an imperfect close, and the series of events, that ab|sorbed my faculties, that hurried away my attention, has terminated in repose.

Till now, to hold a steadfast pen was impossible; to disengage my senses from the scene that was passing or approach|ing; to forbear to grasp at futurity; to suffer so much thought to wander from the purpose which engrossed my fears and my hopes, could not be.

Yet am I sure that even now my per|turbations are sufficiently stilled for an employment like this? That the inci|dents I am going to relate can be recall|ed and arranged without indistinctness and confusion? That emotions will not be re-awakened by my narrative, incom|patible with order and coherence? Yet when I shall be better qualified for this task I know not. Time may take away these headlong energies, and give me back my ancient sobriety: but this change will only be effected by weakening my remembrance of these events. In pro|portion as I gain power over words, shall I lose dominion over sentiments

In proportion as my tale is deliberate and slow, the incidents and motives which it is designed to exhibit will be imperfectly revived and obscurely pour|trayed.

O! why art thou away at a time like this. Wert thou present, the office to which my pen is so inadequate would easily be executed by my tongue. Accents can scarcely be too rapid, or that which words should fail to convey, my looks and gestures would suffice to communi|cate. But I know thy coming is impos|sible. To leave this spot is equally beyond my power. To keep thee in ignorance of what has happened would justly offend thee. There is no method of informing thee except by letter, and this method, must I, therefore, adopt.

How short is the period that has elapsed since thou and I parted, and yet how full of tumult and dismay has been

my soul during that period! What light has burst upon my ignorance of myself and of mankind! How sudden and enor|mous the transition from uncertainty to knowledge!—

But let me recall my thoughts: let me struggle for so much composure as will permit my pen to trace intelligible characters. Let me place in order the incidents that are to compose my tale. I need not call on thee to listen. The fate of Waldegrave was as fertile of tor|ment to thee as to me. His bloody and mysterious catastrophe equally awaken|ed thy grief, thy revenge, and thy curi|osity. Thou wilt catch from my story every horror and every sympathy which it paints. Thou wilt shudder with my forboding and dissolve with my tears. As the sister of my friend, and as one who honours me with her affection, thou

wilt share in all my tasks and all my dangers.

You need not be reminded with what reluctance I left you. To reach this place by evening was impossible, unless I had set out early in the morning, but your society was too precious not to be enjoyed to the last moment. It was indispensable to be here on Tuesday, but my duty required no more than that I should arrive by sun-rise on that day. To travel during the night, was productive of no formidable inconveni|ence. The air was likely to be frosty and sharp, but these would not incom|mode one who walked with speed. A nocturnal journey in districts so roman|tic and wild as these, through which lay my road, was more congenial to my tem|per than a noon-day ramble.

By night-fall I was within ten miles of my uncle's house. As the darkness

increased, and I advanced on my way, my sensations sunk into melancholy. The scene and the time reminded me of the friend whom I had lost. I recalled his features, and accents, and gestures, and mused with unutterable feelings on the circumstances of his death.

My recollections once more plunged me into anguish and perplexity. Once more I asked, who was his assassin? By what motives could he be impelled to a deed like this? Waldegrave was pure from all offence. His piety was rapturous. His benevolence was a stran|ger to remisness or torpor. All who came within the sphere of his influence experienced and acknowledged his be|nign activity. His friends were few, because his habits were timid and re|served, but the existence of an enemy was impossible.

I recalled the incidents of our last interview, my importunities that he

should postpone his ill-omened journey till the morning, his inexplicable obsti|nacy; his resolution to set out on foot, during a dark and tempestuous night, and the horrible disaster that befel him.

The first intimation I received of this misfortune, the insanity of vengeance and grief into which I was hurried, my fruitless searches for the author of this guilt, my midnight wanderings and reve|ries beneath the shade of that fatal Elm, were revived and re-acted. I heard the discharge of the pistol, I witnessed the alarm of Inglefield, I heard his calls to his servants, and saw them issue forth, with lights and hasten to the spot whence the sound had seemed to proceed. I beheld my friend, stretched upon the earth, ghastly with a mortal wound, alone, with no traces of the slayer visi|ble, no tokens by which his place of refuge might be sought, the motives of

his enmity or his instruments of mischief might be detected.

I hung over the dying youth, whose insensibility forbade him to recognize his friend, or unfold the cause of his des|truction. I accompanied his remains to the grave, I tended the sacred spot where he lay, I once more exercised my pene|tration and my zeal in pursuit of his assassin. Once more my meditations and exertions were doomed to be disap|pointed.

I need not remind thee of what is past. Time and reason seemed to have dis|solved the spell which made me deaf to the dictates of duty and discretion. Re|membrances had ceased to agonize, to urge me to headlong acts, and foster san|guinary purposes. The gloom was half dispersed and a radiance had succeeded sweeter than my former joys.

Now, by some unseen concurrence of reflections, my thoughts reverted into

some degree of bitterness. Methought that to ascertain the hand who killed my friend, was not impossible, and to punish the crime was just. That to forbear inquiry or withold punishment was to vio|late my duty to my God and to mankind. The impulse was gradually awakened that bade me once more to seek the Elm; once more to explore the ground; to scrutinize its trunk. What could I expect to find? Had it not been an hundred times examined? Had I not extended my search to the neighbouring groves and precipi|ces? Had I not pored upon the brooks, and pryed into the pits and hollows, that were adjacent to the scene of blood?

Lately I had viewed this conduct with shame and regret; but in the present state of my mind, it assumed the appearance of conformity with prudence, and I felt myself irresistably prompted to repeat my search. Some time had elapsed

since my departure from this district. Time enough for momentous changes to occur. Expedients that formerly were useless, might now lead instantaneously to the end which I sought. The tree which had formerly been shunned by the criminal, might, in the absence of the avenger of blood, be incautiously approached. Thoughtless or fearless of my return, it was possible that he might, at this moment, be detected ho|vering near the scene of his offences.

Nothing can be pleaded in extenuation of this relapse into folly. My return, after an absence of some duration, into the scene of these transactions and suf|ferings, the time of night, the glimmer|ing of the stars, the obscurity in which external objects were wrapped, and which, consequently, did not draw my attention from the images of fancy, may, in some degree, account for the revival

of those sentiments and resolutions which immediately succeeded the death of Waldegrave, and which, during my visit to you, had been suspended.

You know the situation of the Elm, in the midst of a private road, on the verge of Norwalk, near the habitation of Inglefield, but three miles from my uncle's house. It was now my intention to visit it. The road in which I was travelling, led a different way. It was requisite to leave it, therefore, and make a circuit through meadows and over steeps. My journey would, by these means, be considerably prolonged, but on that head I was indifferent, or rather, considering how far the night had alrea|dy advanced, it was desirable not to reach home till the dawn.

I proceeded in this new direction with speed. Time, however, was allowed for my impetuosities to subside, and for sober thoughts to take place. Still I

persisted in this path. To linger a few moments in this shade; to ponder on ob|jects connected with events so momen|tous to my happiness, promised me a mournful satisfaction. I was familiar with the way, though trackless and in|tricate, and I climbed the steeps, crept through the brambles, leapt the rivulets and fences with undeviating aim, till at length I reached the craggy and obscure path, which led to Inglefield's house.

In a short time, I descried through the dusk the wide-spread branches of the Elm. This tree, however faintly seen, cannot be mistaken for another. The remarkable bulk and shape of its trunk, its position in the midst of the way, its branches spreading into an am|ple circumference, made it conspicuous from afar. My pulse throbbed as I approached it.

My eyes were eagerly bent to dis|cover the trunk and the area beneath

the shade. These, as I approached, gradually became visible. The trunk was not the only thing which appeared in view. Somewhat else, which made itself distinguishable by its motions, was likewise noted. I faultered and stopt.

To a casual observer this appearance would have been unnoticed. To me, it could not but possess a powerful signi|ficance. All my surmises and suspi|cions, instantly returned. This appari|tion was human, it was connected with the fate of Waldegrave, it led to a dis|closure of the author of that fate. What was I to do? To approach unwarily would alarm the person. Instant flight would set him beyond discovery and reach.

I walked softly to the road-side. The ground was covered with rocky masses, scattered among shrub-oaks and

dwarf-cedars, emblems of its sterile and uncultivated state. Among these it was possible to elude observation and yet approach near enough to gain an accu|rate view of this being.

At this time, the atmosphere was somewhat illuminated by the moon, which, though it had already set, was yet so near the horizon, as to benefit me by its light. The shape of a man, tall and robust, was now distinguished. Repeated and closer scrutiny enabled me to perceive that he was employed in digging the earth. Something like flan|nel was wrapt round his waist and co|vered his lower limbs. The rest of his frame was naked. I did not recognize in him any one whom I knew.

A figure, robust and strange, and half naked, to be thus employed, at this hour and place, was calculated to rouse up my whole soul. His occupation was

mysterious and obscure. Was it a grave that he was digging? Was his purpose to explore or to hide? Was it proper to watch him at a distance, unobserved and in silence, or to rush upon him and ex|tort from him by violence or menaces, an explanation of the scene?

Before my resolution was formed, he ceased to dig. He cast aside his spade and sat down in the pit that he had dug. He seemed wrapt in meditation; but the pause was short, and succeeded by sobs, at first low, and at wide intervals, but pre|sently louder and more vehement. Sorely charged was indeed that heart whence flowed these tokens of sorrow. Never did I witness a scene of such mighty anguish, such heart-bursting grief.

What should I think? I was sus|pended in astonishment. Every senti|ment, at length, yielded to my sympathy Every new accent of the mourner struck

upon my heart with additional force, and tears found their way spontaneously to my eyes. I left the spot where I stood, and advanced within the verge of the shade. My caution had forsaken me, and instead of one whom it was duty to persecute, I beheld, in this man, nothing but an object of compassion.

My pace was checked by his sud|denly ceasing to lament. He snatched the spade, and rising on his feet began to cover up the pit with the utmost dili|gence. He seemed aware of my pre|sence, and desirous of hiding something from my inspection. I was prompted to advance nearer and hold his hand, but my uncertainty as to his character and views, the abruptness with which I had been ushered into this scene, made me still hesitate; but though I hesitated to advance, there was nothing to hinder me from calling.

What, ho! said I. Who is there? What are you doing?

He stopt, the spade fell from his hand, he looked up and bent forward his face towards the spot where I stood. An interview and explanation were now me|thought unavoidable. I mustered up my courage to confront and interrogate this being.

He continued for a minute in his gazing and listening attitude. Where I stood I could not fail of being seen, and yet he acted as if he saw nothing. Again he betook himself to his spade, and proceeded with new diligence to fill up the pit. This demeanour confounded and bewildered me. I had no power but to stand and silently gaze upon his motions.

The pit being filled, he once more sat upon the ground, and resigned him|self

to weeping and sighs with more vehemence than before. In a short time the fit seemed to have passed. He rose, seized the spade, and advanced to the spot where I stood.

Again I made preparation as for an interview which could not but take place. He passed me, however, without appear|ing to notice my existence. He came so near as almost to brush my arm, yet turned not his head to either side. My nearer view of him, made his brawny arms and lofty stature more conspicuous; but his imperfect dress, the dimness of the light, and the confusion of my own thoughts, hindered me from discerning his features. He proceeded with a few quick steps, along the road, but presently darted to one side and disappeared among the rocks and bushes.

My eye followed him as long as he was visible, but my feet were rooted to

the spot. My musing was rapid and incongruous. It could not fail to termi|nate in one conjecture, that this person was asleep. Such instances were not unknown to me, through the medium of conversation and books. Never, indeed, had it fallen under my own observation till now, and now it was conspicuous and environed with all that could give edge to suspicion, and vigour to inquiry. To stand here was no longer of use, and I turned my steps toward my uncle's habi|tation.

EDGAR HUNTLY. CHAPTER II.

I HAD food enough for the longest contemplation. My steps par|took, as usual, of the vehemence of my thoughts, and I reached my uncle's gate before I believed myself to have lost sight of the Elm. I looked up and discovered the well-known habitation. I could not endure that my reflections should so speedily be interrupted. I, therefore, passed the gate, and stopped not till I had reached a neighbouring summit, crowned with chesnut-oaks and poplars.

Here I more deliberately reviewed the incidents that had just occurred. The inference was just, that the man, half-clothed and digging, was a sleeper: But what was the cause of this morbid acti|vity? What was the mournful vision that dissolved him in tears, and extorted from him tokens of inconsolable distress? What did he seek, or what endeavour to conceal in this fatal spot? The inca|pacity of sound sleep denotes a mind sorely wounded. It is thus that atrocious criminals denote the possession of some dreadful secret. The thoughts, which considerations of safety enables them to suppress or disguise during wakefulness, operate without impediment, and exhi|bit their genuine effects, when the notices of sense are partly excluded, and they are shut out from a knowledge of their intire condition.

This is the perpetrator of some ne|fareous deed. What but the murder of Waldegrave could direct his steps hither? His employment was part of some fan|tastic drama in which his mind was busy. To comprehend it, demands penetration into the recesses of his soul. But one thing is sure; an incoherent concep|tion of his concern in that transaction, bewitches him hither. This it is that deluges his heart with bitterness and supplies him with ever-flowing tears.

But whence comes he? He does not start from the bosom of the earth, or hide himself in airy distance. He must have a name and a terrestrial habitation. It cannot be at an immeasurable distance from the haunted Elm. Inglefield's house is the nearest. This may be one of its inhabitants. I did not recognize his features, but this was owing to the dusky atmosphere and to the singularity

of his garb. Inglefield has two servants, one of whom was a native of this dis|trict, simple, guileless and incapable of any act of violence. He was, moreover devoutly attached to his sect. He could not be the criminal.

The other was a person of a very dif|ferent cast. He was an emigrant from Ireland, and had been six months in the family of my friend. He was a pattern of sobriety and gentleness. His mind was superior to his situation. His natu|ral endowments were strong, and had enjoyed all the advantage of cultivation. His demeanour was grave, and thought|ful, and compassionate. He appeared not untinctured with religion, but his devotion, though unostentatious, was of a melancholy tenor.

There was nothing in the first view of his character calculated to engender suspicion. The neighbourhood was

populous. But as I conned over the catalogue, I perceived that the only foreigner among us was Clithero. Our scheme was, for the most part, a patriar|chal one. Each farmer was surrounded by his sons and kinsmen. This was an exception to the rule. Clithero was a stranger, whose adventures and charac|ter, previously to his coming hither, were unknown to us. The Elm was surround|ed by his master's domains. An actor there must be, and no one was equally questionable.

The more I revolved the pensive and reserved deportment of this man, the ignorance in which we were placed re|specting his former situation, his possi|ble motives for abandoning his country and chusing a station so much below the standard of his intellectual attainments, the stronger my suspicions became. For|merly, when occupied with conjectures

relative to the same topic, the image of this man did not fail to occur; but the seeming harmlessness of his ordinary conduct, had raised him to a level with others, and placed him equally beyond the reach of suspicion. I did not, till now, advert to the recentness of his appearance among us, and to the obscu|rity that hung over his origin and past life. But now these considerations ap|peared so highly momentous, as almost to decide the question of his guilt.

But how were these doubts to be changed into absolute certainty. Hence|forth this man was to become the subject of my scrutiny. I was to gain all the knowledge, respecting him, which those with whom he lived, and were the per|petual witnesses of his actions, could impart. For this end I was to make minute inquiries, and to put seasonable

interrogatories. From this conduct I promised myself an ultimate solution of my doubts.

I acquiesced in this view of things with considerable satisfaction. It seemed as if the maze was no longer inscrutable. It would be quickly discovered who were the agents and instigators of the murder of my friend.

But it suddenly occurred to me For what purpose shall I prosecute this search? What benefit am I to reap from this discovery? How shall I demean my|self when the criminal is detected? I was not insensible, at that moment, of the impulses of vengeance, but they were transient. I detested the san|guinary resolutions that I had once formed. Yet I was fearful of the effects of my hasty rage, and dreaded an en|counter, in consequence of which, I

might rush into evils which no time could repair, nor penitence expiate.

But why, said I, should it be impos|sible to arm myself with firmness? If forbearance be the dictate of wisdom, cannot it be so deeply engraven on my mind as to defy all temptation, and be proof against the most abrupt surprise. My late experience has been of use to me. It has shewn me my weakness and my strength. Having found my ancient fortifications insufficient to withstand the enemy, what should I learn from thence but that it becomes me to strengthen and enlarge them.

No caution indeed can hinder the experiment from being hazardous. Is it wise to undertake experiments by which nothing can be gained, and much may be lost? Curiosity is vicious, if undisci|plined by reason, and inconducive to benefit.

