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THE
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the
GHOST-SEER.
Narrative of the Count O continued.
I proceed in the elucidation of my extraordinary history,
by laying before my readers a continuation of the English¬
man's letters : —
Johnson to Lord Seymour.
November 2d.
Civitella's proposals to amuse the Prince, and to occupy
his attention, have succeeded. His hotel is crowded every
day with guests, who are treated in a most excellent man¬
ner. He gives concerts and other entertainments, and is
scarcely able to call an hour his own. The extravagant
expense which this causes, you may easily conjecture. I
would that gaming had not been introduced. He has lost,
in a short time, very considerable sums. From whom he
obtains the money I cannot learn; for he wins nothing.
That he may borrow great sums of the Marquis, I can
believe; for, since he has persuaded him that he could
command the world of Ghosts, he will do any thing for
him. He seems to care for nothing, and is again a good
companion. Concerning the last the Marquis triumphs
not a little, because it supports his proposal; but the good
man does not observe the worm which gnaws the heart of
the Prince, whilst his countenance is dressed in smiles.
I often see how he struggles with himself. The only
thing which pleases me is, that he talks with respect upon
religious matters, which he formerly treated with con¬
tempt. From this we may hope that he will not destroy
himself.
vol. ii.
B
2
THE GHOST-SEER.
November 4 th.
What do you think ? — The Prince has been to church !
— This circumstance, which his people will not forget,
and which I certainly did not dream of, is attributable to
Civitella. He was yesterday with the Prince, and spoke of
a certain Bishop who would preach to-morrow in the
church of St. Marco. The praise which he bestowed upon
the heart and genius of this man, excited the attention of
the Prince so much the more, because the Marquis did not
speak in general with any great veneration of the clergy.
" I must hear your wonderful man," said he; and the
Marquis waited upon him the next day — that is to-day.
The sight of a great multitude, particularly when they
come together to worship the Supreme Being, naturally
affects us, and evidently makes a greater impression upon
our mind if we have not been accustomed to it. He that
feels it not is destitute of sensibility. The Prince con¬
firmed my opinion. He was in raptures. The richness
and splendour of the church, the greatness of the multitude,
that showed, at least externally, signs of the sincerest de¬
votion, contributed to augment the astonishment and rever¬
ence of the Prince. I should be but little acquainted with
mankind, if I did not know that the brightest geniuses are
attracted by pageantry; and, that the illuminations and
laughable ceremonies of the Roman church work powerfully
upon the mind. The incense, which is burnt at the altar,
is very apt also to operate upon our senses and excite our
piety. Enchanting music began the ceremony. At last
the Bishop went into the pulpit. — The Marquis was
right; his description was far excelled by the man him¬
self : — his appearance made us venerate him, and his
enchanting countenance, which seemed to have upon it the
stamp of divinity, influenced every one in his favour. —
And when he began to speak ! I might say with justice,
that I never heard so much persuasive eloquence, united
with such dignity and personal elegance. In one word, he
is a preacher of great talents. At first he struck us with
depth of thought, which had so much the more weight on
account of his delivery. He then moved and awakened in
us the warmest feelings for virtue and religion, and the
THE GHOST-SEER.
3
greatest desire to follow his precepts, as the real principles
of morality. From his mouth came truth; and we soon
perceived how much he had studied it, and how firmly he
himself was convinced of it: he pierced the heart, and
was affected hy his own eloquence. His voice is clear and
solemn, and suited to bring the hardened sinner back to
the path of virtue. When he preaches of love, there is a
sweetness in his delivery not to be imagined; and he is firm
and energetic when he will convince. — Oh, Friend ! you
must hear him yourself, if you will not believe me; for
where am I to find words to convey to you the perfection
of one idea only?
He preached on the following subject: " The advantages
which accrue to a man from religion supported by the dic¬
tates of reason;" a subject that was as applicable to the
situation of the Prince's mind as if it had been purposely
chosen. The whole of his sermon was divided into two
heads. In the first he endeavoured to prove — " That
religion ennobles our minds, and stimulates us to good
actions, and is a firm support to us when oppressed with
afflictions." And how admirably he proved it! One
could not but be convinced. " Self-love," said he among
other things, " as long as it does not become self-admira¬
tion, and consequently a vice, is the first and most distin¬
guished principle which the wise Creator has implanted in
us. From it we derive all our actions, even the most
sublime ones which approximate us to the Divinity—we
admire a friend for the return of his affection — we love
our relations — we assist the sufferer, and often save the
lives of our neighbours, even at the greatest hazard; be¬
cause we expect the same treatment in similar situations:
we pardon our enemies, for the sake of those heavenly
feelings which tell us, that we have acted nobly, and have
advanced a step towards perfection ! But how often does
man act well, and is unknown; and how often has the
best design a false operation; how often the good man
suffers, because he acts consistently with his feelings !
Shall he, for that reason, discontinue his efforts ? No —
he ought not to do it, even if his religion did not promise
him a recompense jn another world, if it did not tell him,
b 2
4
THE GHOST-SEER.
' Thy Creator knows the goodness of thy heart—the Lord
knows it, if men do not acknowledge it.' But I do not
think, my friends, that I ought to allow man so much
virtue as to suppose that he acts uprightly merely for its
own sake; for we are never free from the influence of our
passions, which throw obstacles in our way in spite of all
our endeavours to avoid them.
" Can we blame him who prefers the enchanting path
of vice to that of virtue? Look into your own hearts, and
answer me that question. But when religion intervenes,
she tells us, with certainty, that there is another life beyond
the grave, in which men will be rewarded according to
their deserts. What an inducement is this for us to be¬
come better, and faithfully to fulfil all our duties ! what a
great consolation, when we labour under misfortunes, to be
able to say to ourselves, ' Our life in this world is but a
pilgrimage to the realms of everlasting peace !'
" With what anxiety does the tired wanderer endeavour
to reach the place of his destination, though he knows
that the break of day will call him forth to the continu¬
ation of his journey! how cheerfully he supports fatigue
and trouble, when he recollects that he is pursuing the
path which leads him to his home, where he will meet his
friends and relations ! Can we then do less, my friends,
when we know that eternal joy will be our recompense,
and that we shall approach nearer to that God who gave
us friends and relations, who watches over the smallest
circumstance of our fate, and even fastens the chain of our
happiness on that which seemed to us to be unpropitious
to it ?"
He now turned to the second part of his sermon, and
showed " what great tranquillity religion gave us in death."
You should have heard this part. He drew a beautiful
comparison between the death-bed of the pious and wicked
man. He alluded also to sceptics ; for, said he— " How
can they be good, who believe not in any thing? — They
must be more than men if, amidst all the oppressions of an
unfeeling world, they look not for a reward for all their
good actions in heaven. Upon what grounds does the
Atheist banish from his mind the just ideas of a Creator,
the ghost-seer.
5
and his divine influence ? Is it that it would add more
weight to the barrier that separates his soul from the paths
of lust and wickedness ?"
The manner in which he described the last hours of the
profligate must have pierced a heart of steel. He knew
how to affect the virtuous, by forcibly describing such a death;
and I might say with justice, that there was not one person
present who did not seem to study his own reformation.
And when he described the end of the impious, an icy
coldness ran through my veins.—Every countenance seemed
pictured with horror.—I looked at the Prince; — he was
as pale as death, and appeared very much agitated. I hope
it will be of service to him ! That part of the sermon
was delivered with such effect, that it was as if the dying
person had been present, imploring the restitution of his
health, that he might adore that God whom he had uni¬
formly denied. But when he commented upon the im¬
possibility of his wishes, as he was struggling with death,
his eye rolled doubtfully, his voice sounded hollow, and
death seemed to cut the thread of the curses which his
stammering tongue uttered! — It was horrible. The
voice of the Bishop added the greatest effect to this part.
He stopped. There ensued a profound silence.
" And where shall we find the religion I have de¬
scribed ? " he continued: " God be thanked, we have dis¬
covered it in our own ! Oh, my friends ! you must ac¬
knowledge the advantage we have over so many thousands,
who are not born of Christian parents, and who are obliged
to live in darkness, whilst the clearest light shines upon
you."
The manner in which he executed his task you must
imagine, for I cannot attempt to describe the enchanting
sweetness of his eloquence, and am only able to give you
an imperfect idea of it. You may judge what effect this
sermon must have produced in the mind of the Prince.
Receive this as a recompense for not having heard him
yourself. I could easily perceive that he was a Roman
Catholic: but if they had acted thus in the times of
Luther, if they had preached religion so pure, I believe
there never would have been a reformation. He also men-
b 3
6
THE GHOST-SEER.
tionecl the saints — but how ? He represented them as a
glorious host; worthy of imitation. And is not this ad¬
mirable ? I believe men cannot have too many good ex¬
amples. But my fancy leads me too far, and I should not
choose to write any thing contrary to what the Bishop
said. For that reason, I will lay aside my pen until I am
more familiar with the subject. Yet who knows whether the
whole sermon be not a plan of the Armenian ? — Perhaps
the Bishop is one of the . I will not tell you what I
think. It will be terrible if he is a hypocrite, and employs
his uncommon talents to further the execution of a plan
which cannot possibly have a good end ; because it requires
so much artifice and cunning to complete it. No, no — I
must not indulge such an idea.
Several days later.
Since that sermon the Prince has again given himself up
to meditation. He shuns all society ; and, if he is obliged
to join them, he appears perfectly indifferent to any thing
but reflection. But this seriousness is very different from
his former ; his countenance then expressed despair, hut
now a deep melancholy. He has anxiously and studiously
enquired after the Bishop. This man, I trust, will entirely
work his reformation, and the Prince expects it; his en¬
quiry also makes this certain : he will, in all probability,
draw a comparison between his own actions and that man's
manner of thinking — and he is right. The Bishop did
the same when he mentioned our Saviour: " From their
fruits you shall know them."—Very probably this in¬
duced the Prince to adopt that resolution; but outward
actions are often so contrary to real principles, that one
may easily be mistaken. But the Bishop is entirely that
which he himself expects from a good Christian or a
noble mind, and he follows very exactly the rules which
he prescribes.
I have this merely from hearsay; but where accounts
agree exactly, we may put some confidence in the report.
He is a father to the orphans, and a friend to the poor.
He expends upon himself nothing but what is absolutely
requisite, the other part of his fortune he reserves to fulfil
THE GHOST-SEER.
the duties of his station ; and the prudence with which he
bestows his charity gives it a high and deserved lustre.
Those who prefer idleness to industry obtain very little
from him ; but all those who are prevented by a noble
pride from accepting a gift from the hand of charity, and
tliose who are oppressed with misfortunes, and struggle
against want and misery, have in him a certain and bene¬
volent supporter. He has a list of all the poor people in
Venice, and assists those he thinks the most deserving. It
appeared singular to me, that he spent so much money
amongst foreigners who live here. Indeed the Venetians do
not deserve it, for the cause of their poverty is their idleness ;
there scarcely can be made one exception. He always is
respectful to his inferiors; and is a perfect enemy to that
pride which makes part of the character of a priest. To
his servants, who have all grown old in his service, he is a
father. In short, every thing that I hear of this man is
in his praise. But the history which the Marquis has re¬
lated of him, is a proof that he well knows how to observe
the higher duties of his situation, which has made me
venerate his character. A certain—ti—here was his
deadly enemy. Perhaps he envied his merits, and the
esteem which was every where shown him. This was a
sufficient reason for a jealous villain to hate him. To
imitate him he was unable, but he was capable of endea¬
vouring to murder him. He was big with this diabolical
idea; but the retired life of the Bishop, and the multitude
which always conducted him home, to enjoy his company,
made the execution of it always impossible.—Amongst the
servants of the Bishop there was a young man whom he
sincerely loved, and educated. Although endowed with
many good qualities, he was attached to gaming; upon
which the Bishop sometimes gave him a severe lecture.
