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 refinement 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 accommodated 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 employment. My uncle proposed
to him to become a teacher, there being a sufficient number of young
people in this neighbourhood to afford him occupation and subsistence. He found it his interest to embrace this proposal. I, of course, became his pupil, and demeaned myself in such a manner 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 disappointment of his hopes, and was inquisitive respecting the
measures which he would adopt in his new situation. Perhaps he would'
once more return to America, and I should again be admitted to the
enjoyment of his society. This event I anticipated with the highest
satisfaction. At present, the fate of the unhappy Clithero was the subject of abundant
anxiety. On his suddenly leaving me, at the conclusion of his tale, I
supposed that he had gone upon one of his usual rambles, 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 tranquillity, 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 composed his slender property, were found in their ordinary
state. He had expressed no dissatisfaction with his present condition. 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
disabled us from discovering, by the impenetrable 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 footsteps, and his bones
might lie for ages in this solitude without attracting observation. 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
performance 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 himself. 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 perverse disdain and
immeasurable abhorrence of himself? His upbraiding and his scorn were
unmerited and misplaced. Perhaps they argued frenzy rather than
prejudice; but frenzy, 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
occasionally 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 conclude 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 hopelessness 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 Solesbury, thou knowest, admits neither of plough nor
spade. The cultivable space lies along the river, and the desert, lying
on the north, has gained, by some means, the appellation of Norwalk. Canst thou imagine a space, somewhat circular, about six miles in
diameter, and exhibiting 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 perceptible 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 midsummer.