I was not, however, to be diverted from my purpose. Curiosity, like vir|tue, is its own reward. Knowledge is of value for its own sake, and pleasure is annexed to the acquisition, without regard to any thing beyond. It is pre|cious even when disconnected with moral inducements and heart-felt sympathies, but the knowledge which I sought by its union with these was calculated to excite the most complex and fiery sentiment in my bosom.

Hours were employed in revolving these thoughts. At length I began to be sensible of fatigue, and returning home, explored the way to my chamber with|out molesting the repose of the family. You know that our doors are always unfastened, and are accessible at all hours of the night.

My slumbers were imperfect, and I rejoiced when the morning light per|mitted

me to resume my meditations. The day glided away, I scarcely know how, and as I had rejoiced at the return of morning, I now hailed, with pleasure, the approach of night.

My uncle and sisters having retired, I betook myself, instead of following their example, to the Chesnut-hill. Con|cealed among its rocks, or gazing at the prospect, which stretched so far and so wide around it, my fancy has always been accustomed to derive its highest enjoyment from this spot. I found my|self again at leisure to recall the scene which I had witnessed during the last night, to imagine its connection with the fate of Waldegrave, and to plan the means of discovering the secret that was hidden under these appearances.

Shortly, I began to feel insupporta|ble disquiet at the thoughts of postponing

this discovery. Wiles and stratagems were practicable, but they were tedious and of dubious success. Why should I proceed like a plotter? Do I intend the injury of this person? A generous pur|pose will surely excuse me from descend|ing to artifices? There are two modes of drawing forth the secrets of another, by open and direct means and by circui|tous and indirect. Why scruple to adopt the former mode? Why not demand a conference, and state my doubts, and demand a solution of them, in a manner worthy of a beneficent purpose? Why not hasten to the spot? He may be, at this moment, mysteriously occupied un|der this shade. I may note his beha|viour; I may ascertain his person, if not by the features that belong to him, yet by tracing his footsteps when he departs, and pursuing him to his retreats.

I embraced the scheme, which was thus suggested, with eagerness. I threw myself, with headlong speed, down the hill and pursued my way to the Elm. As I approached the tree, my palpita|tions increased, though my pace slack|ened. I looked forward with an anxious glance. The trunk of the tree was hidden in the deepest shade. I advanced close up to it. No one was visible, but I was not discouraged. The hour of his coming was, perhaps, not arrived. I took my station at a small distance, be|side a fence, on the right hand.

An hour elapsed before my eyes lighted on the object of which they were in search. My previous observation had been roving from one quarter to another. At last, it dwelt upon the tree. The per|son whom I before described was seated on the ground. I had not perceived him before, and the means by which he placed

himself in this situation had escaped my notice. He seemed like one, whom an effort of will, without the exercise of locomotion, had transported hither, or made visible. His state of disarray, and the darkness that shrouded him, pre|vented me, as before, from distinguishing any peculiarities in his figure or coun|tenance.

I continued watchful and mute. The appearances already described took place, on this occasion, except the circumstance of digging in the earth. He sat musing for a while, then burst into sighs and lamentations.

These being exhausted, he rose to depart. He stalked away with a solemn and deliberate pace. I resolved to tread, as closely as possible, in his footsteps, and not to lose sight of him till the ter|mination of his career.

Contrary to my expectation, he went in a direction opposite to that which led to Inglefield's. Presently, he stopped at bars, which he cautiously removed, and, when he had passed through them, as deliberately replaced. He then proceed|ed along an obscure path, which led across stubble fields, to a wood. The path continued through the wood, but he quickly struck out of it, and made his way, seemingly at random, through a most perplexing undergrowth of bushes and briars.

I was, at first, fearful that the noise, which I made behind him, in trampling down the thicket, would alarm him; but he regarded it not. The way that he had selected, was always difficult; some|times considerable force was requisite to beat down obstacles; sometimes, it led into a deep glen, the sides of which were so steep as scarcely to afford a foot|ing;

sometimes, into fens, from which some exertions were necessary to extri|cate the feet, and sometimes, through rivulets, of which the water rose to the middle.

For some time I felt no abatement of my speed or my resolution. I thought I might proceed, without fear, through breaks and dells, which my guide was able to penetrate. He was perpetually changing his direction. I could form no just opinion as to my situation or dis|tance from the place at which we had set out

I began at length to be weary. A suspicion, likewise, suggested itself to my mind, whether my guide did not perceive that he was followed, and thus prolonged his journey in order to fatigue or elude his pursuer. I was determined, however, to baffle his design. Though the air was frosty, my limbs were be|dewed

with sweat and my joints were relaxed with toil, but I was obstinately bent upon proceeding.

At length a new idea occurred to me. On finding me indefatigable in pursuit, this person might resort to more atro|cious methods of concealment. But what had I to fear? It was sufficient to be upon my guard. Man to man, I needed not to dread his encounter.

We, at last, arrived at the verge of a considerable precipice. He kept along the edge. From this height, a dreary vale was discoverable, embarrassed with the leafless stocks of bushes, and encum|bered with rugged and pointed rocks▪ This scene reminded me of my situation. The desert tract called Nor-walk, which I have often mentioned to you, my curi|osity had formerly induced me to traverse in various directions. It was in the highest degree, rugged, picturesque and

wild. This vale, though I had never before viewed it by the glimpses of the moon, suggested the belief that I had visited it before. Such an one I knew belonged to this uncultivated region. If this opinion were true, we were at no inconsiderable distance from Inglefield's habitation. Where, said I, is this singu|lar career to terminate?

Though occupied with these reflec|tions, I did not slacken my pursuit. The stranger kept along the verge of the cliff, which gradually declined till it ter|minated in the valley. He then plunged into its deepest thickets. In a quarter of an hour he stopped under a projecture of the rock which formed the opposite side of the vale. He then proceeded to remove the stalks, which, as I immedi|ately perceived, concealed the mouth of a cavern. He plunged into the darkness,

and in a few moments, his steps were heard no more!

Hitherto my courage had supported me, but here it failed. Was this person an assassin, who was acquainted with the windings of the grotto, and who would take advantage of the dark, to execute his vengeance upon me, who had dared to pursue him to these forlorn retreats; or was he maniac, or walker in his sleep? Whichever supposition were true, it would be rash in me to follow him. Besides, he could not long remain in these darksome recesses, unless some fatal accident should overtake him.

I seated myself at the mouth of the cave, determined patiently to wait till he should think proper to emerge. This opportunity of rest was exceedingly ac|ceptable after so toilsome a pilgrimage. My pulse began to beat more slowly, and

the moisture that incommoded me ceased to flow. The coolness which, for a little time, was delicious, presently increased to shivering, and I found it necessary to change my posture, in order to preserve my blood from congealing.

After I had formed a path before the cavern's mouth, by the removal of obstructions, I employed myself in walking to and fro. In this situation I saw the moon gradually decline to the horizon, and, at length, disappear. I marked the deepenings of the shade, and the mutations which every object successively underwent. The vale was narrow, and hemmed in on all sides by lofty and precipitous cliffs. The gloom deepened as the moon declined, and the faintness of star-light was all that pre|served my senses from being useless to my own guidance.

I drew nearer the cleft at which this mysterious personage had entered. I stretched my hands before it, determined that he should not emerge from his den without my notice. His steps would, necessarily, communicate the tidings of his approach. They could not move without a noise which would be echoed to, on all sides, by the abruptnesses by which this valley was surrounded. Here, then, I continued till the day began to dawn, in momentary expectation of the stranger's reappearance.

My attention was at length excited by a sound that seemed to issue from the cave. I imagined that the sleeper was returning, and prepared therefore to seize him. I blamed myself for neglect|ing the opportunities that had already been afforded, and was determined that another should not escape. My eyes were fixed upon the entrance. The

rustling increased, and presently an ani|mal leapt forth, of what kind I was una|ble to discover. Heart-struck by this disappointment, but not discouraged, I continued to watch, but in vain. The day was advancing apace. At length the sun arose, and its beams glistened on the edges of the cliffs above, whose sapless stalks and rugged masses were covered with hoar-frost. I began to despair of success, but was unwilling to depart, until it was no longer possible to hope for the return of this extraordinary per|sonage. Whether he had been swal|lowed up by some of the abysses of this grotto, or lurked near the entrance, wait|ing my departure, or had made his exit at another and distant aperture, was unknown to me.

Exhausted and discouraged, I pre|pared, at length, to return. It was easy to find my way out of this wilderness by

going forward in one direction, regard|less of impediments and cross-paths. My absence I believed to have occasioned no alarm to my family, since they knew not of my intention to spend the night abroad. Thus unsatisfactorily termi|nated this night's adventures.

EDGAR HUNTLY. CHAPTER III.

THE ensuing day was spent, partly in sleep, and partly in languor and disquietude. I incessantly ruminated on the incidents of the last night. The scheme that I had formed was defeated. Was it likely that this unknown person would repeat his midnight visits to the Elm? If he did, and could again be dis|covered, should I resolve to undertake a new pursuit, which might terminate abor|tively, or in some signal disaster? But what proof had I that the same rout would be taken, and that he would again inter himself alive in the same spot? Or,

if he did, since his reappearance would sufficiently prove that the cavern was not dangerous, and that he who should adventure in, might hope to come out again in safety, why not enter it after him? What could be the inducements of this person to betake himself to sub|terranean retreats? The basis of all this region is limestone; a substance that emi|nently abounds in rifts and cavities. These, by the gradual decay of their cementing parts, frequently make their appearance in spots where they might have been least expected. My attention has often been excited by the hollow sound which was produced by my casual footsteps, and which shewed me that I trod upon the roof of caverns. A moun|tain-cave and the rumbling of an unseen torrent, are appendages of this scene, dear to my youthful imagination. Many

of romantic structure were found within the precincts of Nor-walk.

These I had industriously sought out; but this had hitherto escaped my obser|vation, and I formed the resolution of sometime exploring it. At present I determined to revisit the Elm, and dig in the spot where this person had been employed in a similar way. It might be that something was here deposited which might exhibit this transaction in a new light. At the suitable hour, on the ensuing night, I took my former stand. The person again appeared. My inten|tion to dig was to be carried into effect on condition of his absence, and was, con|sequently, frustrated.

Instead of rushing on him, and break|ing at once the spell by which his senses were bound, I concluded, contrary to my first design, to wait his departure, and allow myself to be conducted whitherso|ever

he pleased. The track into which he now led me was different from the former one. It was a maze, oblique, circuitous, upward and downward, in a degree which only could take place in a region so remarkably irregular in surface, so abounding with hillocks and steeps, and pits and brooks as Salsbury. It seemed to be the sole end of his labours to be|wilder or fatigue his pursuer, to pierce into the deepest thickets, to plunge into the darkest cavities, to ascend the most difficult heights, and approach the slip|pery and tremulous verge of the dizziest precipices.

I disdained to be outstripped in this career. All dangers were overlooked, and all difficulties defied. I plunged into obscurities, and clambered over ob|stacles, from which, in a different state of mind, and with a different object of pur|suit, I should have recoiled with invin|cible

timidity. When the scene had passed, I could not review the perils I had undergone without shuddering.

At length my conductor struck into a path which, compared with the rug|gedness of that which we had lately trodden, was easy and smooth. This track led us to the skirt of the wilderness, and at no long time we reached an open field, when a dwelling appeared, at a small distance, which I speedily recog|nized to be that belonging to Inglefield. I now anticipated the fulfilment of my predictions. My conductor directed his steps towards the barn, into which he entered by a small door.

How were my doubts removed! This was no other than Clithero Edny. There was nothing in his appearance incompati|ble with this conclusion. He and his fellow servant occupied an apartment in the barn as a lodging room. This ardu|ous

purpose was accomplished, and I retired to the shelter of a neighbouring shed, not so much to repose myself after the fatigues of my extraordinary journey, as to devise farther expedients.

Nothing now remained but to take Clithero to task; to repeat to him the observations of the two last nights; to unfold to him my conjectures and suspi|cions; to convince him of the rectitude of my intentions, and to extort from him a disclosure of all the circumstances con|nected with the death of Waldegrave, which it was in his power to communi|cate.

In order to obtain a conference, I resolved to invite him to my uncle's, to perform a certain piece of work for me under my own eyes. He would, of course, spend the night with us, and in the evening I would make an opportu|nity

of entering into conversation with him.

A period of the deepest deliberation was necessary to qualify myself for per|forming suitably my part in this pro|jected interview. I attended to the feel|ings that were suggested in this new state of my knowledge. I found reason to confide in my newly acquired equa|nimity. Remorse, said I, is an ample and proper expiation for all offences. What does vengeance desire but to inflict misery? If misery come, its desires are accomplished. It is only the obdurate and exulting criminal that is worthy of our indignation. It is common for pity to succeed the bitterest suggestions of resentment. If the vengeful mind be delighted with the spectacle of woes of its own contriving, at least its canine hunger is appeased, and thenceforth, its hands are inactive.

On the evening of the next day, I paid a visit to Inglefield. I wished to impart to him the discoveries that I had made, and to listen to his reflections on the subject. I likewise desired to obtain all possible information from the family respecting the conduct of Clithero.

My friend received me with his usual kindness. Thou art no stranger to his character; thou knowest with what pater|nal affection I have ever been regarded by this old man; with what solicitude the wanderings of my reason and my freaks of passion, have been noted and corrected by him. Thou knowest his activity to save the life of thy brother, and the hours that have been spent by him, in aiding my conjectures as to the cause of his death, and inculcating the lessons of penitence and duty.

The topics which could not but occur at such a meeting, were quickly dis|cussed, and I hastily proceeded to that subject which was nearest my heart. I related the adventures of the two pre|ceding nights, and mentioned the infer|ence to which they irresistably led.

He said that this inference coin|cided with suspicions he had formed, since our last interview, in consequence of certain communications from his house-keeper. It seems the character of Clithero, had, from the first, exercised the inquisitiveness of this old lady. She had carefully marked his musing and melancholy deportment. She had tried innumerable expedients for obtaining a knowledge of his past life, and particu|larly of his motives for coming to Ame|rica. These expedients, however pro|found and addressful, had failed. He took no pains to elude them. He con|tented

himself with turning a deaf ear to all indirect allusions and hints, and, when more explicitly questioned, with simply declaring that he had nothing to communicate worthy of her notice.

During the day he was a sober and diligent workman. His evenings he spent in incommunicative silence. On sundays, he always rambled away, no one knew whither, and without a com|panion. I have already observed that he and his fellow servant occupied the same apartment in the barn. This cir|cumstance was not unattended to by Miss Inglefield. The name of Clithero's companion was Ambrose. This man was copiously interrogated by his mis|tress, and she found him by no means so refractory as the other.

Ambrose, in his tedious and confused way, related that soon after Clithero and he had become bed-fellows, the former

was considerably disturbed by restless|ness and talking in his sleep. His dis|course was incoherent. It was generally in the tone of expostulation, and appeared to be intreating to be saved from some great injury. Such phrases as these "have pity; "have mercy," were fre|quently intermingled with groans, and accompanied with weeping. Sometimes he seemed to be holding conferences with some one, who was making him considerable offers on condition of his performing some dangerous service. What he said, in his own person, and in answer to his imaginary tempter, tes|tified the utmost reluctance.

Ambrose had no curiosity on the subject. As this interruption prevent|ed him at first from sleeping, it was his custom to put an end to the dialogue, by awakening his companion, who betrayed tokens of great alarm and dejection, on

discovering how he had been employed, he would solicitously inquire what were the words that he had uttered; but Am|brose's report was seldom satisfactory, because he had attended to them but little, and because he begrudged every moment in which he was deprived of his accus|tomed repose.

Whether Clithero had ceased from this practice, or habit had reconciled his companion to the sounds, they no longer occasioned any interruption to his slum|ber.

No one appeared more shocked than he at the death of Waldegrave. after this event his dejection suddenly increased. This symptom was observed by the family, but none but the house|keeper took the trouble to notice it to him, or build conjectures on the incident. During nights, however, Ambrose expe|rienced

a renewal of his ancient disturb|ances. He remarked that Clithero, one night, had disappeared from his side. Ambrose's range of reflection was ex|tremely narrow. Quickly falling asleep, and finding his companion beside him when he awoke, he dismissed it from his mind.

On several ensuing nights he awak|ened in like manner, and always found his companion's place empty. The repe|tition of so strange an incident at length incited him to mention it to Clithero. The latter was confounded at this intel|ligence. He questioned Ambrose with great anxiety as to the particulars of this event, but he could gain no satisfaction from the stupid in attention of the other. From this time there was a visible aug|mentation of his sadness. His fits of taciturnity became more obstinate, and a deeper gloom sat upon his brow.