This young man —anti— endeavoured to make an instru¬
ment of his villany. He could not do any thing by fair
means, and therefore had recourse to treachery. He hired
people to induce him to pursue the most extravagant plans,
and to deprive him of his money by any method. The
vice of gaming soon took deep root, and his very existence
seemed to depend upon it. If what his master gave him
b 4
8
THE GHOST-SEER.
was not sufficient, he resorted to tlieft. The Bishop, far
from being suspicious, concluded that the deficiency of his
money arose from his forgetfulness, and did not accuse any
of his people ; but it was soon more and more visible, and
the Bishop, at last, became uneasy, particularly as he missed
some valuable things. The thief was discovered. Not
quite hardened in his wickedness, his confusion and down¬
cast eyes betrayed him ; he could not look in the face oi
his benefactor. The Bishop admonished him with severity,
but he was too far gone to feel its effect. His villanous
companions had so corrupted him by their wicked advice,
that he was a finished gambler; and what is it that is
sacred in the eyes of such an infamous character ? — It was
not difficult to persuade him to mix a powder in the choco¬
late which he always served to his patron, and by that
means poison his benefactor and friend. He was induced
to undertake this diabolical act by the promise of a large
reward, and also the certainty of gaining something by his
master's death, which he had discovered by prying into his
will, which was placed in a writing-desk. His limbs
trembled as he presented the cup to his master, so that he
had almost let it drop. The Bishop was engaged in read¬
ing a book, and did not observe the uneasiness and anxiety
which tormented his servant. He did not take the cup
before he had finished the chapter. When he had done,
he repeated the last passage: "If the first principles of vice
are imbibed, the rest is to be acquired very easily by a
hardened sinner."—" Yes, it is; indeed it is," he added
with a deep sigh.
At the same moment the unfaithful wretch fell senseless
at his feet, the cup was broken, and the poison spilled upon
the ground. He thought that his master was conscious of
his malicious intention, and had spoken those words pur¬
posely to warn him of his wicked design. But how could
a mind like his entertain such a thought, or suspect a man,
to whom he had shown the attention of a father, capable of
so vile an action ? He endeavoured to recall a wretch to
life who was on the point of taking away his own. During
that time, a little dog, which had licked up the poisoned
draught, tumbled in a convulsive manner about the room.
THE GHOST-SEER.
9
He immediately perceived what was going forward. Tears
came into the old man's eyes when he reflected that his
servant could be guilty of such a crime. And how do you
imagine that he treated him ? He not only pardoned him,
and concealed the fact, but retained him in his service, as
if nothing had happened. One of his relations reproached
him for this forbearance.
" Shall I make this man more miserable than he is at
present ? " he replied. " If he is to be reclaimed, it will
certainly he effected by my treatment; and how much glory
shall I acquire if I save but one soul ! — If I discard him,
I believe he will then become a perfect villain ; on the
contrary, he probably, by my indulgence, may be reclaimed."
When it was observed to him, that he should be upon his
guard in future against any new attempts to murder him,
he answered, —" A good and benevolent God watches over
the life of a sparrow; can I doubt, then, that he is not
mindful of mine ? The path which he has prescribed to
me no mortal can obstruct ; of that I have already many
proofs. If it pleases the Almighty that I should die by
the hand of an assassin, there will be found others besides
him to perpetrate the deed."
He stood firmly to his opinion, and — oh ! the recom¬
pense ! It has succeeded in a most excellent manner : —
he has entirely converted this man, and beholds daily the
proofs of the warmest gratitude, and there is not one about
his person that is more attached to him. The Bishop dis¬
covered the motive that induced him to seek his life. He
could have made the miserable projector of it feel his
wrath ; but what did he do ? He went to — anti —, his
deadly enemy, and begged his pardon if he had given him
any reason to hate him, and offered him his hand in recon¬
ciliation. Such a virtue the basest ingrate could not. de¬
spise : he was overpowered with sorrow, and falling upon
his knees, craved his merciful forgiveness, and promised to
amend his life ; which he has faithfully performed. The
reason why he hated the Bishop was, as he said, on account
of a sermon, in which he felt himself very much aggrieved;
and also that it was intolerable to hear him so generally
praised and beloved. You must know, —anti— is also a
10
THE GHOST-SEER.
priest, and he thought that they were bestowing that por¬
tion of praise due to him upon the Bishop.
The Prince wishes to be acquainted with the Bishop. I
rejoice that it is so, and hope he will profit by the connection.
How it has happened that he was not sooner acquainted
with him, I cannot tell. The noble-minded man must be
sought for, but other acquaintances are very easily attained.
No wonder, for he is a Prince ! I must not forget to tell
you that, a few days ago, the Bucentauro was abolished;
not by the senate, but the society having consented to it
themselves.—What do you say to that? — The reason for
it I do not know, and even the Prince seemed ignorant of
it; for, although they told him they had done it because
they disliked it, he will not believe it.— Perhaps the in¬
quisition has prohibited their meetings, and they are afraid
to run the risk of having their principles exposed ; or,
perhaps, the cunning Bucentaurists are in league with the
Armenian, and wish, by the separation of their society, to
fix the attention of the Prince upon another point. Let
this be as it may, I am satisfied. The Prince is rejoiced
at the event; for, without it, he could not well have se¬
parated himself from it: — a proof that he was not quite
fit for a society, which did not seem to me to be founded
on a good principle.
The same to the same.
November 18th.
At last the Prince's wish is fulfilled: the Bishop has been
with him. He has been a journey, which has prevented
him, till now, from complying with the request of the
Prince. — I thought he was a middle-aged man from his
appearance; I was astonished when I accidentally heard
from him that he was already far advanced towards seventy.
—His uncommon health and gaiety is the consequence of a
moderate manner of living. The Prince has been charmed
with his company.—No person, besides me, could attend
to their conversation, because they believed I did not un¬
derstand it. How many advantages have I already reaped
from affecting to be unacquainted with the Venetian lan¬
guage. They look upon me always as an absent person:
THE GHOST-SEER.
11
and I must tell you that I am, on that account,1 a great
acquisition to the Prince; because he thinks that he has
an attendant by him at all times whom he has no suspicion
of; for he is too prudent to trust the other servants in the
antechamber, on account of their curiosity. With open
arms the Prince received the Bishop, when he entered the
house, and conducted him into his room.
" I heard your sermon not long ago, great and noble
man, and it affected me very much. I have had a de¬
scription of your character and conduct, and it has in¬
creased my esteem for you.— It is on that account that I
approach you without the accustomed ceremonies, and with
a friendly veneration." " Prince, your countenance is so sin¬
cere, that I cannot consider your words as a joke." " Joke !
—joke ! — Good God ! what an opinion you must have of
me !" " Not so; but is it possible that one single sermon can
have had such an effect upon you ? — I am not accustomed to
severity, Prince. But many years' experience have taught
me, that persons like you, who despise all that is sacred and
good, cannot easily be brought to esteem those who speak
of a God, whom they reject and deny. On that account,
you must at least think me a pious simpleton, who merits
your compassionate smile."
The Prince was dumb. At last he exclaimed: " Oh !
as you love your enemies, do good to them, and confirm the
truth of your doctrines, which you preach with such elo¬
quence.— Do not let me be the being whom you despise—
I have pursued a wrong path, not willingly, but through
the influence of deceit and iniquity. I have long wandered
in the desert, and could find no resting-place: will you now
reject a penitent, who puts his whole confidence in your
superior wisdom?" With great warmth the Bishop took
him by the hand. " Entertain not such an idea. But if
the surgeon will cure a dangerous wound, he must first
probe it with his instrument, to try how deep it has pene¬
trated. This operation is indeed very painful to the pa¬
tient ; but can the surgeon undertake the cure without it ?
Will he not learn by that, what means must be employed ? —
I must first sound you, and upon the good foundation which,
perhaps, may still be left, I will build my structure. God be
thanked, who works so powerfully by such feeble means.
12
THE GHOST-SEER.
I should not have believed that my sermon could produce
such an effect upon your mind. The way to the heart of
a Prince is, in such a case, very difficult, and your suffer¬
ings only have made you so susceptible. — Thank God,
that you are not above enquiry. — I always speak the truth,
Prince; do not wonder, because you hear it very rarely.
"Will you, then, be so kind as to instruct me?" " Why
not? — It is my duty. — It is well for you that you came
before me. When they begged of me to preach that ser¬
mon, I was struck with the idea that it might be of service,
and save you."
The Prince interrupted him : " How! they entreated
you to preach a sei-mon to me—-was it not then mere ac¬
cident ?" " I was instructed as to every particular."
" And by whom ?" " I do not know him; but the
anxiety which he displayed for your welfare, and on which
he seemed to dwell with uncommon concern, has made him
dear to me He expected from my sermon much effect,
and promised that you should be present. The desire I
had of doing good made me comply with his request."
And can you guess who this man was ? The Armenian
— You are astonished, and I not less; the Prince was half
mad. He related to the Bishop several things which had
happened to him with this wonderful man, and hoped to
obtain some knowledge of him ; but he assured him, that he
had seen him then for the first time in his life. And who
would not believe him ? What are we to think of this ?
Perhaps it is part of the plan upon which the old man
spoke to Biondello. — We may suspect what will be the con¬
sequence of the visit; for the society of the Bishop must
turn to the Prince's advantage. If they make him a pro¬
selyte by means of the Bishop, they would not find their
end answered; because this man is calculated to set a good
example, and to instil into the Prince's mind the best ideas
without letting the religion he professes interfere. — It is a
great pity that they did not converse on the subject of the
Prince's opinions; for they constantly talked about the
Armenian, and then some business of consequence called
the Bishop away. He promised to return again, and the
Prince has determined to visit him.
A.s Civitella persuaded the Prince to go with him to
THE GHOST-SEER.
13
church, what was more natural than that the Prince should
suspect that he was connected with the Armenian ? To be
convinced of that, he sent immediately for the Marquis to
wait upon him. The servant met him at the gate. " Mar¬
quis," exclaimed the Prince, as he entered the room, " your
visit is well timed; I had just sent to invite you here, to
question you upon a subject of great importance. You
know how much trouble the Armenian has already given
me. Now I am confident you must be acquainted with
him. I expect an explanation from you." The Marquis
was alarmed, and answered not a syllable; the words seemed
to tremble on his lips. " You will not then give me an
explanation? You are the only person that can do it."
ee Explanation ! — Indeed I am not able to give it you, and
perhaps no mortal living." " And yet you spoke to him !"
