Yet I was anew distressed by 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 incredible. 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 his shade than by the distant resemblance which the death of
this man bore to that of which I was the perpetrator. This resemblance
occurred to me at first. If he were able to weaken the impression which
was produced by my crime, this similitude was adapted to revive and
enforce 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 supply me with images of desolation and seclusion, and its
headlong streams lull me into temporary forgetfulness of mankind. I comprehend you. You suspect me of concern in the death of Waldegrave. You could not do otherwise. The conduct 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 a high price. Chapter IX. There ended his narrative. He started from the spot where he stood, and,
without affording me any opportunity of replying or commenting,
disappeared amidst the thickest of the wood. I had no time to exert
myself for his detention. I could have used no arguments for this end,
to which it is probable he would have listened. The story I had heard
was too extraordinary, too completely the reverse of all my
expectations, 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
became the subject of my meditations, till the conclusion of his talk,
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
historians, but the impression made upon me by this incident was
unexampled in my experience. My reading had furnished me with no
instance in any degree parallel to this, and I found that to be a
distant and second-hand spectator of events was widely different from
witnessing them myself and partaking in their consequences. My judgment
was, for a time, sunk into imbecility 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 I able to reduce
them to distinct particulars, 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 followed 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
control 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 foreseen, shall we find no refuge in the persuasion of our
rectitude and of human frailty? Shall we deem ourselves criminal because
we do not enjoy the attributes of Deity? Because our power and our
knowledge are confined by impassable 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 disdain or with enmity? The crime
originated 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 vicissitudes, 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
sister! By such circuitous and yet infallible 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 prediction was the cause of
its own fulfilment! That the very act which considerate observers, and
even himself, for a time, imagined to have utterly precluded 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 obstructer of his designs, Wiatte waylaid and assaulted Clithero.