There was one other circumstance, of particular importance, mentioned by the house-keeper. One evening some one on horseback, stopped at this gate. He rattled at the gate, with an air of authority, in token of his desire that some one would come from the house. Miss Inglefield was employed in the kitchen, from a window of which she perceived who it was that made the sig|nal. Clithero happened, at the same moment, to be employed near her. She, therefore, desired him to go and see whom the stranger wanted. He laid aside his work and went. The confer|ence lasted above five minutes. The length of it excited in her a faint degree of surprise, inducing her to leave her employment, and pay an unintermit|ted attention to the scene. There was nothing, however, but its duration that rendered it remarkable.

Clithero at length entered, and the traveller proceeded. The countenance of the former betrayed a degree of per|turbation which she had never witnessed before. The muscles of his face was distorted and tremulous. He immedi|ately sat down to his work, but he seemed, for some time, to have lost all power over his limbs. He struggled to avoid the sight of the lady, and his ges|tures, irresolute, or misdirected, betok|ened the deepest dismay. After some time, he recovered, in some degree, his self-possession; but, while the object was viewed through a new medium, and the change existed only in the imagination of the observer, a change was certainly discovered.

These circumstances were related to me by Inglefield and corroborated by his house-keeper. One consequence inevi|tably flowed from them. The sleep-walker,

he who had led me through so devious a tract, was no other than Cli|thero. There was, likewise, a strong relation between this person and him who stopped at the gate. What was the subject of discourse between them? In answer to Miss Inglefield's interrogato|ries, he merely said that the traveller in|quired whither the road led, which at a small distance forward, struck out of the principal one. Considering the length of the interview it was not likely that this was the only topic.

My determination to confer with him in private acquired new force from these reflections. Inglefield assented to my proposal. His own affairs would permit the absence of his servant for one day. I saw no necessity for delay, and imme|diately made my request to Clithero. I was fashioning an implement, I told him, with respect to which I could not wholly

depend upon my own skill. I was ac|quainted with the dexterity of his con|trivances, and the neatness of his work|manship. He readily consented to assist me on this occasion. Next day he came. Contrary to my expectation, he prepared to return home in the evening. I urged him to spend the night with us; but no: It was equally convenient, and more agreeable to him, to return.

I was not aware of this resolution. I might, indeed, have foreseen, that, being conscious of his infirmity, he would desire to avoid the scrutiny of strangers. I was painfully disconcerted, but it occurred to me, that the best that could be done, was to bear him company, and seize some opportunity, during this interval, of effecting my purpose. I told him, that since he would not remain, I cared not if, for the sake of recreation, and of a much more momentous pur|pose,

I went along with him. He tacitly, and without apparent reluctance, consen|ted to my scheme, and accordingly, we set off together. This was an awful cri|sis. The time had now come, that was to dissipate my uncertainty. By what means should I introduce a topic so mo|mentous and singular? I had been qua|lified by no experience for rightly con|ducting myself on so critical an emer|gency. My companion preserved a mournful and inviolable silence. He af|forded me no opening, by which I might reach the point in view. His demeanour was sedate, while I was almost disabled, by the confusion of my thoughts, to utter a word.

It was a dreadful charge that I was about to insinuate. I was to accuse my companion of nothing less than murder. I was to call upon him for an avowal of his guilt. I was to state the grounds of

my suspicions, and desire him to confute, or confirm them. In doing this, I was principally stimulated by an ungoverna|ble curiosity; yet, if I intended not the conferring of a benefit, I did not, at least, purpose the infliction of evil. I persua|ded myself, that I was able to exclude from my bosom, all sanguinary or vengeful impulses; and that, whatever should be the issue of this conversation, my equanimity would be unsubdued.

I revolved various modes of intro|ducing the topic, by which my mind was engaged. I passed rapidly from one to another. None of them were sufficiently free from objection, to allow me to adopt it. My perplexity became, every moment, more painful, and my ability to extricate myself, less.

In this state of uncertainty, so much time elapsed, that the Elm at length ap|peared in sight. This object had some|what

of a mechanical influence upon me. I stopped short, and seized the arm of my companion. Till this moment, he appeared to have been engrossed by his own reflections, and not to have heeded those emotions, which must have been sufficiently conspicuous in my looks.

This action recalled him from his re|verie. The first idea that occurred to him, when he had noticed my behaviour, was, that I was assailed by some sudden indisposition.

What is the matter, said he, in a tone of anxiety: Are you not well?

Yes, replied I, perfectly well; but stop a moment; I have something to say to you.

To me? Answered he, with sur|prise.

Yes, said I, let us turn down this path, pointing at the same time, to that

along which I had followed him the pre|ceding night.

He now partook, in some degree, of my embarrassment.

Is there any thing particular? said he, in a doubting accent. There he stopped.

Something, I answered, of the highest moment. Go with me down this path. We shall be in less danger of interruption.

He was irresolute and silent, but see|ing me remove the bars and pass through them, he followed me. Nothing more was said till we entered the wood. I trusted to the suggestions of the moment. I had now gone too far to recede, and the necessity that pressed upon me, supplied me with words. I continued.

This is a remarkable spot. You may wonder why I have led you to it. I ought not to keep you in suspence. There is a tale connected with it, which I am desi|rous

of telling you. For this purpose I have brought you hither. Listen to me.

I then recapitulated the adventures of the two preceding nights. I added nothing, nor retrenched any thing. He listened in the deepest silence. From every inci|dent, he gathered new cause of alarm. Repeatedly he wiped his face with his handkerchief, and sighed deeply. I took no verbal notice of these symptoms. I deemed it incumbent on me to repress nothing. When I came to the conclud|ing circumstance, by which his person was identified, he heard me, without any new surprise. To this narrative, I sub|joined the inquiries that I had made at Inglefield's, and the result of those in|quiries. I then continued in these words.

You may ask why I subjected myself to all this trouble? The mysteriousness of these transactions would have natural|ly suggested curiosity in any one. A

transient passenger would probably have acted as I have done. But I had motives peculiar to myself. Need I remind you of a late disaster? That it happened be|neath the shade of this tree? Am I not justified in drawing certain inferences from your behaviour? What they are, I leave you to judge. Be it your task, to confute, or confirm them. For this end I have conducted you hither.

My suspicions are vehement. How can they be otherwise? I call upon you to say whether they be just.

The spot where we stood was illumi|nated by the moon, that had now risen, though all around was dark. Hence his features and person were easily distin|guished. His hands hung at his side. His eyes were downcast, and he was mo|tionless as a statue. My last words seemed scarcely to have made any im|pression on his sense. I had no need to

provide against the possible suggestions of revenge. I felt nothing but the ten|derness of compassion. I continued, for some time, to observe him in silence, and could discover no tokens of a change of mood. I could not forbear, at last, to express my uneasiness at the fixedness of his features and attitude.

Recollect yourself. I mean not to urge you too closely. This topic is so|lemn, but it need not divest you of the fortitude becoming a man.

The sound of my voice startled him. He broke from me, looked up, and fixed his eyes upon me with an expression of affright. He shuddered and recoiled as from a spectre. I began to repent of my experiment. I could say nothing suit|able to this occasion. I was obliged to stand a silent and powerless spectator, and to suffer this paroxysm to subside of

itself. When its violence appeared to be somewhat abated, I resumed.

I can feel for you. I act not thus, in compliance with a temper that delights in the misery of others. The explanation that I have solicited is no less necessary for your sake than for mine. You are no stranger to the light in which I viewed this man. You have witnessed the grief which his fate occasioned, and the efforts that I made to discover, and drag to pu|nishment his murderer. You heard the execrations that I heaped upon him, and my vows of eternal revenge. You expect that, having detected the offender, I will hunt him to infamy and death. You are mistaken. I consider the deed as suffici|ently expiated.

I am no stranger to your gnawing cares. To the deep and incurable des|pair that haunts you, to which your wak|ing thoughts are a prey, and from which

sleep cannot secure you. I know the enormity of your crime, but I know not your inducements. Whatever they were, I see the consequences with regard to yourself. I see proofs of that remorse which must ever be attendant on guilt.

This is enough. Why should the effects of our misdeeds be inexhaustible? Why should we be debarred from a comfor|ter? An opportunity of repairing our errors may, at least, be demanded from the rulers of our destiny.

I once imagined, that he who killed Waldegrave inflicted the greatest possible injury on me. That was an error, which reflection has cured. Were futurity laid open to my view, and events, with their consequences unfolded; I might see reason to embrace the assassin as my best friend. Be comforted.

He was still incapable of speaking; but tears came to his relief. Without at|tending

to my remonstrances, he betrayed a disposition to return. I had, hitherto, hoped for some disclosure, but now feared that it was designed to be withheld. He stopped not till we reached Inglefield's piazza. He then spoke, for the first time, but in an hollow and tremulous voice.

You demand of me a confession of crimes. You shall have it. Some time you shall have it. When it will be, I can|not tell. Something must be done, and shortly.

He hurried from me into the house, and after a pause, I turned my steps home|wards. My reflections, as I proceeded, perpetually revolved round a single point. These were scarcely more than a repeti|tition, with slight variations, of a single idea.

When I awoke in the morning, I hied, in fancy, to the wilderness. I saw no|thing but the figure of the wanderer be|fore

me. I traced his footsteps anew, retold my narrative, and pondered on his gestures and words. My condition was not destitute of enjoyment. My stormy passions had subsided into a calm, por|tentous and awful. My soul was big with expectation. I seemed as if I were on the eve of being ushered into a world, whose scenes were tremendous, but sub|lime. The suggestions of sorrow and malice had, for a time, taken their flight, and yielded place to a generous sympa|thy, which filled my eyes with tears, but had more in it of pleasure than of pain. That Clithero was instrumental to the death of Waldegrave, that he could fur|nish the clue, explanatory of every bloody and mysterious event, that had hitherto occurred, there was no longer the possibility of doubting. He, indeed, said I, is the murderer of excellence, and yet it shall be my province to emu|late

a father's clemency, and restore this unhappy man to purity, and to peace.

Day after day passed, without hear|ing any thing of Clithero. I began to grow uneasy and impatient. I had gain|ed so much, and by means so unexpec|ted, that I could more easily endure un|certainty, with respect to what remained to be known. But my patience had its limits. I should, doubtless, have made use of new means to accelerate this dis|covery, had not his timely appearance made them superfluous.

Sunday being at length arrived, I re|solved to go to Inglefield's, seek an inter|view with his servant, and urge him, by new importunities, to confide to me the secret. On my way thither, Clithero ap|peared in sight. His visage was pale and wan, and his form emaciated and shrunk. I was astonished at the alteration, which the lapse of a week had made in his ap|pearance.

At a small distance I mistook him for a stranger. As soon as I per|ceived who it was, I greeted him with the utmost friendliness. My civilities made little impression on him, and he hastened to inform me, that he was coming to my uncle's, for the purpose of meeting and talking with me. If I thought proper, we would go into the wood together: and find some spot, where we might discourse at our leisure, and be exempt from inter|ruption.

You will easily conceive with what alacrity I accepted his invitation. We turned from the road into the first path, and proceeded in silence, till the wildness of the surrounding scenery informed us, that we were in the heart of Nor-walk. We lighted on a recess, to which my com|panion appeared to be familiar, and which had all the advantages of solitude, and was suitable to rest. Here we stop|ped.

Hitherto my companion had dis|played a certain degree of composure. Now his countenance betokened a vio|lent internal struggle. It was a conside|rable time before he could command his speech. When he had so far effected the conquest of his feelings, he began.

EDGAR HUNTLY. CHAPTER IV.

YOU call upon me for a con|fession of my offences. What a strange fortune is mine! That an human being, in the present circumstances, should make this demand, and that I should be driven, by an irresistable necessity to comply with it! That here should ter|minate my calamitous series! That my destiny should call upon me to lie down and die, in a region so remote from the scene of my crimes; at a distance, so great, from all that witnessed and endu|red their consequences!

You believe me to be an assassin. You require me to explain the motives that induced me to murder the innocent. While this is your belief, and this the scope of your expectations, you may be sure of my compliance. I could resist every demand but this.

For what purpose have I come hither? Is it to relate my story? Shall I calmly sit here, and rehearse the incidents of my life? Will my strength be adequate to this rehearsal? Let me recollect the motives that governed me, when I formed this design. Perhaps, a strenuousness may be imparted by them, which, other|wise, I cannot hope to obtain. For the sake of those, I consent to conjure up the ghost of the past, and to begin a tale that, with a fortitude like mine, I am not sure that I shall live to finish.

You are unacquainted with the man before you. The inferences which you

have drawn, with regard to my designs, and my conduct, are a tissue of destruc|tive errors. You, like others, are blind to the most momentous consequences of your own actions. You talk of im|parting consolation. You boast the beni|ficence of your intentions. You set your|self to do me a benefit. What are the effects of your misguided zeal, and ran|dom efforts? They have brought my life to a miserable close. They have shrouded the last scene of it in blood. They have put the seal to my perdition.

My misery has been greater than has fallen to the lot of mortals. Yet it is but beginning. My present path, full as it is of asperities, is better than that into which I must enter, when this is abandoned. Perhaps, if my pil|grimage had been longer, I might, at some future day, have lighted upon hope. In consequence of your interference, I am

forever debarred from it. My existence is henceforward to be invariable. The woes that are reserved for me, are inca|pable alike of alleviation or intermission.

But I came not hither to recriminate. I came not hither to accuse others but myself. I know the retribution that is appointed for guilt like mine. It is just. I may shudder at the foresight of my punishment and shrink in the endurance of it; but I shall be indebted for part of my torment to the vigour of my under|standing, which teaches me that my pun|ishment is just. Why should I procras|tinate my doom and strive to render my burthen more light. It is but just that it should crush me. Its procrastination is impossible. The stroke is already felt. Even now I drink of the cup of retribu|tion. A change of being cannot agra|vate my woe. Till consciousness itself

be extinct, the worm that gnaws me will never perish.

Fain would I be relieved from this task. Gladly would I bury in oblivion the transactions of my life▪ but no. My fate is uniform. The daemon that con|trouled me at first is still in the fruition of power. I am entangled in his fold, and every effort that I make to escape only involves me in deeper ruin. I need not conceal, for all the consequences of disclosure are already experienced. I cannot endure a groundless imputation, though to free me from it, I must create and justify imputations still more atro|cious. My story may at least be brief. If the agonies of remembrance must be awakened afresh, let me do all that in me lies to shorten them.

I was born in the county of Armagh. My parents were of the better sort of

peasants, and were able to provide me with the rudiments of knowledge. I should doubtless have trodden in their footsteps, and have spent my life in the cultivation of their scanty fields, if an event had not happened, which, for a long time, I regarded as the most fortunate of my life; but which I now regard as the scheme of some infernal agent and as the primary source of all my calamities.

My father's farm was a portion of the demesne of one who resided wholly in the metropolis, and consigned the man|agement of his estates to his stewards and retainers. This person married a lady, who brought him great accession of fortune. Her wealth was her only recommendation in the eyes of her hus|band, whose understanding was depraved by the prejudices of luxury and rank, but was the least of her attractions in the estimate of reasonable beings.

They passed some years together. If their union were not a source of mise|ry to the lady, she was indebted for her tranquility to the force of her mind. She was, indeed, governed, in every action of her life by the precepts of duty, while her husband listened to no calls but those of pernicious dissipation. He was im|mersed in all the vices that grow out of opulence and a mistaken education.

Happily for his wife his career was short. He was enraged at the infidelity of his mistress, to purchase whose attach|ment, he had lavished two thirds of his fortune. He called the paramour, by whom he had been supplanted, to the field. The contest was obstinate, and terminated in the death of the challenger.

This event freed the lady from many distressful and humiliating obligations. She determined to profit by her newly acquired independence, to live thence|forward

conformable to her notions of right, to preserve and improve, by schemes of economy, the remains of her fortune, and to employ it in the dif|fusion of good. Her plans made it neces|sary to visit her estates in the distant provinces.

During her abode in the manor of which my father was a vassal, she visited his cottage. I was at that time a child. She was pleased with my vivacity and promptitude, and determined to take me under her own protection. My parents joyfully acceded to her proposal, and I returned with her to the capital.

She had an only son of my own age. Her design, in relation to me, was, that I should be educated with her child, and that an affection, in this way, might be excited in me towards my young master, which might render me, when we should attain to manhood, one of his most faithful

and intelligent dependents. I enjoyed, equally with him, all the essential bene|fits of education. There were certain accomplishments, from which I was ex|cluded, from the belief that they were unsuitable to my rank and station. I was permitted to acquire others, which, had she been actuated by true discernment, she would, perhaps, have discovered to be far more incompatible with a servile sta|tion. In proportion as my views were refined and enlarged by history and sci|ence, I was likely to contract a thirst of independence, and an impatience of sub|jection and poverty.