" Alas ! Gracious Heaven ! I spoke to him !" " If a spark
of friendship glimmers in your breast, tell me instantly
what you know of him." " Demand my life, gracious
Prince, I willingly will sacrifice it, for you have deserved
it—but "
He hesitated, and became visibly more confused. — The
Prince's patience left him. " You will not then," he ex¬
claimed violently— " Now hear me. I know that you and
the Armenian are in league with each other. Was it not
at his request that you persuaded me to go with you to the
church of St. Mark ? " The Marquis fell into a terrible
convulsive fit. — His limbs trembled, his teeth chattered,
and his countenance was black and horrible to look on.
The fit increased, and we were obliged to carry him home.
The Prince now thought him innocent, and seemed to feel
for him. " But if he is innocent, whence this strange con¬
duct ? " he exclaimed.
Several hours had passed, when a servant of the Mar¬
quis came, breathless, and requested the Prince to go
immediately to his master, who had something of great
importance to discover to him. He hesitated not a mo¬
ment, hut went as quickly as possible. After an in¬
terval of four hours, he came back again in deep thought.
He related what happened to him to the Baron F ;
and as I was present, and heard every thing very dis-
14
THE GHOST-SEER.
tinctly, I am able to communicate it to you word for
word. The Prince threw himself into an arm-chair, and
seemed very much affected. The Baron F approached
him with great concern, not being able to conceal his sens¬
ations. " You will pardon me, gracious Prince, I am
confident, when I entreat you to make a discovery of that
which afflicts you so much. It will be preserved as a
sacred treasure in the bosom of one of your most humble
and faithful servants, whose sincere wish is to sacrifice
himself, if it could in any manner promote your happiness.
There was a time when you thought me worthy of your
confidence."
The Prince seemed to start as from a dream, and looked
suspiciously at the Baron. " Yes, you are right ; there
was a time, when the repose of my soul resembled the
smooth surface of a lake, from which every object is re¬
flected in the most beautiful manner. Yes, yes — there was
once such a time, and then I found myself happy. — Can I
help regretting that that period is past, and all is now as
if influenced by tbe storms of heaven; and that nothing
remains for me but a lively picture of my former situation?
Tell me yourself, can I forget it?" Tears came into the
eyes of the good Baron F , and sorrow almost over¬
powered his speech. " Oh ! my gracious Prince, I have
not deserved this — I spoke of the confidence which I once
enjoyed."
The Prince came to his recollection, perhaps by my
pushing something against his arm-chair; in the mean
time, for appearance' sake, I affected to have some business
in the room. "■ Did you not intend to ask something of me,
dear Baron ?" " To entreat your highness to discover to
me the sorrow which oppresses you." " And what end
will that answer ? Can you assist me? Can you conduct me
from a labyrinth in which I find myself every hour more
and more bewildered ? " " If I am not able to effect the
last, will your highness refuse me the happiness to share
your misfortunes with you ? "
The Prince looked at him sternly. It seemed to convey
a great deal of information. — What if the Baron has
written something to Count O which he is not able to
THE GHOST-SEER.
15
answer in such a manner as to clear his character ! " You
shall, you must know it," said he at last: — " for I am
well convinced of your secrecy as to every thing that con¬
cerns me!" At these words F changed colour, and
the Prince, perceiving it, went on : — "You know that I
was called to the Marquis. I found him very ill. He
had scarcely sufficient strength to raise himself in his bed,
and to give me his hand. f I have invited you to call on
me/ said he, ' to give you a key to my conduct to-day.
I am at the brink of the grave, and should not like you to
be impressed with the idea that I have deceived you. I
know not the Armenian who is so much concerned in your
history. I saw him but once in my life; your suspicion
was unfounded. How could I have a communication with
a being that is supernatural? — He appeared to me, and com¬
manded me to persuade you to go to that church. If I
fulfilled his request, he would acknowledge my obedience
to his command. It was for that purpose only that he
had selected me, and I know not that it was actually ne¬
cessary. I listened to his commands with terror, and
should have fulfilled them even if parricide had been
required to do it. He desired me, however, to observe
the most profound secrecy; but my love for you induces
me to violate my promise, and, as I am verging towards
the end of my days, nothing of any consequence can befal
me. Be it what it may it will only hasten my death,
which I look upon now as a welcome friend; the very
idea of it raises my soul to the highest pitch of ecstacy. —
Now arm yourself with courage, dearest Prince, to hear a
history that will make your hairs stand erect; and which
will give you an idea of the supernatural greatness of that
Armenian. To him may be ascribed my acquaintance
with you, and my present illness; for I was just on the
point of answering your request, to justify not only my
character, but to give you also a perfect idea of this being.
I thought in such a case I was acting right, but I found
my tongue cleave to the roof of my mouth, and all anima¬
tion suspended ! — I have at present nothing more to dread,
as death and my love for you raise me above the power of
fear : perhaps my discoveries may be useful to you.'
16
THE GHOST-SEER.
" He stopped suddenly. — The hasty manner with which
he spoke those last words did not escape me. — He now
seized my hand with great violence, and hurt me so much
that I still feel the pain. ( Alas! protect me—protect me
from his wrath/ he exclaimed, with a voice that chilled my
very soul with horror.
" Thou hast not gone through the trial which thou
oughtest to have done, in order to gain admission into the
Temple of Truth, which thy mind entitled thee to. At¬
tribute to thyself the consequences of thy obstinacy. Thou
wast very disobedient to me ! I warned thee, thou didst
not attend. Oh, fool ! if thou hadst not been at this pre¬
sent moment disobedient, thou wouldst have soon reached
the goal.'
" c These words were spoken by some one behind me,
the voice of whom seemed to he known to me. I looked
up, and perceived the Armenian. My astonishment was
beyond all conception. — He walked with a slow step
through the room, and the door seemed to shut itself after
him. My recollection returned. Whatever I might un¬
dergo, the desire of speaking to him superseded all my
fears. I rushed out of the room, but no Armenian was
to be seen or heard of. Upon the stairs I met an old
priest, who had been sent to the Marquis to give him
extreme unction. I thought he could not have escaped
him, but he had seen nothing of him. That he had
secreted himself was not in any manner possible, for he
was obliged to go either down or up the staircase, and the
Cardinal, who had just come down, in the greatest sorrow,
on account of the situation of his beloved nephew (who, as
you know, by his reformed manner of life had again ac¬
quired his esteem), had likewise seen nothing of him. My
mind was now tormented with doubt and horror. I went
back with the Cardinal to the room. He found the Mar¬
quis senseless. I flattered myself that he would recover,
and finish the history which had excited my curiosity so
much. But I hoped in vain ; he continued delirious.
The Cardinal refused consolation, and abandoned himself
to despair. I could not endure a sight so distressing, and
when I reflected upon my own situation I was half dis-
THE GHOST-SEER.
17
tracted. c I would readily sacrifice my life/ ejaculated I,
' could I but discover the Armenian.'
" 'You will discover him, ere long. — You shall be
nearer acquainted with him, if your obedience makes you
worthy of it,' exclaimed a hollow, piercing voice.' "
The Prince here paused, and seemed lost in meditation.
This very evening, at a late hour, we heard that the
Marquis Civitella was no more. The Prince received the
news with melancholy silence. I could plainly see how
deeply he felt his loss.
The same to the same. i
November 17.
They have threatened to imprison the Prince, if he
does not pay his debts in twenty-four hours. I thought
it would come to this; although I did not believe that he
had received his loans from the hands of usurers. All the
creditors of the Prince are alarmed ; for his insolvent situ¬
ation is every where known. The poor Prince! How
shall we save him ? You are not able to do it; for, in all
probability, the money you are possessed of is not sufficient.
To extricate himself, he has offered to pay enormous inte¬
rest, which exceeds even half of the capital. He has no
friend to whom he can unfold his distress. The kind
Marquis is dead, and his uncle, the Cardinal, has, since
his decease, lost his senses, and is not to be spoken with.
The situation of the Prince is truly pitiable. Flight would
be the only means to save him. Biondello proposed it to
him; but he is too noble to degrade his character by such a
step. He will wait the event with fortitude.
November 18.
To-day I heard that the Prince is not so much involved
as I at first expected. The whole amount of his debts,
with the interest, is about one hundred thousand zechins ;
a large sum certainly to be spent in so short a time, but I
hope that you will procure it. You have not told me how
much you have received, but that it is a large sum I easily
can imagine. God be thanked that it is so, and that the
Prince met with this misfortune; it will probably be the
VOL. II. c
18
THE GHOST-SEER.
road to liis safety. Oh ! how anxiously I wait for that
period when you will rush into his arms, and save him as
a' friend ! Do not be astonished that I now contradict my
former opinion, and beg that you will discover yourself to
him; it is surely the best plan we can pursue. He will,
in his present situation, acknowledge your kindness with
double the gratitude. Such affection will rivet him to you
for ever. You will represent me to him as your friend,
who worked with you for his safety ; my letters to you,
and moreover my ability in mountebank tricks, by which
they have deceived him, will convince him of the fact, and
will open his eyes, or at least may give him a suspicion of
the people in whom he has put so much confidence. We
shall save him; he will fly with us from this vile city, and
be restored [and reconciled to his court. Oh ! that I were
able to relate to you all the good consequences which will
follow this proceeding ! But all this is unnecessary ; you
do not want any inducement to urge you to act mag¬
nanimously,— but use all the expedition in your power,
for, before sun-set, the Prince will be arrested, and he
cannot expect any indulgence from usurers !
P. S. Do not give yourself any further trouble, friend;
all our fears for the present are gone. The debts of the
Prince are paid, and he has obtained further sums of
money just as I was going to seal this letter. But mis¬
fortune sometimes proves a benefit, for what should we have
done if I had known it a few hours later ? We should have
betrayed ourselves, and perhaps have lost all means to pro¬
secute our undertaking. But I still have great hopes, and
it makes me tolerably easy in my unpleasant situation. And
do you know who has paid all these sums ? — The Ar¬
menian ! For what reason does this man haunt the Prince ?
This is a certain proof that the scheme they are trying is of
consequence. The Prince was prepared for the arrest; and
conceive his astonishment, when the creditors came to give
him their receipts, and returned him the money he had ad¬
vanced to them on account. They all begged pardon for
their conduct, and assured him that they would not have
taken violent measures if they had not been made anxious
for their money, and to lose it would have made them
the ghost-seer.
19
beggars. Who urged them to be so clamorous he could
not imagine. Although the Prince was astonished that the
Armenian had paid his debts, he had sense enough to appear
as if he knew of the proceeding, and this induced the cre¬
ditors to think that the money came from his court. The
Armenian could not have found a better opportunity to
make the Prince attached to him. He thinks of nothing
but him, and is more anxious to learn who he is: he has
forgotten Civitella's death. You go about the town in dif¬
ferent characters —have you not been able to find out who
the Armenian is ?
The same to the same.
November 23.
The Prince is always with the Bishop, and I know that
their conversation is generally upon religious topics. It is
a great pity that I cannot constantly be present, for I hear
only detached sentences, but from them I conclude that the
Prince will remain firm to his opinion, until thoroughly
convinced to the contrary. The Bishop appears every hour
in a more amiable light. The mildness which he always
shows, when endeavouring to controvert the objections of
the Prince (which I must confess are often supported with
great warmth), is inimitable, and is the sincerest proof how
much he wishes to appear like the man of God, whose
doctrines he preaches. His talents in theology, added to
his eloquence, place every thing in the clearest light, so that
it is impossible for any person to misunderstand him.