When the period of childhood and youth was past, it was thought proper to send her son, to improve his knowledge and manners, by a residence on the con|tinent. This young man was endowed with splendid abilities. His errors were the growth of his condition. All the ex|pedients

that maternal solicitude and wisdom could suggest, were employed to render him an useful citizen. Perhaps this wisdom was attested by the large share of excellence which he really pos|sessed; and, that his character was not unblemished, proved only, that no exer|tions could preserve him from the vices that are inherent in wealth and rank, and which flow from the spectacle of uni|versal depravity.

As to me, it would be folly to deny, that I had benefited by my opportunities of improvement. I fulfilled the expec|tation of my mistress, in one respect. I was deeply imbued with affection for her son, and reverence for herself. Perhaps the force of education was evinced in those particulars, without reflecting any credit on the directors of it. Those might merit the name of defects, which were regarded by them as accomplishments.

My unfavorable qualities, like those of my master, were imputed to my con|dition, though, perhaps, the difference was advantageous to me, since the vices of servitude are less hateful than those of tyranny.

It was resolved that I should accom|pany my master in his travels in quality of favourite domestic. My principles, whatever might be their rectitude were harmonious and flexible. I had devoted my life to the service of my patron. I had formed conceptions of what was really conducive to his interest, and was not to be misled by specious appearances. If my affection had not stimulated my dili|gence, I should have found sufficient motives in the behaviour of his mother. She condescended to express her reliance on my integrity and judgment. She was not ashamed to manifest, at parting, the tenderness of a mother, and to acknow|ledge

that, all her tears were not shed on her son's account. I had my part in the regrets that called them forth.

During our absence, I was my mas|ter's constant attendent. I corresponded with his mother, and made the conduct of her son the principal theme of my let|ters. I d••••••••ed it my privilege, as well as duty to sit in judgment on his ac|tions, to form my opinions without re|gard to selfish considerations, and to avow them whenever the avowal ten|ded to benefit. Every letter which I wrote, particularly those in which his behaviour was freely criticised, I allowed him to peruse. I would, on no account, connive at, or participate in the slightest irregularity. I knew the duty of my station, and assumed no other controul than that which resulted from the avoid|ing of deceit, and the open expression of my sentiments. The youth was of a no|ble

spirit, but his firmness was wavering. He yielded to temptations which a cen|sor less rigorous than I would have re|garded as venial, or, perhaps laudable. My duty required me to set before him the consequences of his actions, and to give impartial and timely information to his mother.

He could not brook a monitor. The more he needed reproof, the less sup|portable it became. My company became every day less agreeable, till at length, there appeared a necessity of parting. A seperation took place, but not as ene|mies. I never lost his respect. In his representations to his mother, he was just to my character and services. My dismission was not allowed to injure my fortune, and his mother considered this event merely as a new proof of the in|flexible consistency of my principles.

On this change in my situation, she proposed to me to become a member of her own family. No proposal could be more acceptable. I was fully acquainted with the character of this lady, and had nothing to fear from injustice and caprice. I did not regard her with filial familiarity, but my attachment and reverence would have done honour to that relation. I performed for her the functions of a steward. Her estates in the city were put under my direction. She placed boundless confidence in my discretion and integrity, and consigned to me the payment, and in some degree, the selec|tion and government of her servants. My station was a servile one, yet most of the evils of servitude were un|known to me. My personal ease and independence were less infringed than that of those who are accounted the free|est members of society. I derived a

sort of authority and dignity from the receipt and disbursement of money. The tenants and debtors of the lady were, in some respects, mine. It was, for the most part, on my justice and le|nity that they depended for their treat|ment. My lady's household establishment was large and opulent. Her servants were my inferiors and menials. My leisure was considerable, and my emoluments large enough to supply me with every valuable instrument of improvement or pleasure.

These were reasons why I should be contented with my lot. These cir|cumstances alone would have rendered it more eligible than any other, but it had additional, and far more powerful recommendations, arising from the cha|racter of Mrs. Lorimer, and from the re|lation in which she allowed me to stand to her.

How shall I enter upon this theme? How shall I expatiate upon excellencies, which it was my fate to view in their genuine colours, to adore with an im|measurable and inextinguishable ardour, and which, nevertheless, it was my hateful task to blast and destroy? Yet I will not be spared. I shall find in the rehearsal, new incitements to sorrow. I deserve to be supreme in misery, and will not be denied the full measure of a bitter retribution.

No one was better qualified to judge of her excellencies. A casual spectator might admire her beauty, and the dig|nity of her demeanour. From the con|templation of those, he might gather motives for loving or revering her. Age was far from having withered her complexion, or destroyed the evenness of her skin; but no time could rob her of the sweetness and intelligence which

animated her features. Her habitual beneficence was bespoken in every look. Always in search of occasions for doing good, always meditating scenes of hap|piness, of which she was the author, or of distress, for which she was preparing relief, the most torpid insensibility was, for a time, subdued, and the most de|praved smitten by charms, of which, in another person, they would not perhaps have been sensible.

A casual visitant might enjoy her conversation, might applaud the recti|tude of her sentiments, the richness of her elocution, and her skill in all the offices of politeness. But it was only for him, who dwelt constantly under the same roof, to mark the inviolable consistency of her actions and opinions, the ceaseless flow of her candour, her cheerfulness, and her benevolence. It

was only for one who witnessed her be|haviour at all hours, in sickness and in health, her management of that great instrument of evil and good, money, her treatment of her son, her menials, and her kindred, rightly to estimate her me|rits.

The intercourse between us was frequent, but of a peculiar kind. My office in her family required me often to see her, to submit schemes to her consideration, and receive her directions. At these times she treated me in a man|ner, in some degree, adapted to the dif|ference of rank, and the inferiority of my station, and yet widely dissimilar from that, which a different person would have adopted, in the same circum|stances. The treatment was not that of an equal and a friend, but still more re|mote was it from that of a mistress. It was merely characterised by affability

and condescention, but as such it had no limits.

She made no scruple to ask my council in every pecuniary affair, to listen to my arguments, and decide con|formably to what, after sufficient can|vassings and discussions, should appear to be right. When the direct occasions of our interview were dismissed, I did not of course withdraw. To detain or dismiss me was indeed at her option, but, if no engagement interfered, she would enter into general conversation. There was none who could with more safety to her|self have made the world her confessor; but the state of society in which she lived, imposed certain limitations on her candour. In her intercourse with me there were fewer restraints than on any other occasion. My situation had made me more intimately acquainted with do|mestic transactions, with her views re|specting

her son, and with the terms on which she thought proper to stand with those whom old acquaintance or kindred gave some title to her good offices. In addition to all those motives to a candid treatment of me, there were others which owed their efficacy to her mater|nal regard for me, and to the artless and unsuspecting generosity of her cha|racter.

Her hours were distributed with the utmost regularity, and appropriated to the best purposes. She selected her society without regard to any qualities but probity and talents. Her associates were numerous, and her evening con|versations embellished with all that could charm the senses or instruct the understanding. This was a chosen field for the display of her magnificence, but her grandeur was unostentatious, and her gravity unmingled with hautiness.

From these my station excluded me, but I was compensated by the freedom of her communications in the intervals. She found pleasure in detailing to me the incidents that passed on those occa|sions, in rehearsing conversations and depicting characters. There was an uncommon portion of dramatic merit in her recitals, besides valuable and curi|ous information. One uniform effect was produced in me by this behaviour. Each day, I thought it impossible for my attachment to receive any new acces|sions, yet the morrow was sure to pro|duce some new emotion of respect or of gratitude, and to set the unrivalled ac|complishments of this lady in a new and more favourable point of view. I con|templated no change in my condition. The necessity of change, whatever were the alternative, would have been a sub|ject of piercing regret. I deemed my

life a cheap sacrifice in her cause. No time would suffice to discharge the debt of gratitude that was due to her. Yet it was continually accumulating. If an anxious thought ever invaded my bosom it arose from this source.

It was no difficult task faithfully to execute the functions assigned to me. No merit could accrue to me from this source. I was exposed to no tempta|tion. I had passed the feverish period of youth. No contagious example had contaminated my principles. I had re|sisted the allurements of sensuality and dissipation incident to my age. My dwelling was in pomp and splendour. I had amassed sufficient to secure me, in case of unforeseen accidents, in the enjoyment of competence. My mental resources were not despicable, and the external means of intellectual gratifica|tion were boundless. I enjoyed an un|sullied

reputation. My character was well known in that sphere which my lady occupied, not only by means of her favourable report, but in numberless ways in which it was my fortune to per|form personal services to others.

EDGAR HUNTLY. CHAPTER V.

MRS. LORIMER had a twin brother. Nature had impressed the same image upon them, and had model|led them after the same pattern. The resemblance between them was exact to a degree almost incredible. In infancy and childhood they were perpetually liable to be mistaken for each other. As they grew up nothing to a superficial examination appeared to distinguish them but the sexual characteristics. A saga|cious observer would, doubtless, have noted the most essential differences. In all those modifications of the features

which are produced by habits and senti|ments, no two persons were less alike. Nature seemed to have intended them as examples of the futility of those theo|ries, which ascribe every thing to con|formation and instinct, and nothing to external circumstances; in what differ|ent modes the same materials may be fashioned, and to what different pur|poses the same materials may be applied. Perhaps the rudiments of their intellec+tual character as well as of their form, were the same; but the powers, that in one case, were exerted in the cause of virtue, were, in the other, misapplied to sordid and flagitious purposes.

Arthur Wiatte, that was his name, had ever been the object of his sister's affection. As long as he existed she never ceased to labour in the promotion of his happiness. All her kindness

was repaid by a stern and inexorable hatred. This man was an exception to all the rules which govern us in our judgments of human nature. He ex|ceeded in depravity all that has been imputed to the arch-foe of mankind. His wickedness was without any of those remorseful intermissions from which it has been supposed that the deepest guilt is not entirely exempt. He seemed to relish no food but pure unadulterated evil. He rejoiced in proportion to the depth of that distress of which he was the author.

His sister, by being placed most within the reach of his enmity, experi|enced its worst effects. She was the subject on which, by being acquainted with the means of influencing her hap|piness, he could try his malignant expe|riments with most hope of success. Her parents being high in rank and wealth,

the marriage of their daughter was, of course, an object of anxious attention. There is no event on which our felicity and usefulness more materially depends, and with regard to which, therefore, the freedom of choice and the exercise of our own understanding ought to be less infringed, but this maxim is commonly disregarded in proportion to the eleva|tion of our rank and extent of our pro|perty.

The lady made her own election, but she was one of those who acted on a com|prehensive plan, and would not admit her private inclination to dictate her decision. Her happiness of others, though founded on mistaken views, she did not consider as unworthy of her re|gard. The choice was such as was not likely to obtain the parental sanction, to whom the moral qualities of their son-in-law, though not absolutely weightless in

the balance, were greatly inferior to the considerations of wealth and dignity.

The brother set no value on any thing but the means of luxury and power. He was astonished at that perverseness which entertained a different conception of happiness from himself. Love and friendship he considered as groundless and chimerical, and believed that those delusions, would, in people of sense, be rectified by experience; but he knew the obstinacy of his sister's attachment to these phantoms, and that to bereave her of the good they promised was the most effectual means of rendering her misera|ble. For this end he set himself to thwart her wishes. In the imbecility and false indulgence of his parents he found his most powerful auxiliaries. He prevailed upon them to forbid that union which wanted nothing but their concurrence, and their consent to endow her with a

small portion of their patrimony to ren|der completely eligible. The cause was that of her happiness and the happiness of him on whom she had bestowed her heart. It behoved her, therefore, to call forth all her energies in defence of it, to weaken her brother's influence on the minds of her parents, or to win him to be her advocate. When I reflect upon her mental powers, and the advantages which should seem to flow from the cir|cumstance of pleading in the character of daughter and sister, I can scarcely believe that her attempts miscarried. I should have imagined that all obstacles would yield before her, and particularly in a case like this, in which she must have summoned all her forces, and never have believed that she had struggled sufficiently.

Certain it is that her lot was fixed. She was not only denied the husband of her choice, but another was imposed up|on her, whose recommendations were irresistible in every one's apprehension but her own. The discarded lover was treated with every sort of contumely. Deceit and violence were employed by her brother to bring his honour, his liber|ty, and even his life into hazard. All these iniquities produced no considera|ble effect on the mind of the lady. The machinations to which her love was expo|sed, would have exasperated him into madness, had not her most strenuous exertions been directed to appease him.

She prevailed on him at length to abandon his country, though she thereby merely turned her brother's depravity into a new channel. Her parents died without conciousness of the evils they inflicted, but they experienced a bitter

retribution in the conduct of their son. He was the darling and stay of an ancient and illustrious house, but his actions reflected nothing but disgrace upon his ancestry, and threatened to bring the honours of their line to a period in his person. At their death the bulk of their patrimony devolved upon him. This he speedily consumeed in gaming and riot. From splendid, he descended to meaner vices. The efforts of his sister to recall him to virtue were unintermitted and fruitless. Her affection for him he con|verted into a means of prolonging his selfish gratifications. She decided for the best. It was no argument of weak|ness that she was so frequently deceived. If she had judged truly of her brother, she would have judged not only without example, but in opposition to the general experience of mankind. But she was not to be forever deceived. Her tenderness

was subservient to justice. And when his vices had led him from the gaming table to the higway, when seized at length by the ministers of law, when convicted and sentenced to transportation, her intercession was solicited, when all the world knew that pardon would readily be granted to a supplicant of her rank, fortune, and character, when the criminal himself, his kindred, his friends, and even indifferent persons implored her interfer|ence, her justice was inflexible: She knew full well the incurableness of his depravity; that banishment was the mildest destiny that would befall him; that estrangement from ancient haunts and associates was the condition from which his true friends had least to fear.

Finding intreaties unavailing, the wretch delivered himself to the suggesti|ons of his malice, and he vowed to be bloodily revenged on her inflexibility.

The sentence was executed. That character must indeed be monstrous from which the execution of such threats was to be dreaded. The event suffi|ciently shewed that our fears on this head were well grounded. This event, howe|ver, was at a great distance. It was repor|ted that the fellons, of whom he was one, mutinied on board the ship in which they had been embarked. In the affray that succeeded it was said that he was killed.

Among the nefarious deeds which he perpetrated was to be numbered the seduction of a young lady, whose heart was broken by the detection of his perfidy. The fruit of this unhappy union was a daughter. Her mother died shortly after her birth. Her father was careless of her destiny. She was consigned to the care of an hireling, who, happily for the inno|cent victim, performed the maternal offices for her own sake, and did not allow

the want of a stipulated recompence to render her cruel or neglectful.

This orphan was sought out by the benevolence of Mrs. Lorimer and placed under her own protection. She received from her the treatment of a mother. The ties of kindred, corroborated by habit, was not the only thing that united them. That resemblance to herself, which had been so deplorably defective in her bro|ther, was completely realized in his offspring. Nature seemed to have pre|cluded every difference between them but that of age. This darling object excited in her bosom more than maternal sympa|thies. Her soul clung to the happiness of her Clarice, with more ardour than to that of her own son. The latter was not only less worthy of affection, but their separa|tion necessarily diminished their mutual confidence.

It was natural for her to look forward to the future destiny of Clarice. On these occasions she could not help con|templating the possibility of a union between her son and niece. Considerable advantages belonged to this scheme, yet it was the subject of hope rather than the scope of a project. The contingen|cies were numerous and delicate on which the ultimate desirableness of this union depended. She was far from certain that her son would be worthy of this benefit, or that, if he were worthy, his propensi|ties would not select for themselves a different object. It was equally dubious whether the young lady would not think proper otherwise to dispose of her affec|tions. These uncertainties could be dissipated only by time. Meanwhile she was chiefly solicitous to render them virtuous and wise.

As they advanced in years, the hopes that she had formed were annihilated. The youth was not exempt from egre|gious errors. In addition to this, it was manifest that the young people were dis|posed to regard each other in no other light than that of brother and sister. I was not unapprised of her views. I saw that their union was impossible. I was near enough to judge of the character of Clarice. My youth and intellectual constitution made me peculiarly suscep|tible to female charms. I was her play|fellow in childhood, and her associate in studies and amusements at a maturer age. This situation might have been suspected of a dangerous tendency. This tendency, however, was obviated by mo|tives of which I was, for a long time, scarcely conscious.

I was habituated to consider the dis|tinctions of rank as indellible. The ob|structions

that existed, to any wish that I might form, were like those of time and space, and as, in their own nature, insu|perable.

Such was the state of things previ|ous to our setting out upon our travels. Clarice was indirectly included in our correspondence. My letters were open to her inspection, and I was sometimes honoured with a few complimentary lines under her own hand. On returning to my ancient abode, I was once more ex|posed to those sinister influences which absence had, at least, suspended. Various suitors had, meanwhile, been rejected. Their character, for the most part, had been such as to account for her refusal, without resorting to the supposition of a lurking or unavowed attachment.

On our meeting she greeted me in a respectful but dignified manner. Obser|vers

could discover in it nothing not cor|responding to that difference of fortune which subsisted between us. If her joy, on that occasion, had in it some portion of tenderness, the softness of her temper, and the peculiar circumstances in which we had been placed, being considered, the most rigid censor could find no occa|sion for blame or suspicion.

A year passed away, but not without my attention being solicited by something new and inexplicable in my own sensa|tions. At first I was not aware of their true cause; but the gradual progress of my feelings left me not long in doubt as to their origin. I was alarmed at the discovery, but my courage did not sud|denly desert me. My hopes seemed to be extinguished the moment that I dis|tinctly perceived the point to which they led. My mind had undergone a change. The ideas with which it was fraught were

varied. The sight, or recollection of Clarice, was sure to occasion my mind to advert to the recent discovery, and to revolve the considerations naturally con|nected with it. Some latent glows and secret trepidations were likewise experi|enced, when, by some accident, our meetings were abrupt or our interviews unwitnessed; yet my usual tranquility was not as yet sensibly diminished. I could bear to think of her marriage with another without painful emotions, and was anxious only that her choice should be judicious and fortunate.

My thoughts could not long continue in this state. They gradually became more ardent and museful. The image of Clarice occurred with unseasonable frequency. Its charms were enhanced by some nameless and indefinable ad|ditions. When it met me in the way I was irresistibly disposed to stop and survey it

with particular attention. The pathetic cast of her features, the deep glow of her cheek, and some catch of melting music, she had lately breathed, stole incessantly upon my fancy. On recovering from my thoughtful moods, I sometimes found my cheeks wet with tears, that had fallen unperceived, and my bosom heaved with involuntary sighs.

These images did not content them|selves with invading my wakeful hours; but, likewise, incroached upon my sleep. I could no longer resign myself to slum|ber with the same ease as before. When I slept, my visions were of the same impassioned tenor.

There was no difficulty in judging rightly of my situation. I knew what it was that duty exacted from me. To re|main in my present situation was a chimerical project. That time and re|flection would suffice to restore me to

myself was a notion equally falacious. Yet I felt an insupportable reluctance to change it. This reluctance was owing, not wholly or chiefly to my growing passion, but to the attachment which bound me to the service of my lady. All my contemplations had hitherto been mo|delled on the belief of my remaining in my present situation during my life. My mildest anticipations had never fashioned an event like this. Any misfortune was light in comparison with that which tore me from her presence and service. But should I ultimately resolve to separate, how should I communicate my purpose. The pain of parting would scarcely be less on her side than on mine. Could I consent to be the author of disquietude to her? I had consecrated all my faculties to her service. This was the recom|pence which it was in my power to make

for the benefits that I had received. Would not this procedure bear the ap|pearance of the basest ingratitude? The shaddow of an imputation like this was more excruciating than the rack.

What motive could I assign for my conduct? The truth must not be told. This would be equivalent to supplicating for a new benefit. It would more be|come me to lessen than increase my obligations. Among all my imaginations on this subject, the possibility of a mutual passion never occurred to me. I could not be blind to the essential dis|tinctions that subsist among men. I could expatiate, like others, on the futility of ribbonds and titles, and on the dignity that was annexed to skill and virtue; but these, for the most part, were the inco|herences of speculation, and in no degree influenced the stream of my actions, and practical sentiments. The barrier that

existed in the present case, I deemed insurmountable. This was not even the subject of doubt. In disclosing the truth, I should be conceived to be soli|citing my lady's mercy and intercession; but this would be the madness of pre|sumption. Let me impress her with any other opinion than that I go in search of the happiness that I have lost under her roof. Let me save her generous heart from the pangs which this persuasion would infallibly produce.

I could form no stable resolutions. I seemed unalterably convinced of the necessity of separation, and yet could not execute my design. When I had wrought up my mind to the intention of explaining myself on the next interview, when the next interview took place my tongue was powerless. I admitted any excuse for postponing my design, and

gladly admitted any topic, however foreign to my purpose.

It must not be imagined that my health sustained no injury from this conflict of my passions. My patroness perceived this alteration. She inquired with the most affectionate solicitude, into the cause. It could not be explained. I could safely make light of it, and re|presented it as something which would probably disappear of itself, as it origi|nated without any adequate cause. She was obliged to acquiesce in my imperfect account.

Day after day passed in this state of fluctuation. I was conscious of the dan|gers of delay, and that procrastination, without rendering the task less neces|sary, augmented its difficulties. At length, summoning my resolution, I demanded an audience. She received me with her usual affability. Common

topics were started; but she saw the con|fusion and trepidation of my thoughts, and quickly relinquished them. She then noticed to me what she had obser|ved, and mentioned the anxiety which these appearances had given her. She reminded me of the maternal regard which she had always manifested to|wards me, and appealed to my own heart whether any thing could be said in vindication of that reserve with which I had lately treated her, and urged me as I valued her good opinion, to explain the cause of a dejection that was too visible.

To all this I could make but one answer: Think me not, Madam, perverse or ungrateful. I came just now to apprise you of a resolution that I had formed. I cannot explain the motives that induce me. In this case, to lie to you would be unpardonable, and since I cannot assign my true motives, I will not mislead

you by false representations. I came to inform you of my intention to leave your service, and to retire with the fruits of your bounty, to my native village, where I shall spend my life, I hope, in peace.

Her surprise at this declaration was beyond measure. She could not believe her ears. She had not heard me rightly. She compelled me to repeat it. Sill I was jesting. I could not possibly mean what my words imported.

I assured her, in terms still more ex|plicit, that my resolution was taken and was unalterable, and again intreated her to spare me the task of assigning my mo|tives.

This was a strange determination. What could be the grounds of this new scheme? What could be the necessity of hiding them from her? This mystery was not to be endured. She could by no means away with it. She thought it

hard that I should abandon her at this time, when she stood in particular need of my assistance and advice. She would refuse nothing to make my situation eli|gible. I had only to point out where she was deficient in her treatment of me and she would endeavour to supply it. She was willing to augment my emolu|ments in any degree that I desired. She could not think of parting with me; but, at any rate, she must be informed of my motives.

It is an hard task, answered I, that I have imposed upon myself. I foresaw its difficulties, and this foresight has hitherto prevented me from undertaking it; but the necessity by which I am im|pelled, will no longer be withstood. I am determined to go; but to say why, is impossible. I hope I shall not bring upon myself the imputation of ingrati|tude; but this imputation, more intolera|ble

than any other, must be borne, if it cannot be avoided but by this disclosure.

Keep your motives to yourself, said she. I have too good an opinion of you to suppose that you would practice con|cealment without good reason. I merely desire you to remain where you are. Since you will not tell me why you take up this new scheme, I can only say that it is impossible there should be any advantage in this scheme. I will not hear of it I tell you. Therefore, submit to my decree with a good grace.

Notwithstanding this prohibition I persisted in declaring that my determi|nation was fixed, and that the motives that governed me would allow of no alternative.

So, you will go, will you, whether I will or no? I have no power to detain you? You will regard nothing that I can say?

Believe me, madam, no resolution ever was formed after a more vehement struggle. If my motives were known, you would not only cease to oppose, but would hasten my departure. Honour me so far with your good opinion, as to believe that, in saying this, I say nothing but the truth, and render my duty less burthensome by cheerfully acquiescing in its dictates.

I would, replied my lady, I could find somebody that has more power over you than I have. Whom shall I call in to aid me in this arduous task?

Nay, dear madam, if I can resist your intreaties, surely no other can hope to succeed.

I am not sure of that, said my friend, archly: there is one person in the world whose supplications, I greatly suspect, you would not withstand.

Whom do you mean? said I, in some trepidation.

You will know presently. Unless I can prevail upon you, I shall be obliged to call for assistance.

Spare me the pain of repeating that no power on earth can change my reso|lution.

That's a fib, she rejoined, with in|creased archness. You know it is. If a certain person intreat you to stay, you will easily comply. I see I cannot hope to prevail by my own strength. That is a mortifying consideration, but we must not part, that is a point settled. If nothing else will do, I must go and fetch my advocate. Stay here a moment.

I had scarcely time to breathe, before she returned, leading in Clarice. I did not yet comprehend the meaning of this ceremony. The lady was overwhelmed with sweet confusion. Averted eyes

and reluctant steps, might have explain|ed to me the purpose of this meeting, if I had believed that purpose to be possi|ble. I felt the necessity of new forti|tude, and struggled to recollect the mo|tives that had hitherto sustained me.

There, said my patroness, I have been endeavouring to persuade this young man to live with us a little longer. He is determined, it seems, to change his abode. He will not tell why, and I do not care to know, unless I could shew his reasons to be groundless. I have merely remonstrated with him on the folly of his scheme, but he has proved refractory to all I can say. Perhaps your efforts may meet with better success.

Clarice said not a word. My own embarrassment equally disabled me from speaking. Regarding us both, for some time, with a benign aspect, Mrs. Lorimer

resumed, taking an hand of each and joining them together.

I very well know what it was that suggested this scheme. It is strange that you should suppose me so careless an ob|server as not to note, or not to understand your situation. I am as well acquainted with what is passing in your heart as you yourself are, but why are you so anxious to conceal it. You know less of the ad|venturousness of love than I should have suspected. But I will not trifle with your feelings.

You, Clithero, know the wishes that I once cherished. I had hoped that my son would have found, in this darling child, an object worthy of his choice, and that my girl would have preferred him to all others. But I have long since dis|covered that this could not be. They are nowise suited to each other. There is one thing in the next place desirable▪

and now my wishes are accomplished. I see that you love each other, and never, in my opinion, was a passion more rational and just. I should think myself the worst of beings if I did not contribute all in my power to your happi|ness. There is not the shadow of objec|tion to your union. I know your scruples, Clithero, and am sorry see that you harbour them for a moment. Nothing is more unworthy of your good sense.

I found out this girl long ago. Take my word for it, young man, she does not fall short of you in the purity and ten|derness of her attachment. What need is there of tedious preliminaries. I will leave you together, and hope you will not be long in coming to a mutual understanding. Your union cannot be completed too soon for my wishes. Clarice is my only and darling daughter.

As to you Clithero, expect henceforth that treatment from me, not only to which your own merit intitles you, but which is due to the husband of my daughter.— With these words she retired and left us together.

Great God! deliver me from the tor|ments of this remembrance. That a being by whom I was snatched from penury and brutal ignorance, exalted to some rank in the intelligent creation, reared to affluence and honour, and thus, at last, spontaneously endowed with all that remained to complete the sum of my felicity, that a being like this—but such thoughts must not yet be—I must shut them out, or I shall never arrive at the end of my tale. My efforts have been thus far successful. I have hitherto been able to deliver a coherent narrative. Let the last words that I shall speak af|ford

some glimmering of my better days. Let me execute without faltering the only task that remains for me.

EDGAR HUNTLY. CHAPTER VI.

HOW propitious, how incre|dible was this event! I could scarcely confide in the testimony of my senses. Was it true that Clarice was before me, that she was prepared to countenance my presumption, that she had slighted obstacles which I had deemed insur|mountable, that I was fondly beloved by her, and should shortly be admitted to the possession of so inestimable a good? I will not repeat the terms in which I poured forth, at her feet, the raptures of my gratitude. My impetuosity soon ex|torted from Clarice, a confirmation of

her mother's declaration. An unrestrain|ed intercourse was thenceforth establish|ed between us. Dejection and languor gave place, in my bosom, to the irradia|tions of joy and hope. My flowing fortunes seemed to have attained their utmost and immutable height.

Alas! They were destined to ebb with unspeakably greater rapidity, and to leave me, in a moment, stranded and wrecked.

Our nuptials would have been so|lemnised without delay, had not a melan|choly duty interferred. Clarice had a friend in a distant part of the kingdom. Her health had long been the prey of a consumption. She was now evidently tending to dissolution. In this extremity she intreated her friend to afford her the consolation of her presence. The only wish that remained was to die in her arms

This request could not but be wil|lingly complied with. It became me patiently to endure the delay that would thence arise to the completion of my wishes. Considering the urgency and mournfulness of the occasion, it was impossible for me to murmur, and the affectionate Clarice would suffer nothing to interfere with the duty which she owed to her dying friend. I accompa|nied her on this journey, remained with her a few days, and then parted from her to return to the metropolis. It was not imagined that it would be necessary to prolong her absence beyond a month. When I bade her farewell, and informed her on what day I proposed to return for her, I felt no decay of my satisfaction. My thoughts were bright and full of exultation. Why was not some intimation afforded me of the snares that lay in my path? In the train laid for my destruc|tion,

the agent had so skilfully contrived that my security was not molested by the faintest omen.

I hasten to the crisis of my tale. I am almost dubious of my strength. The nearer I approach to it, the stronger is my aversion. My courage, instead of gathering force as I proceed, decays. I am willing to dwell still longer on pre|liminary circumstances. There are other incidents without which my story would be lame. I retail them because they afford me a kind of respite from horrors, at the thought of which every joint in my frame trembles. They must be endured, but that infirmity may be forgiven, which makes me inclined to procrastinate my suffering.

I mentioned the lover whom my patroness was compelled, by the machi|nations of her brother, to discard. More than twenty years had passed since their

separation. His birth was mean and he was without fortune. His profession was that of a surgeon. My lady not only prevailed upon him to abandon his coun|try, but enabled him to do this by sup|plying his necessities from her own purse. His excellent understanding was, for a time, obscured by passion; but it was not difficult for my lady ultimately to obtain his concurrence to all her schemes. He saw and adored the rectitude of her mo|tives, did not disdain to accept her gifts, and projected means for maintaining an epistolary intercourse during their sepa|ration.

Her interest procured him a post in the service of the East-India company. She was, from time to time, informed of his motions. A war broke out between the Company and some of the native powers. He was present at a great bat|tle in which the English were defeated.

She could trace him by his letters and by other circumstances thus far, but here the thread was discontinued, and no means which she employed could pro|cure any tidings of him. Whether he was captive, or dead, continued, for se|veral years, to be merely matter of con|jecture.

On my return to Dublin, I found my patroness engaged in conversation with a stranger. She introduced us to each other in a manner that indicated the respect which she entertained for us both. I surveyed and listened to him with considerable attention. His aspect was noble and ingenious, but his sun-burnt and rugged features bespoke a various and boisterous pilgrimage. The furrows of his brow were the products of vicissitude and hardship, rather than of age. His accents were fiery and energetic, and the

impassioned boldness of his address, as well as the tenor of his discourse, full of allusions to the past, and regrets that the course of events had not been different, made me suspect something extraordi|nary in his character.

As soon as he left us, my lady ex|plained who he was. He was no other than the object of her youthful attach|ment, who had, a few days before, drop|ped among us as from the skies. He had a long and various story to tell. He had accounted for his silence by enume|rating the incidents of his life. (He had escaped from the prisons of Hyder, had wandered on foot, and under various disguises, through the northern district of Hindoostaun. He was sometimes a scholar of Benares, and sometimes a disciple of the Mosque. According to the exigencies of the times, he was a pil|grim to Mecca or to Jagunaut. By a

long, circuitous, and perilous route, he at length arrived at the Turkish capital. Here he resided for several years, deri|ving a precarious subsistence from the profession of a surgeon. He was obli|ged to desert this post, in consequence of a duel between two Scotsmen. One of them had embraced the Greek religion, and was betrothed to the daughter of a wealthy trader of that nation. He per|ished in the conflict, and the family of the lady not only procured the execution of his antagonist, but threatened to involve all those who were known to be con|nected with him in the same ruin.

His life being thus endangered, it became necessary for him to seek a new residence. He fled from Constantinople with such precipitation as reduced him to the lowest poverty. He had traversed the Indian conquests of Alexander, as a mendicant. In the same character,

he now wandered over the native coun|try of Philip and Philoepamen. He pas|sed safely through multiplied perils, and finally, embarking at Salonichi, he reached Venice. He descended through the passes of the Apennine into Tuscany. In this journey he suffered a long deten|tion from banditti, by whom he was waylaid. In consequence of his harmless deportment, and a seasonable display of his chirurgical skill, they granted him his life, though they, for a time restrained him of his liberty, and compelled him to endure their society. The time was not misemployed which he spent immured in caverns and carousing with robbers. His details were eminently singular and curious, and evinced the accuteness of his penetration, as well the steadfastness of his courage.

After emerging from these wilds, he found his way along the banks of the

Arno to Leghorn. Thence he procured a passage to America, whence he had just returned, with many additions to his ex|perience, but none to his fortune.