It always gave me the greatest happiness to assist such a
conversation, if it was possible for me to do it. To-day I
was very fortunate. I will put as much of the conversation
down as I can recollect. You will wonder that the Bishop
does not betray the Catholic, who with the sword of faith
cuts his way through all difficulties. He wishes to explain
them, and to show fundamentally to the Prince how much
is gained by a religion which adopts a Supreme Being, and
holds out a recompense for our good actions. It is very
seldom that he mentions the proscribed religion in the Holy
Scriptures ; and if he does, it is only when the Prince
enquires about it. You see that he does not press it upon
o 2
20
THE QHOST-SEER.
him, but goes step by step. — I am wandering from the
subject: — I promised to relate to you to day s convers¬
ation. With the greatest impatience the Prince waited for
the Bishop ; at last he came. He hastened to conduct him
to his arm-chair, which is always set ready for him.
" I have waited with anxiety for your arrival, dear
father ! A new doubt has arisen within me concerning the
existence of a Supreme Being." " A doubt of the exist¬
ence of a Supreme Being ! —Oh ! I am very sorry for that!
Then we are not so far advanced as I believed. How is it
possible that you can even admit such a thought ? " I
have been reading this book — it is beautifully written —
so convincing !" (here he gave the book to the Bishop.)
" Not convincing, Prince, but seductive. Truth does not
want any colour. I know the book: it is beautifully
written, and for that reason so much the more dangerous.
We feel not immediately the effect of poison that is hidden
beneath sugar, and when we discover it, antidotes come
too late."
At these words the book was thrown into the fire and
consumed. The Prince looked at the Bishop with a coun¬
tenance full of anger. This did not escape the Bishop.
" Do you regret the loss of the book ? If so, I am sorry
that I destroyed it! But I hope not! " " You told me
yourself, that reasonable doubts would lead me nearer to
the truth." "Yes, Prince; but did that book contain such?
And if it were so, you should not read it in your present
situation. It will make you more difficult to be brought
into the way of truth, and probably prevent your obtaining
that end, by the rejection of which you have lost so much
already. A patient must submit to the prescriptions of the
physician, and the convalescent must not be permitted to
indulge in every kind of eatable for fear of a relapse,
which often is more difficult to cure than the first illness.
So soon as you have acquired the true principles to act
upon, you may read that book: you will then pity the
author, and become firmer in the support of truth."
" Permit me," said the Prince, " to ask you a few
questions. Why do we worship God ? " " Because he is
the most perfect being." " Whence do we know that ? "
THE GHOST-SEER.
21
" We infer so from the creation of the world." " But
this conclusion would be wrong if the world created itself? "
" Undoubtedly." " There would also be no God, if he
were not at the same time the Creator ? " " This follows
from the idea which we have of him. An inactive God
were no God at all, at least he could have no influence over
us." " And if it were so ?— if the creation were a matter
of chance ? " " If I thought that in any manner possible,
I would give up my opinion without hesitation." " Pos¬
sible ! You agree with me that all things are possible."
" The ideas of a madman !" " Do you reckon then that
the learned, witty, and spirited Voltaire was mad ? "
" He proves it himself by many of his opinions. But
do you not believe that a madman may be reasonable in
several things, whilst his malady centres upon one par¬
ticular point ? Have you not experienced it by a living
example in father Florentino, who thought that he was
the Holy Ghost; and yet in every thing else was a rational
and clever man?" " But the difference is, that the former
had grounds for his opinion, but the latter none." " Have
you ever heard them ? And will you honour his folly with
the name of reason ? I could, on the retrospect of your
Voltaire, return the objection upon you: but we are
departing from our point. Tell me sincerely, do you not
perceive the absurdity of the idea that the world created
itself? Is the Creator and the creature the same ? Did
not the contradiction strike you at the first moment ? Is it
easier for you, and more adequate to your reason, to believe
that the world was formed by chance, than to acknowledge
an almighty, all wise, and good Creator ? Oh ! Prince,
how much are you corrupted by this shameful book !"
" Certainly, if you suppose that the world, before it
existed, possessed within itself a power by which it pro¬
duced itself, this would be undoubtedly the greatest contra¬
diction : but I do not suppose so; its materials did exist,
and consisted merely in little solid indivisible bodies or
parts, which are called atoms. These from their gravity
had been falling from eternity, in perpendicular lines,
through the immensity of space. One of these forsook
fortuitously its perpendicular direction, carried along with
c 3
22
THE GHOST-SEER.
it a second; and these two still more; and from this con¬
currence arose heaven and earth; and all which exists in
them." " And you take this nonsense for probability ?
However; we will consider every part of your system
separately, which you must not think to be the invention
of your author; for first Democritus, and after him Epi¬
curus, adopted it: and Cicero has so excellently refuted it,
that this alone would be quite sufficient. He says, some¬
where, to the best of my recollection *, — ' That any one
should maintain that this beautiful and perfect world was
formed accidentally from single and solid corpuscles, I am
not much surprised; but 1 do not at all perceive, why
such a one should not believe, that if we shook together a
great number of letters, and then threw them upon the
earth, the Annals of Ennius would arise from them. I do
not think that chance could ever compose one verse. And
still further, if I am not mistaken,' continues he, f if the
world could have been formed by the junction of atoms,
why did they not form some city, or a colonnade, or
temple, or a house, since all these require less, and are
more easily constructed ?' However, as I said before, we
will not rest our proofs upon the authority of another, but
go regularly through the system; for it loses much by the
hypothesis with which you are obliged to preface it. You
suppose it space, in which the atoms existed, and were
falling perpendicularly ; that accident .lias driven one from
its course towards another, and that these two again carried
away more with them, and by that means every thing wras
created. Now give me leave to ask you — What is space ?
Can you form to yourself any other idea of it than (what
expression must I use) the circumference of the universe ?"
The Prince remained silent.
" I cannot," resumed the Bishop. " To me the idea of
space is inseparable from that of the corporeal world, as the
idea of shade is from that of light. And if you suppose
an infinite space ! It does not, however, follow from that,
that an infinite number of bodies also must have existed,
which it had surrounded; or, if you like it better, by
which it had been surrounded! For would not this be a
* De Nat. Deor. ii. 87.
TIIE GHOST-SEER.
23
new contradiction ? However, we will let that alone ; for
the idea of space is beyond my philosophy, and I had
rather confess this, than dogmatically obtrude my opinion
upon any one. But let us proceed still further. I will
ask you, what the atoms must peculiarly be; for you could
give me no other answer on that head than proposing to
'me, as you already have done, a new hypothesis. But
how can you maintain that they fell perpendicularly, as
there existed no basis from which they could at first have
taken their position ? What was in the boundless and
empty space according to your ideas, either beneath or
above ? And if I should not consider that, but suppose
every thing to have been as you say it was, what power
was it, then, which drove the first of those atoms from its
original direction towards another, and these again to
others ? And, in short, where was the point at which
they ceased to fall in perpendicular lines ? Was it chance?
Must that not also have its origin ? or, to express myself
more clearly, must not some power precede that which
causes this chance? If we know that power, we no longer
call it chance. From hence it seems, that a circumstance
may appear to be accidental to one person and not to
another. Is this evident to you?"
<c Perfectly." " Does it not still follow that a circum¬
stance may appear to us merely accidental, which is not so
in itself?" " It does not seem to be otherwise." " That
moreover the concatenation of the atoms cannot be in itself
accidental, but must only appear so to us ? " " Certainly."
" And how, if chance brought them together, must not one
of them have wandered from its original direction ? Is not
this as much as saying that there was a power previously
existing which caused this ? " " After all the conclusions
which you premised, it must be so ! "
" And what is this power, if it is not God? — Do not
these contradictions strike you ? — But to conclude entirely ;
I will grant that every thing hitherto was the effect of
thought. Who arranged these atoms so as to form such
an admirable and wonderful masterpiece as the boundless
universe ? Who breathed life into man and brute ? Who
was able to unite every thing together, so that there is no-
c 4
24
THE GHOST-SEER.
"where to be found one vacancy, but in every place the
most perfect order ? Who created those atoms ? Oh,
Prince ! do you not feel within yourself that it must be a
God?" " Yes, I feel it, and always have felt it; but I
would willingly be able to prove it, and from thence arose
my doubts. Would you have me take a sentiment for
truth ? " " To what point will you at last come ! — Is not
the reflection that there is a God, who watches over our
fate, more agreeable than the supposition that we are de¬
pendent upon chance?" " Yes; upon that very ground I
should like to have incontrovertible reasons to convince me
of it."
" Oh, Prince ! I am sorry that you should still desire
them. How could you by your feeble reason form an
idea of a being for whom we have not even any sufficient
expression; who is far too sublime to be represented at all
by us." " But why should our understandings be limited
exactly there, when it would be so beneficial to us if we
could see further?" " Why has not a child the under¬
standing of a man ? — Could not God, when he was forming
his creatures, give them the minds of angels?—And is a
truth less a truth because we cannot prove it a priori? —
Can you prove to any one the existence of the sun, or even
your own existence?" He sees both, and that is the
best proof." " But how'will you convince an idealist, who
considers every thing except himself as a deception ? —
You see from this, that the most evident and clearest
truths are the least demonstrable except by experience.
Yet I will see whether the creature is able to give a proof
of the existence of his eternal Creator! If you discover
upon a desert island some considerable work, would you
not conclude from thence that men must have lived there
before, to whom it owes its origin ?" " Undoubtedly."
" Or could you suppose that the wind had driven together
the materials from every country, and united them together
according to the rules of art ? Would you not think him a
madman who would support such a supposition?" " I
could not think otherwise." " And what is more natural
than the conclusion — that there is a world, and conse¬
quently a Creator. We perceive the effect, and must ac-
the ghost-seer.
25
knowledge the cause. To me this is very clear; and if
you will not grant that, you must, however, at least confess
that we have more proofs for than against the existence
of a God! And if this is the case, acknowledge then with
humility the limits of our reason, which we cannot go
beyond without irrecoverably bewildering ourselves, and
adore that which you cannot comprehend."
During this discourse the night had come on. The
heavens were serene, and illuminated with sparkling stars.
The Bishop opened the window, and led the Prince to it.
" Behold !" said he, " the immeasurable expanse, in which
are myriads of worlds, that our eye is not able to reach.
Adore him whom you are not able to comprehend !" The
Prince sunk upon his knees, and the Bishop with him.
" Yes—here in the dust do I adore thee, O Eternal God!
Oh pardon, pardon the weakness of thy feeble creature!
— Thou universe, and ye innumerable worlds, proclaim to
me that there is a God, our Creator ! Yes — Thou art !
Thou art !"
To this scene, which never will be erased from my
memory, there succeeded a long pause. No sound of prayer
was perceptible; but it was sufficiently evident from the
countenance of the supplicants that no words could express
their feelings, which could only be intelligible to him who
knows our thoughts even before they exist.
The same to the same.
December 2d.