This was a remarkable event. It did not at first appear how far its consequences would extend. The lady was, at present, disengaged and independent. Though the passion which clouded her early pros|perity was extinct, time had not diminished the worth of her friend, and they were far from having reached that age when love becomes chimerical and marriage folly. A confidential intercourse was immediately established between them. The bounty of Mrs. Lorimer soon divest|ed her friend of all fear of poverty. At any rate, said she, he shall wander no further, but shall be comfortably situated for the rest of his life. All his scruples were vanquished by the reasonableness

of her remonstrances and the vehemence of her solicitations.

A cordial intimacy grew between me and the newly arrived. Our inter|views were frequent, and our communi|cations without reserve. He detailed to me the result of his experience, and ex|patiated without end on the history of his actions and opinions. He related the adventures of his youth, and dwelt upon all the circumstances of his attach|ment to my patroness. On this subject I had heard only general details. I con|tinually found cause, in the course of his narrative, to revere the illustrious qualities of my lady, and to weep at the calamities to which the infernal malice of her brother had subjected her.

The tale of that man's misdeeds, am|plified and dramatised, by the indignant eloquence of this historian, oppressed me with astonishment. If a poet had

drawn such a portrait I should have been prone to suspect the soundness of his judgment. Till now I had imagined that no character was uniform and unmixed, and my theory of the pas|sions did not enable me to account for a propensity gratified merely by evil, and delighting in shrieks and agony for their own sake.

It was natural to suggest to my friend, when expatiating on this theme, an in|quiry as to how far subsequent events had obliterated the impressions that were then made, and as to the plausibility of reviving, at this more auspicious period, his claims on the heart of his friend. When he thought proper to notice these hints, he gave me to understand that time had made no essential alteration in his sentiments in this respect, that he still fostered an hope, to which every day ad|ded new vigour, that whatever was the

ultimate event, he trusted in his fortitude to sustain it, if adverse, and in his wis|dom to extract from it the most valuable consequences, if it should prove pros|perous.

The progress of things was not un|favourable to his hopes. She treated his insinuations and professions with levity; but her arguments seemed to be urged, with no other view than to afford an opportunity of confutation; and, since there was no abatement of familiarity and kindness, there was room to hope that the affair would terminate agreeably to his wishes.

EDGAR HUNTLY. CHAPTER VII.

CLARICE, meanwhile, was absent. Her friend seemed, at the end of a month, to be little less distant from the grave than at first. My impatience would not allow me to wait till her death. I visited her, but was once more obliged to return alone. I arrived late in the city, and being greatly fatigued, I retired al|most immediately to my chamber.

On hearing of my arrival, Sarsefield hastened to see me. He came to my bed-side, and such, in his opinion, was the importance of the tidings which he had

to communicate, that he did not scruple to rouse me from a deep sleep........

At this period of his narrative, Clithero stopped. His complexion varied from one degree of paleness to another. His brain appeared to suffer some severe constriction. He desired to be excused, for a few minutes, from proceeding. In a short time he was relieved from this paroxysm, and resumed his tale with an accent tremulous at first, but acquiring stability and force as he went on.

On waking, as I have said, I found my friend seated at my bed-side. His countenance exibited various tokens of alarm. As soon as I perceived who it was, I started, exclaming What is the matter?

He sighed. Pardon, said he, this unseasonable intrusion. A light matter would not have occasioned it. I have waited, for two days past, in an agony

of impatience, for your return. Happily, you are, at last, come. I stand in the utmost need of your council and aid.

Heaven defend! cried I. This is a terrible prelude. You may, of course, rely upon my assistance and advice. What is it that you have to propose?

Tuesday evening, he answered, I spent here. It was late before I returned to my lodgings. I was in the act of lift|ing my hand to the bell, when my eye was caught by a person standing close to the wall, at the distance of ten paces. His attitude was that of one employed in watching my motions. His face was turned towards me, and happened, at that moment, to be fully illuminated by the rays of a globe-lamp that hung over the door. I instantly recognized his features. I was petrified. I had no power to execute my design, or even to move, but stood, for some seconds

gazing upon him. He was, in no degree, disconcerted by the eagerness of my scrutiny. He seemed perfectly indiffer|ent to the consequences of being known. At length he slowly turned his eyes to another quarter, but without changing his posture, or the sternness of his looks. I cannot describe to you the shock which this encounter produced in me. At last I went into the house, and have ever since been excessively uneasy.

I do not see any ground for uneasi|ness

You do not then suspect who this person is?

No....

It is Arthur Wiatte....

Good heaven! It is impossible. What, my lady's brother?

The same....

It cannot be. Were we not assured of his death? That he perished in a mu|tiny

on board the vessel in which he was embarked for transportation?

Such was rumour, which is easily mistaken. My eyes cannot be deceived in this case. I should as easily fail to recognize his sister, when I first met her, as him. This is the man, whether once dead or not, he is, at present, alive, and in this city.

But has any thing since happened to confirm you in this opinion.

Yes, there has. As soon as I had recovered from my first surprise, I began to reflect upon the measures proper to be taken. This was the identical Arthur Wiatte. You know his character. No time was likely to change the principles of such a man, but his appearance suffi|ciently betrayed the incurableness of his habits. The same sullen and atrocious passions were written in his visage. You

recollect the vengeance which Wiatte denounced against his sister. There is every thing to dread from his malignity. How to obviate the danger, I know not. I thought, however, of one expedient. It might serve a present purpose, and some|thing better might suggest itself on your return.

I came hither early the next day. Old Gowan the porter is well acquainted with Wiatte's story. I mentioned to him that I had reason to think that he had returned. I charged him to have a watchful eye upon every one that knock|ed at the gate, and that if this person should come, by no means to admit him. The old man promised faithfully to abide by my directions. His terrors, indeed, were greater than mine, and he knew the importance of excluding Wiatte from these walls.

Did you not inform my lady of this?

No. In what way could I tell it to her? What end could it answer? Why should I make her miserable? But I have not done. Yesterday morning Gowan took me aside, and informed me that Wiatte had made his appearance, the day before, at the gate. He knew him, he said, in a moment. He demanded to see the lady, but the old man told him she was engaged, and could not be seen. He assumed peremtory and haughty airs, and asserted that his business was of such importance as not to endure a moment's delay. Gowan persisted in his first refusal. He retired with great re|luctance, but said he should return to-morrow, when he should insist upon admission to the presence of the lady. I have inquired, and find that he has not repeated his visit. What is to be done?

I was equally at a loss with my friend. This incident was so unlooked for. What might not be dreaded from the monstrous depravity of Wiatte? His me|naces of vengeance against his sister still rung in my ears. Some means of eluding them were indispensable. Could law be resorted to? Against an evil like this, no legal provision had been made. Nine years had elapsed since his transportation. Seven years was the period of his exile. In returning, there|fore, he had committed no crime. His person could not be lawfully molested. We were justified, merely, in repelling an attack. But suppose we should ap|peal to law, could this be done without the knowledge and concurrence of the lady? She would never permit it. Her heart was incapable of fear from this quarter. She would spurn at the men|tion of precautions against the hatred of

her brother. Her inquietude would merely be awakened on his own account.

I was overwhelmed with perplexity. Perhaps if he were sought out, and some judgment formed of the kind of danger to be dreaded from him, by a knowledge of his situation and views, some expedient might be thence suggested.

But how should his haunts be dis|covered? This was easy. He had inti|mated the design of applying again for admission to his sister. Let a person be stationed near at hand, who, being furnish|ed with an adequate description of his person and dress, shall mark him when he comes, and follow him, when he retires, and shall forthwith impart to us the information on that head which he shall be able to collect.

My friend concurred in this scheme. No better could, for the present, be sug|gested. Here ended our conference.

I was thus supplied with a new sub|ject of reflection. It was calculated to fill my mind with dreary forbodings. The future was no longer a scene of security and pleasure. It would be hard for those to partake of our fears, who did not partake of our experience. The existence of Wiatte, was the canker that had blasted the felicity of my patroness. In his reappearance on the stage, there was something portentous. It seemed to include in it, consequences of the utmost moment, without my being able to discover what these consequences were.

That Sarsefield should be so quickly followed by his Arch-foe; that they start|ed anew into existence, without any pre|vious intimation, in a manner wholly

unexpected, and at the same period. It seemed as if there lurked, under those appearances, a tremendous significance, which human sagacity could not un|cover. My heart sunk within me when I reflected that this was the father of my Clarice. He by whose cruelty her mother was torn from the injoyment of untarnished honour, and consigned to infamy and an untimely grave: He by whom herself was abandoned in the help|lessness of infancy, and left to be the prey of obdurate avarice, and the victim of wretches who traffic in virgin inno|cence: Who had done all that in him lay to devote her youth to guilt and misery. What were the limits of his power? How may he exert the parental preroga|tives?

To sleep, while these images were haunting me, was impossible. I passed the night in continual motion. I strode,

without ceasing, across the floor of my apartment. My mind was wrought to an higher pitch than I had ever before experienced. The occasion, accurately considered, was far from justifying the ominous inquietudes which I then felt. How then should I account for them?

Sarsefield probably enjoyed his usual slumber. His repose might not be per|fectly serene, but when he ruminated on impending or possible calamities, his tongue did not cleave to his mouth, his throat was not parched with unquencha|ble thirst, he was not incessantly stimula|ted to employ his superfluous fertility of thought in motion. If I trembled for the safety of her whom I loved, and whose safety was endangered by being the daughter of this miscreant, had he not equal reason to fear for her whom he also loved, and who, as the sister of this ruffian, was encompassed by the most

alarming perils. Yet he probably was calm while I was harassed by anxieties.

Alas! The difference was easily explained. Such was the beginning of a series ordained to hurry me to swift destruction. Such were the primary tokens of the presence of that power by whose accursed machinations I was des|tined to fall.. You are startled at this declaration. It is one to which you have been little accustomed. Perhaps you regard it merely as an effusion of phrenzy. I know what I am saying. I do not build upon conjectures and surmises. I care not indeed for your doubts. Your conclusion may be fashioned at your pleasure. Would to heaven that my belief were groundless, and that I had no reason to believe my intellects to have been perverted by diabolical instigations.

I could procure no sleep that night. After Sarsefield's departure I did not

even lie down. It seemed to me that I could not obtain the benefits of repose otherwise than by placing my lady beyond the possibility of danger.

I met Sarsefield the next day. In pursuance of the scheme which had been adopted by us on the preceding even|ing, a person was selected and commis|sioned to watch the appearance of Wiatte. The day passed as usual with respect to the lady. In the evening she was sur|rounded by a few friends. Into this number I was now admitted. Sarsefield and myself made a part of this company. Various topics were discussed with ease and sprightliness. Her societies were composed of both sexes, and seemed to have monopolized all the ingenuity and wit that existed in the metropolis.

After a slight repast the company dispersed. This separation took place earlier than usual on account of a slight

indisposition in Mrs. Lorimer. Sarse+field and I went out together. We took that opportunity of examining our agent, and receiving no satisfaction from him, we dismissed him, for that night, enjoin|ing him to hold himself in readiness for repeating the experiment to-morrow. My friend directed his steps homeward, and I proceeded to execute a commission, with which I had charged myself.

A few days before, a large sum had been deposited in the hands of a banker, for the use of my lady. It was the amount of a debt which had lately been recovered. It was lodged here for the purpose of being paid on demand of her or her agents. It was my present busi|ness to receive this money. I had deferred the performance of this engage|ment to this late hour, on acccount of certain preliminaries which were neces|sary to be adjusted.

Having received this money, I pre|pared to return home. The inquietude which had been occasioned by Sarsefield's intelligence, had not incapacitated me from performing my usual daily occupa|tions. It was a theme, to which, at every interval of leisure from business or dis|course, I did not fail to return. At those times I employed myself in exa|mining the subject on all sides; in supposing particular emergencies, and delineating the conduct that was proper to be observed on each. My daily thoughts were, by no means, so fear-inspiring as the meditations of the night had been.

As soon as I left the banker's door, my meditations fell into this channel. I again reviewed the recent occurrences, and imagined the consequences likely to flow from them. My deductions were not, on this occasion, peculiarly distress|ful.

The return of darkness had added nothing to my apprehensions. I regarded Wiatte merely as one against whose malice it was wise to employ the most vigilant precautions. In revolving these precautions nothing occurred that was new. The danger appeared without unusual aggravations, and the expedients that offered themselves to my choice, were viewed with a temper not more sanguine or despondent than before.

In this state of mind I began and con|tinued my walk. The distance was con|siderable between my own habitation and that which I had left. My way lay chiefly through populous and well fre|quented streets. In one part of the way, however, it was at the option of the pas|senger either to keep along the large streets, or considerably to shorten the journey, by turning into a dark, crooked,

and narrow lane. Being familiar with every part of this metropolis, and deem|ing it advisable to take the shortest and obscurest road, I turned into the alley. I proceeded without interruption to the next turning. One night officer, dis|tinguished by his usual ensigns, was the only person who passed me. I had gone three steps beyond when I perceived a man by my side. I had scarcely time to notice this circumstance, when an hoarse voice exclaimed. "Damn ye vil|lain, ye're a dead man!"

At the same moment a pistol flashed at my ear, and a report followed. This, however, produced no other effect, than, for a short space, to overpower my sen|ses. I staggered back, but did not fall.

The ball, as I afterwards discovered, had grazed my forehead, but without making any dangerous impression. The assassin, perceiving that his pistol had

been ineffectual, muttered, in an enraged tone,—This shall do your business—At the same time, he drew a knife forth from his bosom.

I was able to distinguish this action by the rays of a distant lamp, which glistened on the blade. All this passed in an instant. The attack was so abrupt that my thoughts could not be suddenly recalled from the confusion into which they were thrown. My exertions were mechanical. My will might be said to be passive, and it was only by retrospect and a contemplation of consequences, that I became fully informed of the nature of the scene.

If my assailant had disappeared as soon as he had discharged the pistol, my state of extreme surprise might have slowly given place to resolution and activity. As it was, my sense was no sooner struck by the reflection from the

blade, than my hand, as if by spontane|ous energy, was thrust into my pocket. I drew forth a pistol—

He lifted up his weapon to strike, but it dropped from his powerless fingers. He fell and his groans informed me that I had managed my arms with more skill than my adversary. The noise of this encounter soon attracted spectators. Lights were brought and my antago|nist discovered bleeding at my feet. I explained, as briefly as I was able, the scene which they witnessed. The pros|trate person was raised by two men, and carried into a public house, nigh at hand.

I had not lost my presence of mind. I, at once, perceived the propriety of administering assistance to the wounded man. I dispatched, therefore, one of the by-standers for a surgeon of consi|derable eminence, who lived at a small

distance, and to whom I was well known. The man was carried into an inner apart|ment and laid upon the floor. It was not till now that I had a suitable oppor|tunity of ascertaining who it was with whom I had been engaged. I now looked upon his face. The paleness of death could not conceal his well known features. It was Wiatte himself who was breathing his last groans at my feet!....

The surgeon, whom I had sum|moned, attended; but immediately per|ceived the condition of his patient to be hopeless. In a quarter of an hour he expired. During this interval, he was insensible to all around him. I was known to the surgeon, the land|lord and some of the witnesses. The case needed little explanation. The accident reflected no guilt upon me. The

landlord was charged with the care of the corse till the morning, and I was allowed to return home, without further impediment.

EDGAR HUNTLY. CHAPTER VIII.

TILL now my mind had been swayed by the urgencies of this occasion. These reflections were excluded, which rushed tumultuously upon me, the mo|ment I was at leisure to receive them. Without foresight of a previous moment, an entire change had been wrought in my condition.

I had been oppressed with a sense of the danger that flowed from the exist|ence of this man. By what means the peril could be annihilated, and we be placed in security from his attempts, no efforts of mind could suggest. To devise

these means, and employ them with suc|cess, demanded, as I conceived, the most powerful sagacity and the firmest cou|rage. Now the danger was no more. The intelligence in which plans of mis|chief might be generated, was extin|guished or flown. Lifeless were the hands ready to execute the dictates of that intelligence. The contriver of enor|mous evil, was, in one moment, bereft of the power and the will to injure. Our past tranquility had been owing to the belief of his death. Fear and dismay had resumed their dominion when the mistake was discovered. But now we might regain possession of our wonted confidence. I had beheld with my own eyes the lifeless corpse of our implaca|ble adversary. Thus, in a moment, had terminated his long and flagitious career. His restless indignation, his malignant projects, that had so long occupied the

stage, and been so fertile of calamity, were now at an end!

In the course of my meditations, the idea of the death of this man had occur|red, and it bore the appearance of a de|sirable event. Yet it was little qualified to tranquilise my fears. In the long catalogue of contingencies, this, indeed, was to be found; but it was as little likely to happen as any other. It could not happen without a series of anterior events paving the way for it. If his death came from us, it must be the theme of design. It must spring from laborious circumvention and deep laid stratagems.

No. He was dead. I had killed him. What had I done? I had meditated nothing. I was impelled by an uncon|scious necessity. Had the assailant been my father the consequence would have been the same. My understanding had been neutral. Could it be? In a space

so short, was it possible that so tremen|dous a deed had been executed? Was I not deceived by some portentous vision? I had witnessed the convulsions and last agonies of Wyatte. He was no more, and I was his destroyer!

Such was the state of my mind for some time after this dreadful event. Pre|viously to it I was calm, considerate, and self-collected. I marked the way that I was going. Passing objects were ob|served. If I adverted to the series of my own reflections, my attention was not seized and fastened by them. I could disengage myself at pleasure, and could pass, without difficulty, from attention to the world within, to the contempla|tion of that without.

Now my liberty, in this respect, was at an end. I was fettered, confounded, smitten with excess of thought, and laid prostrate with wonder! I no longer

attended to my steps. When I emerged from my stupor, I found that I had trodden back the way which I had lately come, and had arrived within sight of the banker's door. I checked myself, and once more turned my steps home|ward.

This seemed to be an hint for enter|ing into new reflections. The deed, said I, is irretreivable. I have killed the brother of my patroness, the father of my love.

This suggestion was new. It instant|ly involved me in terror and perplexity. How shall I communicate the tidings? What effect will they produce? My lady's sagacity is obscured by the bene|volence of her temper. Her brother was sordidly wicked. An hoary ruffian, to whom the language of pity was as unin|telligible as the gabble of monkeys. His heart was fortified against compunction,

by the atrocious habits of forty years: he lived only to interrupt her peace, to confute the promises of virtue, and con|vert to rancour and reproach the fair fame of fidelity.

He was her brother still. As an human being, his depravity was never beyond the health-restoring power of repentance. His heart, so long as it beat, was accessible to remorse. The singularity of his birth had made her regard this being as more intimately her brother, than would have happened in different circumstances. It was her ob|stinate persuasion that their fates were blended. The rumour of his death she had never credited. It was a topic of congratulation to her friends, but of mourning and distress to her. That he would one day reappear upon the stage, and assume the dignity of virtue, was a

source of consolation with which she would never consent to part.

Her character was now known. When the doom of exile was pronounced upon him, she deemed it incumbent on her to vindicate herself from aspersions founded on misconceptions of her mo|tives in refusing her interference. The manuscript, though unpublished, was widely circulated. None could resist her simple and touching eloquence, nor rise from the perusal without resigning his heart to the most impetuous impulses of admiration, and enlisting himself among the eulogists of her justice and her fortitude. This was the only monu|ment, in a written form, of her genius. As such it was engraven on my memory. The picture that it described was the perpetual companion of my thoughts.

Alas! It had, perhaps, been well for me if it had been buried in eternal obli|vion. I read in it the condemnation of my deed, the agonies she was preparing to suffer, and the indignation that would overflow upon the author of so signal a calamity.

I had rescued my life by the sacri|fice of his. Whereas I should have died. Wretched and precipitate coward! What had become of my boasted grati|tude▪ Such was the zeal that I had vowed to her. Such the services which it was the business of my life to perform. I had snatched her brother from existence. I had torn from her the hope which she so ardently and indefatigably cherished. From a contemptible and dastardly re|gard to my own safety I had failed in the moment of trial, and when called upon by heaven to evince the sincerity of my professions.

She had treated my professions light|ly. My vows of eternal devotion she had rejected with lofty disinterestedness. She had arraigned my impatience of obli|gation as criminal, and condemned every scheme I had projected for freeing myself from the burthen which her beneficence had laid upon me. The impassioned and vehement anxiety with which, in former days, she had deprecated the vengeance of her lover against Wiatte, rung in my ears. My senses were shocked anew by the dreadful sounds "Touch not my brother. Wherever you meet with him, of what|ever outrage he be guilty, suffer him to pass in safety. Despise me: abandon me: kill me. All this I can bear even from you, but spare, I implore you, my unhappy brother. The stroke that de|prives him of life will not only have the same effect upon me, but will set my portion in everlasting misery."

To these supplications I had been deaf. It is true I had not rushed upon him unarmed, intending no injury nor expecting any. Of that degree of wick|edness I was, perhaps, incapable. Alas! I have immersed myself sufficiently deep in crimes. I have trampled under foot every motive dear to the heart of honour. I have shewn myself unworthy the soci|ety of men.

Such were the turbulent suggestions of that moment. My pace slackened. I stopped and was obliged to support myself against a wall. The sickness that had seized my heart penetrated every part of my frame. There was but one thing wanting to complete my distraction...My lady, said I, believed her fate to be blended with that of Wiatte. Who shall affirm that the persuasion is a groundless one. She had lived and prospered, notwithstanding the general

belief that her brother was dead. She would not hearken to the rumour. Why? Because nothing less than indubitable evidence would suffice to convince her? Because the counter-intimation flowed from an infalible source? How can the latter supposition be confuted? Has she not predicted the event?

The period of terrible fulfilment has arrived. The same blow that bereaved him of life, has likewise ratified her doom.

She has been deceived. It is nothing more, perhaps, than a fond imagination ....It matters not. Who knows not the cogency of faith? That the pulses of life are at the command of the will? The bearer of these tidings will be the mes|senger of death. A fatal sympathy will seize her. She will shrink, and swoon, and perish at the news!

Fond and short-sighted wretch! This is the price thou hast given for security. In the rashness of thy thought thou said'st, Nothing is wanting but his death to restore us to confidence and safety. Lo! the purchase is made. Havock and despair, that were restrained during his life, were let loose by his last sigh. Now only is destruction made sure. Thy lady, thy Clarice, thy friend, and thyself, are, by this act, involved in irretreivable and common ruin!

I started from my attitude. I was scarcely conscious of any transition. The interval was fraught with stupor and amazement. It seemed as if my senses had been hushed in sleep, while the powers of locomotion were unconsci|ously exerted to bear me to my cham|ber. By whatever means the change was effected, there I was....

I have been able to proceed thus far. I can scarcely believe the testimony of my memory that assures me of this. My task is almost executed, but whence shall I obtain strength enough to finish it? What I have told is light as gossamer, compared with the insupportable and crushing horrors of that which is to come. Heaven, in token of its ven|geance, will enable me to proceed. It is fitting that my scene should thus close.

My fancy began to be infected with the errors of my understanding. The mood into which my mind was plunged was incapable of any propitious inter|mission. All within me was tempestu|ous and dark. My ears were accessible to no sounds but those of shrieks and lamentations. It was deepest midnight, and all the noises of a great metropolis were hushed. Yet I listened as if to

catch some strain of the dirge that was begun. Sable robes, sobs and a dreary solemnity encompassed me on all sides. I was haunted to despair by images of death, imaginary clamours, and the train of funeral pageantry. I seemed to have passed forward to a distant era of my life. The effects which were to come were already realized. The foresight of misery created it, and set me in the midst of that hell which I feared.

From a paroxysm like this the worst might reasonably be dreaded, yet the next step to destruction was not suddenly taken. I paused on the brink of the precipice, as if to survey the depth of that phrensy that invaded me; was able to ponder on the scene, and deliberate, in a state that partook of calm, on the circumstances of my situation. My mind was harrassed by the repetition of one idea. Conjecture deepened into cer|tainty.

I could place the object in no light which did not corroborate the persuasion that, in the act committed, I had ensured the destruction of my lady. At length my mind, somewhat relieved from the tempest of my fears, began to trace and analize the consequences which I dreaded.

The fate of Wiatte would inevitably draw along with it that of his sister. In what way would this effect be produced? Were they linked together by a sympa|thy whose influence was independent of sensible communication? Could she arrive at a knowledge of his miserable end by other than verbal means? I had heard of such extraordinary co-partner|ships in being and modes of instantane|ous intercourse among beings locally distant. Was this a new instance of the subtlety of mind? Had she already

endured his agonies, and like him already ceased to breathe.

Every hair bristled at this horrible suggestion. But the force of sympathy might be chimerical. Buried in sleep, or engaged in careless meditation, the instrument by which her destiny might be accomplished, was the steel of an assassin. A series of events, equally beyond the reach of foresight, with those which had just happened, might intro|duce, with equal abruptness, a similar disaster. What, at that moment, was her condition? Reposing in safety in her chamber, as her family imagined. But were they not deceived? Was she not a mangled corse? Whatever were her situation, it could not be ascertained, except by extraordinary means, till the morning. Was it wise to defer the scru|tiny till then? Why not instantly inves|tigate the truth?

These ideas passed rapidly through my mind. A considerable portion of time and amplification of phrase are necessary to exhibit, verbally, ideas con|templated in a space of incalculable bre|vity. With the same rapidity I conceived the resolution of determining the truth of my suspicions. All the family, but myself, were at rest. Winding passages would conduct me, without danger of disturbing them, to the hall from which double staircases ascended. One of these led to a saloon above, on the east side of which was a door that communicated with a suit of rooms, occupied by the lady of the mansion. The first was an antichamber, in which a female servant usually lay. The second was the lady's own bed-chamber. This was a sacred recess, with whose situation, relative to the other apartments of the building, I was well acquainted, but of which I

knew nothing from my own examination, having never been admitted into it.

Thither I was now resolved to repair. I was not deterred by the sanctity of the place and hour. I was insensible to all consequences but the removal of my doubts. Not that my hopes were balan|ced by my fears. That the same tragedy had been performed in her chamber and in the street, nothing hindered me from believing with as much cogency as if my own eyes had witnessed it, but the reluc|tance with which we admit a detestable truth.

To terminate a state of intolerable suspense, I resolved to proceed forthwith to her chamber. I took the light and paced, with no interruption, along the galleries. I used no precaution. If I had met a servant or robber, I am not sure that I should have noticed him. My attention was too perfectly engrossed

to allow me to spare any to a casual object. I cannot affirm that no one ob|served me. This, however, was proba|ble from the distribution of the dwelling. It consisted of a central edifice and two wings, one of which was appropriated to domestics, and the other, at the extre|mity of which my apartment was placed, comprehended a library, and rooms for formal, and social, and literary confer|ences. These, therefore, were deserted at night, and my way lay along these. Hence it was not likely that my steps would be observed.

I proceeded to the hall. The prin|cipal parlour was beneath her chamber. In the confusion of my thoughts I mis|took one for the other. I rectified, as soon as I detected my mistake. I ascend|ed, with a beating heart, the staircase. The door of the antichamber was unfas|tened.

I entered, totally regardless of disturbing the girl who slept within. The bed which she occupied was concealed by curtains. Whether she were there, I did not stop to examine. I cannot recollect that any tokens were given of wakefulness or alarm. It was not till I reached the door of her own apartment that my heart began to falter.

It was now that the momentousness of the question I was about to decide, rushed with its genuine force, upon my appre|hension. Appaled and aghast, I had scarcely power to move the bolt. If the imagination of her death was not to be supported, how should I bear the spec|tacle of wounds and blood? Yet this was reserved for me. A few paces would set me in the midst of a scene, of which I was the abhorred contriver. Was it right to proceed? There were still the remnants of doubt. My fore|bodings

might possibly be groundless. All within might be safety and serenity. A respite might be gained from the exe|cution of an irrevocable sentence. What could I do? Was not any thing easy to endure in comparison with the agonies of suspense? If I could not obviate the evil I must bear it, but the torments of suspense were susceptible of remedy.

I drew back the bolt, and entered with the reluctance of fear, rather than the cautiousness of guilt. I could not lift my eyes from the ground. I advan|ced to the middle of the room. Not a sound like that of the dying saluted my ear. At length, shaking off the fetters of hopelesness, I looked up....

I saw nothing calculated to confirm my fears. Every where there reigned quiet and order. My heart leaped with exultation. Can it be, said I, that I have

been betrayed with shadows?....But this is not sufficient....

Within an alcove was the bed that belonged to her. If her safety were in|violate, it was here that she reposed. What remained to convert tormenting doubt into ravishing certainty? I was insensible to the perils of my present situation. If she, indeed, were there, would not my intrusion awaken her? She would start and perceive me, at this hour, standing at her bed-side. How should I account for an intrusion so un|exampled and audacious? I could not communicate my fears. I could not tell her that the blood with which my hands were stained had flowed from the wounds of her brother.

My mind was inaccessible to such considerations. They did not even mo|dify my predominant idea. Obstacles

like these, had they existed, would have been trampled under foot.

Leaving the lamp, that I bore, on the table, I approached the bed. I slowly drew aside the curtain and be|held her tranquilly slumbering. I lis|tened, but so profound was her sleep that not even her breathings could be overheard. I dropped the curtain and retired.

How blissful and mild were the illu|minations of my bosom at this discovery. A joy that surpassed all utterance suc|ceeded the fierceness of desperation. I stood, for some moments, wrapt in delight|ful contemplation. Alas! It was a lumi|nous but transient interval. The mad|ness, to whose black suggestions it bore so strong a contrast, began now to make sensible approaches on my understanding.

True, said I, she lives. Her slumber is serene and happy. She is blind to her approaching destiny. Some hours will at least be rescued from anguish and death. When she wakes the phan|tom that soothed her will vanish. The tidings cannot be withheld from her. The murderer of thy brother cannot hope to enjoy thy smiles. Those ravish|ing accents, with which thou hast used to greet me, will be changed. Scouling and reproaches, the invectives of thy anger and the maledictions of thy justice will rest upon my head.

What is the blessing which I made the theme of my boastful arrogance? This interval of being and repose is momentary. She will awake but only to perish at the spectacle of my ingrati|tude. She will awake only to the con|sciousness of instantly impending death. When she again sleeps she will wake no

more. I her son, I, whom the law of my birth doomed to poverty and hard|ship, but whom her unsolicited benefi|cence snatched from those evils, and endowed with the highest good known to intelligent beings, the consolations of science and the blandishments of afflu|ence; to whom the darling of her life, the offspring in whom are faithfully pre|served the linaments of its angelic mother, she has not denied!....What is the recompense that I have made? How have I discharged the measureless debt of gratitude to which she is entitled? Thus!....

Cannot my guilt be extenuated? Is there not a good that I can do thee? Must I perpetrate unmingled evil? Is the province assigned me that of an in|fernal emisary, whose efforts are con|centred in a single purpose and that 〈…〉〈…〉 I am the

author of thy calamities. Whatever misery is reserved for thee, I am the source whence it flows. Can I not set bounds to the stream? Cannot I prevent thee from returning to a consciousness which, till it ceases to exist, will not cease to be rent and mangled?

Yes. It is in my power to screen thee from the coming storm: to accele|rate thy journey to rest. I will do it....

The impulse was not to be resisted. I moved with the suddenness of light|ning. Armed with a pointed implement that lay....it was a dagger. As I set down the lamp, I struck the edge. Yet I saw it not, or noticed it not till I needed its assistance. By what accident it came hither, to what deed of darkness it had already been subservient, I had no power to inquire. I stepped to the table and seized it.

The time which this action required was insufficient to save me. My doom was ratified by powers which no human energies can counterwork....Need I go farther? Did you entertain any imagina|tion of so frightful a catastrophe? I am overwhelmed by turns with dismay and with wonder. I am prompted by turns to tear my heart from my breast, and deny faith to the verdict of my senses.

Was it I that hurried to the deed? No. It was the daemon that possessed me. My limbs were guided to the bloody office by a power foreign and superior to mine. I had been defrauded, for a moment, of the empire of my muscles. A little moment for that sufficed.

If my destruction had not been de|creed why was the image of Clarice so long excluded? Yet why do I say long? The fatal resolution was conceived, and I hastened to the execution, in a period

too brief for more than itself to be viewed by the intellect.

What then? Were my hands em|brued in this precious blood? Was it to this extremity of horror that my evil genius was determined to urge me? Too surely this was his purpose; too surely I was qualified to be its minister.

I lifted the weapon. Its point was aimed at the bosom of the sleeper. The impulse was given....

At the instant a piercing shriek was uttered behind me, and a stretched-out hand, grasping the blade, made it swerve widley from its aim. It descended, but without inflicting a wound. Its force was spent upon the bed.

O! for words to paint that stormy transition! I loosed my hold of the dag|ger. I started back, and fixed eyes of frantic curiosity on the author of my rescue. He that interposed to arrest my

deed, that started into being and activity at a moment so pregnant with fate, with|out tokens of his purpose or his coming being previously imparted, could not, me|thought, be less than divinity.