It is true that, for this time, my letter will reach you a
considerable time later than formerly. I had no subject to
write upon; all is in statu quo. The Bishop visits the
Prince, and the Prince returns his visit; their fondness for
each other increases daily. But it is very singular to me
that the Prince should find it so difficult to pursue the right
road. He is now in the extreme, and it wants very little
to make him a bigoted fanatic. Whilst he acknowledges
the principal truths of our religion, other ideas have again
associated themselves, which, perhaps, prejudice and edu¬
cation have cemented to his soul, and render it, for that
reason, more difficult for him to get the better of them.
26'
THE GHOST-SEER.
The Bishop is not at all pleased with that; but what can
he do ? He is afraid to root out the wheat with the weeds,
and seems only to wait for a certain time, when he has
nothing more to fear from that,- and the Prince is con¬
vinced of the truth. To work there is nothing left untried.
The Prince has become acquainted through the Bishop
with several priests, but principally with ene Sebastian,
who has shown a great affection for him, and is his per¬
petual companion. No wonder that he is very often with
us, for the Prince (who has already reposed an unlimited
confidence in the Bishop) looks upon this favourite in a
very high light. Thus much is certain, that this Sebastian
is a man of the world; but that he is possessed of the
goodness of heart which characterises the Bishop, I have
my doubts. The hypocrite appears in his countenance,
although he knows how to hide it. That the Bishop does
not suspect him, proves nothing in favour of him that will
subvert my opinion ; for it is well known that the best of
hearts are frequently the easiest to be imposed upon. The
Bishop has, indeed, great skill in finding out the character
of a man ; but he did not see this Sebastian behind the
scenes, as I did: they think nothing of him, and, on that
account, do not suspect him. What confirms the truth of
my former assertion, is, that Sebastian encourages the
Prince in his fanatical manner of thinking ; he acts thus
before him ; but, when the Bishop is present, he displays
again the man of science, who only is satisfied with the
marrow, and throws away the bones.. But with what skill
he contrives all this you must judge for yourself. It is sin¬
gular that the Prince did not discover any thing in him,
although he is not quite blind in such cases. Yet I will,
for the present, suspend my judgment. Perhaps I may
have been mistaken. Since I bave known the Bishop, I
have quite another opinion of some of the priests here.
The Armenian and his companions have not made the
least noise, and the Prince, desirous of hearing something
certain about him, becomes daily more and more impatient;
for these words, " Thou shalt know him nearer, if thy
obedience makes thee worthy of it," and also the history of
Civitella, still perplex him. He cannot speak to the Car-
THE GHOST-SEER.
27
dinal; for his illness has rather increased than lessened.
To avoid any thing that might remind him of his nephew,
he is gone to his estate in the country.
December 4th.
How shall I relate to you a piece of news which causes
the greatest sorrow ! God of heaven ! Must every thing
that is good and virtuous fall to the ground ? I was obliged
to recover the shock I received before I could continue
writing. The Bishop is dead ! To-day we receive the ter¬
rible news. He had an epileptic fit. All lament his death ;
but the Prince is inconsolable. Alas ! he has suffered a
great loss ! He was here last night, with several other-
priests and father Sebastian. He entertained the society
till late at night with the vivacity of his conversation, and
was so well pleased with his visit that he neglected going to
rest at his usual hour, which he seldom missed. Before he
went home, he complained of the headach; but he ob¬
served also, that he had such attacks very often, and no
person thought that they were the forerunners of bad con¬
sequences.— He is no more. If ever you shed tears for a
good man, sacrifice one to the memory of him !— In him
the Prince — alas ! not the Prince only ; in him the world
has suffered an irreparable loss ! He was the firm sup¬
porter of humanity. I never spoke to him ; I only saw his
actions ; but, from those, I cannot think any man ever was
more worthy of esteem than he was. If saints are wor¬
shipped, he certainly ought to occupy the highest place
among them ; for, although he neglected the scourge, he
fulfilled the will, of God —
I have just left the Prince. He weeps for him ! — Sor¬
row sometimes becomes a pleasure He had a great desire
to see the corpse of his beloved friend once more; but he
was not admitted. They said that they had forwarded it
immediately, according to his last will, to ##mo, as soon as
they were sure of his being dead ; for he desired to rest
near the remains of his friends.— I hope this is true, and
that he was not sacrificed to malice! The sudden removal
of the corpse certainly makes this somewhat probable. I
was in the Prince's room when father Sebastian came with
28
THE GHOST-SEER.
a sealed parcel. " Here is something for you from our
deceased friend; perhaps it contains his last will, which he
trusts to your care. I saw it in his writing desk, before
they found him dead. The direction struck me; and the
addition upon it, to deliver it to you immediately after his
death, may excuse this sudden step which I have taken, —
for having brought it to you without the knowledge of any
other person." Tears almost made the words of Sebastian
unintelligible. Oh ! I certainly have wronged him; for
he seriously bewails the death of the Bishop ! — But it may
be dissimulation.
The Prince thanked him. He opened the parcel im¬
mediately, and ran over its contents hastily, which seemed
to make a deep impression upon him. He communicated
nothing to the priest, but locked himself up in his room,
as soon as he was gone. I could not learn any thing about
it; but I feel so much interested in it, that I shall not
think it dishonourable to open the writing desk of the
Prince, as soon as an opportunity offers. Perhaps we may
obtain a key to many other things. I shall, in this instance,
make some extracts, by which means you will be able to
judge for yourself. I wished long ago to do so, but found
no opportunity.
The parcel must contain intelligence of great consequence.
The Prince is still engaged in perusing it, and has given
orders for us to suffer no person to enter his room. His
countenance is very serious and gloomy ; his eyes seem to
express astonishment and rage; his sorrows, which the
death of the Bishop had occasioned, appear to be forgotten.
My curiosity is raised to the highest pitch, and I can
scarcely wait for the best time to satisfy myself and you.
The same to the same.
December 9th.
Arm yourself, friend, to hear things which will astonish
you. My conjectures have not deceived me. The parcel
contains things of the greatest consequence. The whole of
last night I spent in reading it through, at the greatest
hazard of being discovered. The Prince does not go out
so generally as he did, but receives his visiters in his hotel.
the ghost-seer,
29
And, if that did not happen, I was prevented by other cir¬
cumstances from pursuing my plan. Last night he went
to bed very early, and I ventured to creep into his room
although some of his people sleep under it. With the
greatest care I opened the writing-desk, and took out the
parcel. The contents I here communicate to you.
" Prince !
" My death unravels a history which I was obliged to
conceal from you, during my lifetime, to continue un¬
known. It was my only wish to live in obscurity, for I
could not expect ever to obtain the sovereignty: listen then
to my history from the beginning to the end.
" I am a Prince, and the eldest brother of the
present regent . I would not discover myself to you,
fearful that I might inflame you to unseasonable revenge,
and by that means deprive myself of my quietude. As
soon as my duty called me to your assistance, my heart
willingly accorded with the invitation ; and it cost me a
desperate struggle to obtain that fortitude which was re¬
quired, not to press you, my nephew, immediately to my
heart; and, I am confident, you must have perceived my
embarrassment at our first interview, which arose from the
same cause. I thought it prudent to act thus, as I wished
to go down in peace to my grave; because I was not sure
that in discovering myself to you, you might, perhaps, have
unintentionally betrayed me. The following history will
convince you that I am your near relation.
" I was heir to the crown, and of my three other bro¬
thers there remains only the present and your uncle.
Your father is no more ; he was the dearest to me, and I
shall probably meet him again in a better world, after a
long separation. Between me and the present there
existed, from our infancy, a rooted dislike to each other,
which originated from our being such opposite characters.
As he advanced in years his enmity became worse ; for he
easily perceived that I was superior to him in rank, and
that the crown was my inheritance. His ambition made
the first intolerable to him ; and, in the last, he was actuated
by the impolitic desire of an absolute authority. He sought
as much as possible to avoid my society, and treated me
so
THE GHOST-SEER.
with that ceremony which is invented and practised only
lay those who regard not the tender ties of relationship. He
never called - me brother ; and the more I endeavoured to
win his affection by my good conduct, the more he absented
himself from me. Nature had endowed me with superior
talents, which caused my parents, and the other parts of
the family, to love me sincerely, and which increased his
hatred. On the contrary, your father was so much the
more attached to me; and God grant that you may enjoy
that happiness which his brotherly love gave me ! My father
was very feeble, and gradually declined in his health. He
had a great desire to see me married in his life, to witness,
perhaps, an offspring. How was it possible for me not to
fulfil the will of a father, who only entreated where he
could have commanded ? The convention pointed out to
me a spouse from the —d— house; and it was a pleasant
circumstance to me that I had three sisters to choose from.
I did not hesitate which to accept. I pitched upon Amelia,
who, although not so beautiful as her sisters, yet far sur¬
passed them in liveliness and temper. Though my hairs
have long been whitened by age, yet whilst I write this I
shed tears of joy, sacred to the day when she swore eternal
love to me at the altar. When the ceremony was con¬
cluded I conducted my spouse, as the hereditary princess,
to my father's house. She loved me not as a royal con¬
sort, to whom the homage of a court was due, but one
whom she could press tenderly to her heart as her husband
and friend. I was the happiest man in the world ; I
seldom quitted the society of my Amelia; she was all to
me. Such perfect domestic happiness as we enjoyed few
princes can boast of. Our mutual love and happiness was
every where spoken of with veneration. Before a year was
elapsed, she was brought to bed of a boy, and the country
celebrated this event with great splendour. She nourished
him at her breast, and delighted to see him walk in leading
strings. It was firmly resolved not to trust the child in
the hands of hirelings, but to educate him ourselves.
" Alas ! my happiness was too great to last long. I
was soon dashed from its pinnacle. My father engaged in
the war which broke out with the enemies of his allies, the
THE GHOST-SEER.
SI
— cl—. My duty called me into the field. The love I
bore your father, who had already suffered much from the
enemy, overcame the anxieties of my beloved spouse. She
dismissed me with fortitude, without a tear; yet she could
not conceal the emotions of her soul when she thought we
might never meet again. Her last prayer was for my
safety. — I mounted my horse. The sound of drums and
trumpets chased every weak sensation from my mind, and,
courageously, I led my soldiers to the field of battle. They
were all well disciplined, and I had their confidence and
love : what could I hope otherwise than to return home
victorious ? — My first plans succeeded. From two battles
I returned a conqueror, and the enemy began already to
fear my superiority. One effort more was to be made upon
the fortress of , and which, if I succeeded in taking,
all would be completed. The evening before the battle I
encouraged my soldiers, and all swore either to be victorious
or to die. At the break of day we marched to meet the
enemy, and formed a line of battle in a place well situated
for the purpose. My men fought like lions, and the enemy
behaved with equal gallantry. They were well aware how
much they were interested in the event; and victory re¬
mained long undecided.
" At last it proved in favour of us. The enemy began
to yield, and I commanded the heavy cavalry to charge
sword in hand. I headed my people, which inflamed them
with new courage. A ball, which struck me upon my
head, caused me to fall from my horse; and four months I
lingered without my senses. When I came to myself, I
found that I was in the hands of my enemies. They had
discovered me naked upon the field of battle; and, when
they saw signs of life in me, I was carried with the wounded
to the hospital. The contusion in my head was very dan¬
gerous ; they were obliged to trepan me; and, after the
accounts which they gave me, as to the manner that they
proceeded, it is almost incredible how I escaped with my
life. Alas ! better had it been that I had died ; for the
sorrows which I was doomed to suffer were almost too
much for me to bear, and I am not able to comprehend
how I survived them. My first enquiries were after my
32
THE GIIOST-SEER.
father and my wife : alas ! oh God ! what did I hear? As
soon as I fell from my horse the courage of my men failed
them; and the enemy, taking advantage of their confusion,
made a fierce attack, and gained with ease a complete
victory.
" This unhappy news caused my father's death, and my
wife soon followed him. My little son also died a few
weeks after. My brother had usurped the reins of govern¬
ment in the name of my child, who was not old enough;
and he was proclaimed regent of with the greatest
splendour. What I felt by this information no words can
express. I had lost all! I thought it not proper to make
myself known ; and, when I was entirely restored, they
dismissed me without ransom, and many of the officers
there made me rich presents. I would not venture to wait
upon my brother, though he seemed to me very friendly
during the war, in which he also had assisted. It was as
if a secret power destined me for destruction. How could
I be an agreeable guest, as my existence must necessarily
deprive him of the crown ; and I could not expect any
mercy from him in that case, as he always hated me; and
the love which he showed me during the campaign dis¬
played only his hypocrisy, as I could easily perceive. I
went to my father-in-law ; but I was a long time before I
could speak to him, for, in my dress, they would not suffer
me to approach him, and I was not willing to discover
myself to any body but to him. At last I succeeded in
obtaining a hearing, whilst he was walking to his carriage
at a country seat, for which opportunity I was obliged to
wait for more than four hours; but the issue of it was not
what I expected. Illness and sorrow had quite disfigured
me : he thought me an impostor; and I ought to thank
God that I was not dragged to a dungeon. I mentioned to
him every trifling circumstance, even when I courted his
daughter; but it was of no use. The clearest proof to the
contrary was, that they had found my corpse upon the field
of battle; that my wife and brothers had acknowledged it
to be such, and that it was buried in the vault of my an¬
cestors, and that they still mourned my death.
" To recover my lost crown seemed to me impossible.
THE GHOST-SEER.
33
My second brother, on whom I rested my hopes, was upon
his travels. I made myself easy in my situation, and
thought it infinitely better to do so, than to try to ascend
the throne by the blood of my fellow-creatures, even if it
were possible for me to find a power to assist me ; since
success in the attempt would not have been any recompense
to me for that which I had lost. I bought with the money
that I was possessed of a guitar ; entirely reconciled myself
to my fate; and, without having any plan for the future, I
travelled from place to place, and earned my bread at the
doors of wealthy people. This manner of life perfectly
agreed with my situation ; for, as every thing in the
world had become indifferent to me, I found it welcome to
me. I happened one day to pass through a village on the
borders of . As it began to grow dark when I arrived,
I resolved to pass the night there. It was on a Sunday ;
and I was entreated by the guests of the alehouse to enter¬
tain them with my guitar. I began, and sang a romance
which I had composed myself from my own history, but
which could not easily be discovered, because it treated of
a Prince who was in the power of malevolent fairies. I
used to sing it better than any other, for it was my favourite
song, as my sensations could be more strongly expressed by
it, and without betraying myself ; for who would have sus¬
pected in my person the hereditary Prince of , whom
they concluded was no more ? I felt a particular sorrow so
long as I travelled in my native country, when the bells
rang for my death *, and which had already announced
that my Amelia was no more : alas ! could I but have re¬
covered her again, how willingly would I have renounced
all claims to the diadem and purple robes.
" The tolling of bells brought her loss fresh to my mind,
and it was as if my heart was severed by a two-edged
sword. I was attentive to my guitar, and saw not what
was going forwards about me. I had finished. The
country people were all sitting round me, and almost lost
in attention and astonishment. The landlord, an invalid,
with a wooden leg, stood before me in his soldier's dress,
* It is a custom in Germany, whenever a prince dies, to ring the passing-bell
every evening for a certain period.
VOL. II. D
34>
THE GHOST-SEER.
and surveyed me narrowly ; I thought his countenance was
familiar to me. c Fetch the best that you have in youi
house, mother,' he exclaimed, ' and put it before the
guitar-man.' — He came nearer to me, and said; £ Perhaps
you do not know what a happy day this is to me; your
song is a faithful representation of the fate of our here¬
ditary Prince.' He took off his cap. I became anxious.
c I served under him, and was in the same engagement,
when he lost his life and I my leg. I would willingly
have died in his stead ! The rascal who shot him !
but we dare not speak what we know ; if he was alive, it
Would be better for our country.' ' Yes,' said the
countryman, and praised me so much that I was scarcely
able to maintain my character. c You see,' said the land¬
lord, ' that I am clothed in my regimentals ! It is my
birth-day, and it is then only, and on great festivals, that
I put them on. Let us be merry ! Indeed it would be
better for us, if our happy hereditary Prince was living!
I have many times stood near to him, and have conversed
with him.'
" He wiped a tear from his eye, and I was obliged to
turn from him. I knew but too well who the landlord
was. He had served in the guard, and was very well
known to me. —' You should have seen him,' he con¬
tinued. c If I described him to you, I should say he
looked exactly like this guitar-man, only he was hand¬
somer; his height was the same. We ought not to make
such a comparison ; but an hereditary Prince is made of
the same materials as a guitar-man, and the difference
consists only in this, that the Almighty gave the one a
sceptre, and the other a guitar.' — He once more looked
at me. £ Yes, exactly his features ! He appeared so the
moment I saw him.' He took a full bumper. —£ To the
memory of our hereditary Prince !' he exclaimed — and all
followed his example. I was anxious not to be known,
and began immediately to play a lively tune, to turn the
attention of the people to another object. I succeeded,
but not with the wish of the landlord; he remained
thoughtful. The countrymen at last dispersed, and the
landlord took me aside. He spoke to me bare-headed.
THE GHOST-SEER.
35
' You are our Prince. I know you well !' I affected to
laugh, and answered, f He is dead; you yourself said so.
' I said so, but I thought otherwise. No one will suppose
that I am in possession of a secret, which is known to very
few. You may tell me who you are. Do not think that
I will betray you. I had an idea that you might still be
alive; and as I read in the newspapers that, at — d —,
somebody had given himself out to be the hereditary
Prince of , I became more sure of it; and, when I
saw you, I knew you so well that I was confident I was
not mistaken. Speech and every thing else agree. Our
Prince played also upon the guitar, and sung well. I
have many times listened to his music, when I stood
sentinel before his tent, in the last campaign; and I crept
very often behind his tent to hear him play. However, it
never would have come into my mind to seek in your per¬
son the Prince, did not I know what I do, and had not
your conduct betrayed you; as I told the countrymen,
that between you and the hereditary Prince there was the
greatest similarity.' He seized my hand with affection.
' Oh ! let me hear it from your own mouth, although I
am confident that you are our hereditary Prince !'
" I could no longer maintain my disguise. I discovered
myself to him. His prudent conduct in the presence of
the countrymen, when he knew me, was a sufficient proof
of his integrity; and from him I learned things which
made my hair stand upright, and taught me to avoid in
future, more carefully, my native country. ' Do you
know,' continued he, f from whom the ball came that
dismounted you ? From one of your own soldiers. When
you fell, another ball also killed my comrade; and I, at the
same time, lost my leg. I fell near him. I was lying
there in the most excruciating pain. When the tumult of
the battle ceased, his piercing shrieks brought me to my
senses; and I had power and sense enough left to bind up
my wound as well as I possibly could. He now perceived
that I was still alive. Kill me brother ; do me that favour!
he exclaimed— No, do not kill me; I am not worthy of
such mercy ! I deserve the dreadful torments I endure —
for I have murdered our hereditary Prince ! The cursed
d 2
36
THE GHOST-SEER.
money of his Highness's brother tempted me to commit that
horrid deed. Now hell drags me down ! He died uttering
the most frightful curses.'
" So much deliberate villany I did not expect from my
brother ; but I experienced pangs still more terrible. — As
they could not find my body upon the field of battle, they
took from the spot that of another person who resembled
me, and, by disfiguring his face, produced it as my corpse.
But my inhuman brother was not yet satisfied. He
poisoned my spouse and little son; and I will not presume
to say with certainty, that he did not send out of the
world, by that means, my father. God will judge him —
I leave it to his conscience. — I remained at the house of
the invalid several days, and obliged him to promise me
eternal silence as to what he knew, and continued my
journey. At J I was taken ill with a bad fever; and
I found a home in the convent , where they took
great care of me.
" One day I was laying almost exhausted after a fit,
when, raising my eyes, I saw a monk sitting upon my bed,
who seemed to take particular care of me. I looked at
him, and beheld Father Lorenzo, who was formerly in the
convent , which I visited very often, on account of its
romantic situation, and his society, which I preferred to
that of all the other priests. The good monk knew me
immediately ; and, as he feared I might betray myself
during the delirium, he had taken the trouble to watch
me himself. I commended his precaution, and thanked
God that he had sent me a friend at so critical a period,
to whom I could intrust the secret of my misfortunes.
From that time the monk Lorenzo was my constant com¬
panion. At last I recovered, and felt an unconquerable
desire to remain in the convent. I had already got ac¬
quainted with many good friends there, and I could not
bear to separate from them; I was also tired of wandering
about. ' Is it possible,' I exclaimed, ' to choose a more
noble way of living than that of studying the welfare of
men ?' And now my resolution was firm to enter as one
of their order. I was obliged to become a Roman Ca¬
tholic ; but who can blame me for that ? Does not God
THE GHOST-SEER.
37
know the heart? And where can we find amongst the
supporters of our religion such conduct as amongst the
Catholics ? They are blamed for intolerance. — Do they
enquire what we believe before they do a good action ?
Never ! They give to him who wants without respect or
preference. Where is there a doctrine which is taught
by the Catholic church which does not agree with the
purest principles of morality? — That monks sometimes
abuse their faith must not be denied, and this cannot often
be said of the Protestants. However, I will not defend a step
that my conscience never reproached me for, and for which
I never was sorry, but always found it beneficial to me.
I expect the approaching hour when my Creator will call
me to an account for all my actions, and I do not tremble
at it. He will not ask, What didst thou believe ? But,
How didst thou act ? And what religion is most desired
by good monks ? Is it not that which I have embraced ?
" I spent a number of happy years in that convent — I
care not what is said against the monks. I found this
opinion confirmed, namely, that an unhappy being cannot
choose a better refuge from his misfortunes than the tran¬
quil scenes of a cloister. I never should have left it, if I
had not been obliged to do so by necessity. Heaven knows
that my brother found out the place of my retirement.
Father Lorenzo discovered a monk in our convent who
aimed at my life; and he confessed that he was hired to do
so by one of my brother's officers. To prevent the execu¬
tion of the diabolical design, I left the convent; and my
separation cost me many tears. — I travelled over * z —.
An account that I was still alive had also spread there,
and made me particularly anxious for fear I should be
discovered. The discovery happened. But it was made
by a friend, who became my support in that trying hour —
this was the governor of , who was some time in the
service of our court. By his intercession I obtained the
bishopric of ; and, much as I struggled against it,
I was obliged to accept it.