The first glance that I darted on this being corroborated my conjecture. It was the figure and the linaments of Mrs. Lorimer. Neglegently habited in flowing and brilliant white, with fea|tures bursting with terror and wonder, the likeness of that being who was stretched upon the bed, now stood before me.

All that I am able to conceive of angel was comprised in the moral constitution of this woman. That her genius had overleaped all bounds, and interposed to save her, was no audacious imagination. In the state in which my mind then was no other belief than this could occupy the first place.

My tongue was tied. I gazed by turns upon her who stood before me, and her who lay upon the bed, and who, awakened by the shriek that had been uttered, now opened her eyes. She started from her pillow, and, by assuming a new and more distinct attitude, permitted me to recog|nize Clarice herself!

Three days before, I had left her, beside the bed of a dying friend, at a solitary mansion in the mountains of Donnegal. Here it had been her reso|lution to remain till her friend should breathe her last. Fraught with this per|suasion; knowing this to be the place and hour of repose of my lady, hurried forward by the impetuosity of my own conceptions, deceived by the faint gleam which penetrated through the curtain and imperfectly irradiated features which bore, at all times, a powerful resemblance

to those of Mrs. Lorimer, I had rushed to the brink of this terrible precipice!

Why did I linger on the verge? Why, thus perilously situated, did I not throw myself headlong? The steel was yet in my hand. A single blow would have pierced my heart, and shut out from my remembrance and foresight the past and the future?

The moment of insanity had gone by, and I was once more myself. In|stead of regarding the act which I had meditated as the dictate of compassion or of justice, it only added to the sum of my ingratitude, and gave wings to the whirlwind that was sent to bear me to perdition.

Perhaps I was influenced by a senti|ment which I had not leisure to distribute into parts. My understanding was, no doubt, bewildered in the maze of conse|quences

which would spring from my act. How should I explain my coming hither in this murderous guise, my arm lifted to destroy the idol of my soul, and the darling child of my patroness? In what words should I unfold the tale of Wiatte, and enumerate the motives that termi|nated in the present scene? What pen|alty had not my infatuation and cruelty deserved? What could I less than turn the dagger's point against my own bo|som?

A second time, the blow was thwart|ed and diverted. Once more this benefi|cent interposer held my arm from the per|petration of a new iniquity. Once more frustrated the instigations of that daemon, of whose malice a mysterious destiny had consigned me to be the sport and the prey.

Every new moment added to the sum of my inexpiable guilt. Murder was

succeeded, in an instant, by the more detestable enormity of suicide. She, to whom my ingratitude was flagrant in proportion to the benefits of which she was the author, had now added to her former acts, that of rescuing me from the last of mischiefs.

I threw the weapon on the floor. The zeal which prompted her to seize my arm, this action occasioned to sub|side, and to yield place to those emotions which this spectacle was calculated to excite. She watched me in silence, and with an air of ineffable solicitude. Cla|rice, governed by the instinct of modesty, wrapt her bosom and face in the bed|clothes, and testified her horror by ve|hement, but scarcely articulate exclama|tions.

I moved forward, but my steps were random and tottering. My thoughts were fettered by reverie, and my gesti|culations

destitute of meaning. My tongue faltered without speaking, and I felt as if life and death were struggling within me for the mastery.

My will, indeed, was far from being neutral in this contest. To such as I, annihilation is the supreme good. To shake off the ills that fasten on us by shaking off existence, is a lot which the system of nature has denied to man. By escaping from life, I should be deli|vered from this scene, but should only rush into a world of retribution, and be immersed in new agonies.

I was yet to live. No instrument of my deliverance was within reach. I was powerless. To rush from the pre|sence of these women, to hide me forever from their scrutiny, and their upbraiding, to snatch from their minds all traces of the existence of Clithero, was the scope of unutterable longings.

Urged to flight by every motive of which my nature was susceptible, I was yet rooted to the spot. Had the pause been only to be interrupted by me, it would have lasted forever.

At length, the lady, clasping her hands and lifting them, exclaimed, in a tone melting into pity and grief:

Clithero! what is this? How came you hither and why?

I struggled for utterance: I came to murder you. Your brother has perished by my hands. Fresh from the com|mission of this deed, I have hastened hither, to perpetrate the same crime upon you.

My brother! replied the lady, with new vehemence, O! say not so! I have just heard of his return from Sarsefield and that he lives.

He is dead, repeated I, with fierceness: I know it. It was I that killed him.

Dead! she faintly articulated, And by thee Clithero? O! cursed chance that hindered thee from killing me also! Dead! Then is the omen fulfilled! Then am I undone! Lost forever!

Her eyes now wandered from me, and her countenance sunk into a wild and rueful expression. Hope was utterly ex|tinguished in her heart, and life forsook her at the same moment. She sunk upon the floor pallid and breathless....

How she came into possession of this knowledge I know not. It is possible that Sarsefield had repented of conceal|ment, and, in the interval that passed between our separation and my encoun|ter with Wiatte, had returned, and in|formed her of the reappearance of this miscreant

Thus then was my fate consummated. I was rescued from destroying her by a dagger, only to behold her perish by the tidings which I brought. Thus was every omen of mischief and misery ful|filled. Thus was the enmity of Wiatte, rendered efficacious, and the instrument of his destruction, changed into the exe|cutioner of his revenge.

Such is the tale of my crimes. It is not for me to hope that the curtain of obli|vion will ever shut out the dismal specta|cle. It will haunt me forever. The torments that grow out of it, can termi|nate only with the thread of my existence, but that I know full well will never end. Death is but a shifting of the scene, and the endless progress of eternity, which, to the good, is merely the perfection of feli|city, is, to the wicked, an accumulation of woe. The self-destroyer is his own enemy▪ this has ever been my opinion.

Hitherto it has influenced my action. Now, though the belief continues, its influence on my conduct is annihilated. I am no stranger to the depth of that abyss, into which I shall plunge. No mat|ter. Change is precious for its own sake.

Well: I was still to live. My abode must be somewhere fixed. My conduct was henceforth the result of a perverse and rebellious principle. I banished my|self forever from my native soil. I vowed never more to behold the face of my Clarice, to abandon my friends, my books, all my wonted labours, and accustomed recreations.

I was neither ashamed nor afraid. I considered not in what way the justice of the country would affect me. It merely made no part of my contemplations. I was not embarrassed by the choice of expedients, for trammeling up the visi|ble consequences and for eluding suspi|cion.

The idea of abjuring my country, and flying forever from the hateful scene, partook, to my apprehension, of the vast, the boundless, and strange: of plunging from the height of fortune to obscurity and indigence, corresponded with my present state of mind. It was of a piece with the tremendous and wonderful events that had just happened.

These were the images that haunted me, while I stood speechlessly gazing at the ruin before me. I heard a noise from without, or imagined that I heard it. My reverie was broken, and my muscular power restored. I descended into the street, through doors of which I pos|sessed one set of keys, and hurried by the shortest way beyond the precincts of the city. I had laid no plan. My con|ceptions, with regard to the future, were shapeless and confused. Successive in|cidents supplied me with a clue, and

suggested, as they rose, the next step to be taken.

I threw off the garb of affluence, and assumed a beggar's attire. That I had money about me for the accomplishment of my purposes was wholly accidental. I travelled along the coast, and when I arrived at one town, knew not why I should go further; but my restlessness was unabated, and change was some relief. I at length arrived at Belfast. A vessel was preparing for America. I embraced eagerly the opportunity of passing into a new world. I arrived at Philadelphia. As soon as I landed I wandered hither, and was content to wear out my few remaining days in the service of Ingle|field.

I have no friends. Why should I trust my story to another? I have no solicitude about concealment; but who is there who will derive pleasure or benefit

from my rehearsal? And why should I expatiate on so hateful a theme? Yet now have I consented to this. I have confided in you the history of my disasters. I am not fearful of the use that you may be dis|posed to make of it. I shall quickly set myself beyond the reach of human tribu|nals. I shall relieve the ministers of law from the trouble of punishing. The recent events which induced you to sum|mon me to this conference, have like|wise determined me to make this disclo|sure.

I was not aware, for some time, of my perturbed sleep. No wonder that sleep cannot soothe miseries like mine: that I am alike infested by memory in wakeful|ness and slumber. Yet I was anew dis|tressed at the discovery that my thoughts found their way to my lips, without my being conscious of it, and that my steps

wandered forth unknowingly and without the guidance of my will.

The story you have told is not incre|dible. The disaster to which you allude did not fail to excite my regret. I can still weep over the untimely fall of youth and worth. I can no otherwise account for my frequenting this shade than by the distant resemblance which the death of this man bore to that of which I was the perpetrator. This resemblance oc|curred to me at first. If time were able to weaken the impression which was pro|duced by my crime, this similitude was adapted to revive and inforce them.

The wilderness, and the cave to which you followed me, were familiar to my sunday rambles. Often have I indulged in audible griefs on the cliffs of that valley. Often have I brooded over my sorrows in the recesses of that cavern. This scene is adapted to my

temper. Its mountainous asperities sup|ply me with images of desolation and seclusion, and its headlong streams lull me into temporary forgetfulness of man|kind.

I comprehend you. You suspect me of concern in the death of Waldegrave. You could not do otherwise. The con|duct that you have witnessed was that of a murderer. I will not upbraid you for your suspicions, though I have bought exemption from them at an high price.

EDGAR HUNTLY. CHAPTER IX.

THERE ended his narrative. He started from the spot where he stood, and, without affording me any opportu|nity of replying or commenting, disap|peared amidst the thickest of the wood. I had no time to exert myself for his detention. I could have used no argu|ments for this end, to which it is proba|ble he would have listened. The story I had heard was too extraordinary, too completely the reverse of all my expec|tations, 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 be|came 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 histori|ans, but the impression made upon me by this incident was unexampled in my experience. My reading had fur|nished me with no instance, in any degree, parallel to this, and I found that to be a distant and second-hand specta|tor of events was widely different from witnessing them myself and par|taking in their consequences. My judge|ment was, for a time, sunk into imbe|cility 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 〈◊〉〈◊〉 to reduce them to distinct par|ticulars,

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 fol|lowed 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 controul, 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 fore|seen, shall we find no refuge in the per|suasion of our rectitude and of human frailty? Shall we deem ourselves crimi|nal because we do not enjoy the attri|butes of deity? Because our power and our knowledge are confined by impassa|ble 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 dis|dain or with enmity? The crime origi|nated 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 instructors and examples, to mark the operations of his principles, to see him emerging into youth, to follow him through various scenes and trying vicis|situdes, 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 connection between the fate of Wiatte and his sis|ter! By such circuitous, and yet infali|ble 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 predic|tion was the cause of its own fulfil|ment? That the very act, which consi|derate observers, and even himself, for a time, imagined to have utterly preclu|ded 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 way-laid 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 re|finement 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 connection of this tale with the destiny of Sarsefield. This was he 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 accomodated 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 employ|ment. My uncle proposed to him to become a teacher, there being a suffici|ent number of young people in this neighbourhood to afford him occupation and subsistence. He found it his inter|est to embrace this proposal.

I, of course, became his pupil, and demeaned myself in such a manner as speedily to grow into a favourite. 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 disap|pointment of his hopes, and was inqui|sitive respecting the measures which he would adopt in his new situation. Per|haps he would once more return to Ame|rica, and I should again be admitted to the enjoyment of his society. This event I anticipated with the highest satisfac|tion.

At present, the fate of the unhappy Clithero was the subject of abundant anxi|ety. On his suddenly leaving me, at the conclusion of his tale, I supposed that he had gone upon one of his usual ram|bles, 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 tranquility. 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 apprized them of any intention to change his abode. His boxes, and all that com|posed his slender property, were found in their ordinary state. He had expressed no dissatisfaction with his present con|dition.

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 disa|bled us from discovering, by the impe|netrable 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 foot|steps, and his bones might lie for ages in this solitude without attracting obser|vation. 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 per+formance 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 him|self. 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 per|verse disdain and immeasurable abhor|rence of himself. His upbraiding and his scorn were unmerited and misplaced. Perhaps they argued phrensy rather than prejudice; but phrensy, 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 occa|sionally 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 neighbourhood, I was compelled to con|clude,

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 hopeless|ness 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 nei|ther of plough nor spade. The cultivable space lies along the river, and the desert, lying on the north, has gained, by some means, the apellation of Norwalk. Canst thou imagine a space, somewhat circular,

about six miles in diameter, and exhibit|ing 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 per|ceptible 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 cre|vice, 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 enor|mous and fallen trunks, accumulated by the storms of ages, and forming, by their slow decay, a moss-covered soil, the haunt of rabbets and lizards. These spots are obscured by the melancholy umbrage of pines, whose eternal mur|murs 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 low-lands, 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 occasion|ally present themselves on each side,

which seem to promise you access to the interior region, but always terminate, sooner or later, in insuperable difficul|ties, 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. After|wards the sphere of my rambles was enlarged and their purpose changed. When Sarsefield came among us, I be|came his favourite scholar and the com|panion of all his pedestrian excursions. He was fond of penetrating into these recesses, partly from the love of pic|turesque 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 ex|cursions 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 re|membrance of the valley, into which I had descended after him, but till then

I had viewed it at a distance, and sup|posed 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 impervi|ous to any views which my former posi|tions had enabled me to take of it.

My attention to re-examine this cave and ascertain whither it led, had, for a time, been suspended by different con|siderations. It was now revived with more energy than ever. I reflected that this had formerly been haunted by Cli|thero, 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 foot|steps, but soon lighted on the beaten track which I had 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 pur|pose. 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 if the noon-day-light and the tardiest cir|cumspection

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 neccessary to direct my subterranean foot-steps. I was un|willing 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 ave|nue, 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.

EDGAR HUNTLY. CHAPTER X.

WITH these determinations, I proceeded. The entrance was 〈◊〉〈◊〉 and compelled me to resort to hands as well as feet. At a few yards from the mouth the light disappeared, and I found my|self immersed in the dunnest obscurity. Had I not been persuaded that another had gone before me, I should have re|linquished the attempt. I proceeded with the utmost caution, always ascer|taining, 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 disa|bled 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 an one I seemed now to have ar|rived. 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 propri|ety of being furnished with a light. The first suggestion was to return upon my foot-steps, and resume my undertaking on the morrow. Yet, having advanced thus far, I felt reluctance to recede with|out accomplishing my purposes. I re|flected likewise that Clithero had boldy entered this recess, and had certainly

came 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 for|sake.

Intense dark is always the parent of fears. Impending injuries cannot in this state be descried, nor shunned, nor repel|led. I began to feel some faltering of my courage and seated myself, for a few minutes, on a stoney 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 twi-light was at least admitted; but here it seemed as

if I was 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 occu|pied, 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 endeavoured to preserve a vivid con|ception 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 rug|ged 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 fre|quently compelled to stop and recruit myself by rest. These respites from toil were of use, but they could not ena|ble me to prosecute an endless journey, and to return was scarcely a less ardu|ous task than to proceed.

I looked anxiously forward in the hope of being comforted by some dim ray, which might assure me that my labours 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 checquered sky. This spectacle never before excited such exquisite sen|sations in my bosom. The air, likewise, breathed into the cavern, was unspeaka|bly delicious.

I now found myself on the projec|ture of a rock. Above and below the hill-side was nearly perpendicular. Op|posite, 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 con|ducted 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

sujected, 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 tra|versed 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 cylin|drical mass, with a cavity dug in the centre, whose edge conforms to the ex|terior 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, an 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 sum|mit 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 con|spicuous.

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 resem|blance 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, occa|sioned

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 abso|lute and utter loneliness. It was proba|ble 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 phantastic shapes, and end|less irregularities. Passing from one to the other of these, my attention lighted, at length, as if by some magical transi|tion, on.....an 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 an 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 ima|ginable by which others could be prompt|ed 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 over|grown 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 shud|dering invaded me as I stood gazing upon him, and, for a time, I was without the power of deliberating on the mea|sures 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 molify his direful passions I knew not. Though so near, the gulf by which we were sepa|rated 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 reverbera|ted 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 expec|tation 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 mean|ing 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 bro|ken 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 in|stantly destroyed him, and that he had fallen was the only conclusion I could draw.

My sensations on this incident can|not 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 com|punction 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 con|jecture. Not only the evil which I dreaded might not have happened, but some alleviation of his misery was possi|ble. Could I arrest his foot-steps 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 set by him in silence, to moisten his hand with tears, to sigh in unison, to offer him the spec|tacle of sympathy, the solace of believ|ing

that his demerits were not estimated by so rigid a standard by others as by himself, that one at least among his fel|low 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 more 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 ex|pedient, 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 him|self 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 him|self 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 la|borious and tedious task, meanwhile all my benevolent intentions would be frus|trated 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 intreaties might pre|vail on him to eat, though no expostula|tion might suffice to make him seek food at a distance.

END OF VOL. I.