" But in that situation I was not safe from the revenge
of my brother; and he trusted me less, as I was in a better
situation to do him material injury than when I lived an
d 3
38
THE GrfOST-SEER.
harmless monk in the convent of . Some narrow
escapes made me anxious, and at last obliged me to take up
my abode here ; and I found in the Doge of — a great
protector. By his influence I also obtained permission to
preach at St. Mark's church, which suited my wishes and
inclinations. I had many enemies amongst the clergy in
this place, because I did not always follow their example ;
but I suffered all very patiently, and thanked God that this
was not owing to the ill will of my brother, whom I was
willing not to curse in my heart. With the relation of
my misfortunes I could fill a folio volume; but this is
enough, my son, to instruct you in my history, and to
procure me after my death a tear from my nearest relation.
A certain presumption tells me I shall not live long, and
in that case I recommend to you the priest Sebastian. You
may safely follow his advice, for I have tried him and
found him sincere. Let him finish the work of your con¬
version, which I have begun. He is wise and unblemished
in word and deed. My blessing attend you in every
undertaking. Farewell.
" L. R , formerly
" Hereditary Prince of ."
Well, friend, what do you say to this? The history
itself appears to me false. I cannot help suspecting that
it leads to the execution of a certain scheme. It is very
true that the deceased Bishop was a German, though no
person was acquainted with his real history, and whenever
the Prince spoke of it, he turned the conversation to some
other subject. Every thing has a romantic air; and,
although I know too well that in the Prince's family there
are hidden some secrets which no biographer can disclose,
I cannot, give credit to the Bishop's history. The Prince
is fully convinced of the truth of the whole history. I
was present at a conference which he had with Sebastian
upon the subject. He thinks the Bishop was his uncle,
and that his handwriting proves the fact. " On that
account my grandfather died so suddenly, and the daughter-
in-law and nephew followed him ! " exclaimed he, with a
terrible voice, and swore to be revenged upon the assassin.
THE GHOST-SEER.
39
Sebastian joined with him in his resolution, and made this
observation,—that it appeared clear that Heaven had selected
him for the holy task of punishing such a horrible crime.
The same to the same. 2
December.
The good Baron F is poisoned, by the command
of the Prince. This is the recompense for his faithful
attachment. Oh God! The Prince is already so
far gone, that he suffers his people to be assassinated clan¬
destinely ! I have heard it positively asserted that he
ordered it to be done; and Biondello was so quick in the
execution, that I could not prevent it. They accused the
good F of having written letters to , in which
he had calumniated the Prince. The Count O also,
it was said, was a party concerned. Oh ! ye good people!
Ye interest yourselves too much for an unworthy man ! It
is probable that the Baron has written something to
that the Prince dislikes; but does he deserve to be assas¬
sinated for it? It is too common in this country. But
ought not the Prince rather to thank him for it ? He
certainly did it with no other view than that the Prince
might leave Venice, and extricate himself from a labyrinth
in which he will be more and more entangled. That this
man could not have been actuated by bad motives, I will
stake my life, and all my hopes of eternal happiness.
Several days later.
And yet, friend, how miserably am I deceived in my
opinion of mankind ! The Baron F and the Count
O cannot be those honest persons we had supposed
them ; yet I must say this in their excuse, that they have
too much interested themselves in the Prince's welfare. I
have been again to the Prince's writing-desk, and seen all
the letters from the Baron F to the Count O ,
and also several of the last, which Biondello probably had
intercepted according to his orders. I judge more favour¬
ably of the Prince's rash proceedings, yet I will not defend
him ; for the letters are written in such terms that one
would scarcely suspect the greatest villain of being the
author, and, what is still more terrible, it appears very clear
i) 4
40
THE GHOST-SEER.
from their contents that the Baron F poisoned the
Prince's Greek lady, by command of the Court. But they
should have first heard the Baron in his defence. Perhaps
he still may be innocent; for he was very much attached to
the Prince, and in all his actions seemed a man of integrity.
I can hardly persuade myself that he could be the villain
which is required to commit such deeds ; — to calumniate
his master, and poison an innocent lady, who, according to
the description of all that knew her, was an angel. I am
perplexed in the extreme ! I was prevented writing farther
upon this business by a strange event. A man entered my
room, and desired, in a very noisy way, to be shown im¬
mediately to my master. From his countenance I saw he
was desperate ; he looked wild and in trouble. I must
confess that his appearance alarmed me. At the moment
I felt embarrassed; I knew not how to address him. Ob¬
serving that I hesitated, he repeated his demand once
more, with terrible threats. Anxious to know the purport
of his visit, I attended the fellow to the Prince. As
soon as he saw him, he rushed upon him, and drew a
dagger from his bosom, which he presented to the Prince,
who quickly retired into a corner of the room, and drawing
his sword, held it before the villain. " This dagger was
destined for you, Prince!" he exclaimed, gnashing his
teeth. The attendants seized the assassin, and disarmed
him. " That is unnecessary," said he, struggling to dis¬
engage himself: " had I been such an outcast as to have
assassinated my gracious master, I should indeed have
chosen an hour when no person could have prevented
me."
The Prince, who had now recovered himself from his
fright, approached him, and discovered him to be his ser¬
vant, whom he had lost about a year ago. His astonish¬
ment was very great to find his man, whom he had despaired
of ever seeing again, in such a peculiar situation.
" And you could determine to murder your master?
you whom I always looked upon as one of my most faithful
servants !" "And I am still so, as God the Almighty is
my witness, gracious Prince," he replied; " else this my
dagger would have pierced your heart, for it would have
THE GHOST-SEER.
41
procured me a thousand zechins; a handsome reward, in¬
deed, for the life of a Prince !" " Who could offer so
much for my life?" (Laughing furiously.)—"Your un¬
cle, his Serene Highness." " Does he wish to assassinate
me also ? He should have chosen some other person to
have executed this honourable deed; for he must have well
known that he had not found his man in you ! This was
stupidly managed. One villain always supposes another
person to be the same." " Pardon me, great Prince, for
speaking thus openly; but it is the truth.— And do you
think that this is the first attempt that has been made upon
your life ? Already seventeen assassins have been hired;
but they never were able to come at you. When they
thought that they had you in their power, it always
happened that you were snatched from them. They cursed
their fortune, and said, that the fault was not theirs ; that
a person (I do not know what they call him, and who al¬
ways goes about in different disguises), had prevented the
execution of their design, because he took you under his
protection."
" Ah ! the Armenian !" said the Prince, astonished.
" They would not leave this work any longer to the care
of the banditti, but chose me for the purpose. I thanked
them for this honourable trust. I was ordered to return
again to your secretary, to say that T had been detained in
the cloister by the monks, to regain your confidence, and
then to assassinate you privately when you expected no
danger, and were alone and unarmed. On the deed being
done, I was to fly to the convent, and to be received under its
protection." " Stupid scheme; pity that it was not more
successful: but where have you been all this time ? " " I
have not been out of Venice, but have been shut up in a
small room, where I could neither see sun nor moon."
" But how could you receive messages from me ? " " In
the easiest way in the world, even by means of those people
from , who had taken and confined me. I regularly
went to a cloister in the Giudecca, and performed my de¬
votions ; which was very agreeable to me: for the father
who governed it did every thing to please me, and had
almost succeeded in making me a Catholic. Do not be
42
THE GHOST-SEER.
angry, great Prince; for he possessed such powers of per¬
suasion, that he obliged me to believe whatever he said. I
often reprobated myself for my apostacy ; but I changed
my mind again as soon as I got to the cloister! He was
not, like most Venetians, difficult of access, but, on the con¬
trary, very communicative; and, from the first time that I
saw him, I desired so much to see him again, that I sought
him of my own accord the day following. Many of the
other brethren behaved very civilly to me; and I could not
help preferring their agreeable society to any other. There
was always something new; and my curiosity was so much
excited, that I could with difficulty wait the return of the
visit. Their intention was, very likely, to convert me to
their faith; for what otherwise could they see in me de¬
serving of so much trouble ? And, perhaps, this was not
difficult to accomplish; for they represented every thing in
so peaceable and lovely a manner, that I really frequented
the places of worship with infinite pleasure. They were
always curious, and wished to hear news of you, gracious
Sir: but when I told them I was ignorant, or that I dared
not blab, they were then satisfied, and praised my fidelity.
What they might safely know I told them, but not one
syllable more; and we remained, by this means, the best
friends. One day as I was going to them, after they had
been paying a visit, from which they had returned rather
late, it was already dusk, and I was not far from the
cloister, when three fellows surrounded me, bound my
hands and feet, and forced me away blindfolded. They
carried me into a small dark room, and left me to myself.
I had not been long there, when Colonel ch came to
me: he endeavoured to extort news of you, which I either
did not know, or at least pretended to be ignorant of. He
took all possible trouble to get something out of me; and,
when fair means did not succeed, had recourse to severity.
Your Highness cannot believe what questions they put to
me; it was all unintelligible to me. They attributed to
you what you never performed; and every step you took,
and every thing you did, was misrepresented in the most
shameful manner."
" Had I even then spies about me ?" exclaimed the
THE GHOST-SEER.
43
Prince. " I must confess, this exceeds all my expect¬
ations."
" The Colonel , and several other officers, who had
long practised without effect upon me, and whom I knew
very well to have been here a long time in secret, for eight
or nine months never came near me, as they well knew that
all their threats were in vain. Some days after this time
the Colonel paid me another visit. I was tired of living so
long upon bread and water, and therefore pretended to be
very obedient; and immediately the proposal was made to
me of murdering you. I accepted the offer; because I
feared they might procure some other person, who would
execute this order in earnest. What remains you are al¬
ready acquainted with."
The Prince took this man again into his service, and
gave orders for apprehending the pretended officers. It
always appeared wonderful to me that he never could gain
any information respecting them. How the Prince was
affected by this act of his court, you may easily conceive:
he vowed death and destruction to it. It is fortunate that
he has it not in his power to execute it; for he would, per¬
haps, keep his word : but it is otherwise ordered. Indeed,
it is natural to expect that he who permitted Count F
to be murdered without a hearing, would easily consent to
having his uncle privately assassinated: he might even
think he had a right to do it, as a just revenge, and con¬
sider it as a praiseworthy action. And although he was
never influenced by secret revenge, his passions here inter¬
fered ; and it appears to me as if he only opposed them to
become the more furious. It might also happen that the
assistance he expected from the King of could not be
granted.
Surprise upon surprise ! This instant the Prince has
learned that the Bishop of has been taken off by poi¬
son, and at the instigation of the Count . The per¬
petrators of this deed have been taken, and confessed every
thing. The Prince himself has spoken to them, and every
thing has been again confirmed. This is too bad; and,
were it possible to suspect a trick, I should be apt to think
(as every thing seems to accord with the idea), that it had
44
the ghost-seer.
been done on purpose to inflame the rage of the Prince
against . But who could be interested in this ?
The whole is to me unaccountable. If the anger of the
Prince could have been increased, it would certainly have
been so by this intelligence; but it was already at the
highest. For a long time he spoke not a word, but his
breast boiled with rage. " Murderers of my relations and
my friends!" at last he exclaimed, with furious action;
" God's dreadful vengeance shall at last fall upon you,
through me, and then woe to you \"
I hope it will he forgotten by him, for the most violent
passions always last the shortest time; but, so soon as we
perceive he is about undertaking any dangerous business,
we must then have recourse to the last extremity, and lay
the whole affair before : for it appears to me, in spite
of all the improbabilities by which it is attended, nothing
more than a concerted trick. And may not this be attri¬
buted to the old man that I overheard talking to Biondello?
and does it not appear to be agreeable to his whole plan ?
I do not know myself what to think of it. Will it be
impossible for you to find out these officers ? Perhaps
they would be able to give you information upon many
things!
A day later.
The Armenian is at work again; Sebastian came to the
Prince to-day earlier than usual. His countenance an¬
nounced something remarkable: he approached the Prince
silently, and gave him the following note: —
" Prince,
" I have always recommended to you patience and sub¬
mission. If you are desirous of acquiring my nearer ac¬
quaintance, or if you wish to arrive at that pinnacle of
power which you can attain through me, I now require a
proof of both. I am not a stranger to the resolution you
have taken, to be revenged. You must no longer indulge
the thought, or, at least, not upon any account execute it.
It will be a proof of your prudence and patience. Mark
this, — that often is a crime which, at another time and
under different circumstances, may be an act of justice.
THE GHOST-SEER.
45
You will convince me of your sincerity, if, before the end
of seven days, you become a member of the only true and
happy church. I know this has been long your intention;
but proceed to fulfil it. The reasons for your doing this I
cannot now explain; but they will in time unfold them¬
selves.
" Your invisible conductor
" Through all places."
" From the Armenian !" exclaimed the Prince, after he
had read the letter, with attention and a kind of awe:
" how did you know him ? " " He appeared to me in my
apartment, and gave me the letter ; more I know not,"
said Sebastian; at the same time putting his finger upon
his mouth, as if he would say, " This business ought not
to be spoken of." The Prince understood him, and was
silent. Here again, then, the Armenian has been before us;
but this time I am disposed to thank him, although the
circumstance proved to me that I was mistaken : for now
there can be no longer any doubt, but that the Armenian
and his associates were innocent of having poisoned the
Prince's friends; for he surely would not thus destroy the
effect of his own work.
The Baron F is frequently confined to hisbed; never¬
theless, he now and then creeps about; but death seems to
be painted in his countenance. The Prince appears to be
a little concerned for him. I observed this in him, and
was very happy, because it showed that he had still some
regard for him. But he will not consent to an interview,
although he seems to be convinced that he has condemned
him too rashly. Poor F ! Alas! if he is innocent,
the conduct of the Prince towards him will give him even
more pain than the poison itself; and I really conclude,
from his former character, that he is so. But then cer¬
tainly the letters It is wonderful that I never could
believe any person guilty, that I had not before suspected
to be capable of committing a crime ; and I could not
judge the Baron to be such a villain, although I had seen
those letters in his own handwriting. For appearance
sake, the Prince had granted him a physician, in order to
conceal the real cause of his illness; but I am afraid this
I
! I
1 1
(J
46
THE GHOST-SEER.
man only makes his case worse: for the Baron, since his
attendance, has had many painful paroxysms, which is
contrary to the usual effect produced by this poison, which
almost imperceptibly consumes the vital powers.
Narrative of the Count ()■ resumed.
The remaining letters from Johnson were destroyed, for
Lord Seymour carelessly left a wax candle burning upon
the table when he went to bed, which, when it had burnt
out, set the letters on fire; by which means the good lord
would have lost his life, if the smoke in consequence of it
had not waked him in time. The remaining part of this
history I must therefore relate from his recollection of the
contents of the letters.
Lord Seymour's Statement.
The epistle from the Armenian had its effect; or rather
the Prince had long ago formed the same resolution, from
the instigation of Sebastian and the other monks, and this
letter hastened its execution. He went over publicly to
the Roman church before the expiration of seven days;
and all Venice celebrated the day as a great feast. That
' it was possible for this event to happen, and that he might
have come into the measure willingly, might easily have
been expected from his education, which I observed long
before was very bigoted, and slavish ; and when we take
into the account what happened to him afterwards, and
which served so completely to eradicate from his youthful
heart the impressions that had been so strongly engraven
upon it, we shall conclude the old man had rightly judged,
when he said that the Prince could not possibly retain his
original opinions after being convinced of their inefficacy,
and that he would eagerly catch at a reed to save himself
from sinking. The Prince's confession of faith, which he
made in the presence of many people, and which, by
means of Johnson, came into my possession, I can by no
means suppress, because I have made it a fixed rule to
relate every thing that concerns the Prince, and in no par¬
ticular to deviate from the truth; which would be the case,
in my opinion, if any thing should be suppressed which
THE GHOST-SEER.
47
tends to characterise him : but I must previously observe,
that the Prince by it will lose much in the estimation of
many; who will be surprised that he, who was so fa¬
voured by nature, could consent to acknowledge such non¬
sense, the greater part of which is contrary to all sound
reason, and every moral principle. But I have before said
that he fell; and my tears compassionate, at the same
time that my heart excuses him, because a more than
devilish cunning and art had spread the net in which he
was ensnared!
The Prince's Confession of Faith, verbatim.
I believe and confess, that, through the peculiar care of
this Christian government, and the active industry and
assistance of the holy fathers, I have been entirely brought
over from my heretical life and faith, to the true Roman
Catholic religion, and only church in which can be obtained
salvation; and I do publicly declare to the whole world
that I received this faith freely, and without any com¬
pulsion.
1. I confess and believe the Pope-is Christ's vicar, and
has full power to forgive the sins of all men, according to
his own pleasure, to save them, or to thrust them into hell,
or excommunicate them.
2. I confess that the Pope is the supreme head of the
church, and that he cannot err.
3. I confess that whatever novelty the Pope establishes
(whether it be or not in the Scriptures), whatever he or¬
dains is the genuine truth, divine, and blessed; and that
every inferior person should esteem the same as equal to
the commandments of God.
4. I do confess that the most holy Pope should be
adored by every one with divine honours, and that every
one should bow the knee to him as to Christ himself.
5. I declare, and confess, that the Pope should be
honoured by all, in all things, as a most holy father; and,
moreover, that those heretics who live contrary to his ordi¬
nances, should not only be exterminated by fire and sword,
without exception or mercy, but also that their bodies and
souls should be delivered up to hell.
48
THE GHOST-SEER.
6. I confess that the reading of the Holy Scriptures is
the source of all sects and parties, as also perfect blas¬
phemy.
7- I confess, that to invoke the deceased saints, to wor¬
ship the holy fathers, to bow the knee before them, to
make pilgrimages to their tombs, to clothe them, to burn
lights before them, is godly, holy, and useful.
8. I confess that a priest is much greater than the
mother of God, Mary herself, who only bore the Lord
Christ, and never conceived again ; but a Romish priest
offers and forms the Lord Christ, not only as often as he
is willing, but in any manner he will; yea, he feeds upon
him while he chews the bread.
9. I confess that it is proper to read masses, to give
alms, and to pray for the dead.
10. I confess that the Pope of Rome has power to alter
the scripture, and to augment and to diminish it according
to his own pleasure.
11. I confess that the soul will be purified in purgatory
after death, and that its deliverance from thence is partly
effected by the sacrifice of the mass offered up by the
priest.
12. I acknowledge that to receive the holy eucharist in
one kind is good and salutary ; but to receive it in both
kinds is heretical and damnable.
13. I acknowledge that those who receive the holy com¬
munion in one kind, enjoy and eat the whole Christ, both
body and blood ; and also his godhead and his bones.
14. I acknowledge that there are seven true and effectual
sacraments.
15. I acknowledge that God is honoured by represent¬
ations of him, and may by means of them be known of
men.
16. I acknowledge that the holy Virgin Mary is queen
of heaven, and governs together with the Son, and that ac¬
cording to her will the Son is obliged to act in all things.
17. I acknowledge that the holy Virgin Mary should
be esteemed, both by men and angels, higher than Christ,
the Son of God himself.
18. I acknowledge that the hones of the saints are pos-
THE GHOST-SEER.
49
sesSed of great virtues, on which account they ought to he
honoured by men, and have chapels built for them.
19. I acknowledge that the Roman Catholic faith is un¬
adulterated, godly, saving, and true ; but that the Protestant,
which I of my own accord have abjured, is false, erroneous,
blasphemous, accursed, heretical, hurtful, seditious, abo¬
minable, forged, and devised. Since the Roman Catholic
religion is, therefore, throughout good and salutary, I curse
all those who taught me these abominable heresies in both
kinds j I curse my parents who educated me in the heretical
faith ; and I also curse those who made the Roman Catholic
faith dubious and suspicious to me; as also those who gave
me to drink of the accursed cup ; yes, I curse myself, and
think myself accursed, because I made myself a partaker of
this accursed heretical cup, of which it did not become me
to drink.
20. I acknowledge that the Holy Scripture is imperfect,
a,nd is a dead letter, as long as it is not explained by the
Pope of Rome, and that the common people ought not to
be allowed to read it.
21. I acknowledge that a requiem sung by a Romish
priest is more useful than a hundred sermons ; and on that
account I curse all those books which I have read in which
that heretical and blasphemous doctrine is contained ; I
also curse all the works which I read whilst I lived in
this heretical faith ; wherefore they at the last judgment
will not deserve any thing of God.*
All this I do with my sincere mind confirm, by means
of a public retractation of the heretical doctrine, in the pre¬
sence of the reverend fathers, the learned gentlemen, and
the ladies who are present, and the youths and virgins,
that the Roman Catholic church in these and similar articles
is the true one. Moreover I promise that I will never
more, through my whole life, return to this heretical doc¬
trine of the sacrament in both kinds, although it should be
allowable to do so. I also promise, that as long as I have
a drop of blood in my body, I will not educate any child
of mine, in case I should have any, in that accursed doc-
* What the meaning of this is I know not. Perhaps, " something for which
God will not reward me."—German Editor.
VOL. II. E
60
the ghost-seer.
trine, nor will consent that it should be educated therein
by others; which I herewith promise. I also swear that 1
will help to persecute this accursed heretical doctrine,
secretly and openly, with words and works, the sword even
not excepted. Lastly, I swear before God, the angels, and
before all the congregation present, that if any alteration
should take place, either in church or state, I never will
become an apostate from the Roman Catholic and godly
church, either from fear or favour, and return again to this
accursed heresy; nor will I receive the same.
As a confirmation of my oath, I at the same time receive
the holy communion ; and I cause also this my confession,
written and subscribed with my own hand, to be preserved
in the holy archives of the church.*
N. N., Prince of .
To this was also added the following advertisement: —
" To all and every one who see, read, or hear the an¬
nexed letter, we declare and testify, that the most illustrious
Prince, his highness N. N. Prince of , has this day,
namely, the day of the month of December, 17—,
been absolved from all sin and heresy, by the papal power
delivered tous,havingbefore renounced the Lutheran religion,
condemned by the council of Trent, and has publicly made
his confession, and adopted the Roman Catholic and only
beatifying religion; he hath likewise received from our
hands the holy communion, after the manner and form
prescribed by the Roman Catholic church, with a proper
veneration and devotion. For the greater security we have
signed this with our own hand.
" Given on the th day of the year mentioned
above.
" N. N., Bishop of ——,
" and, &c. &c."
The Prince was now a Roman Catholic; and from that
day the Armenian was more frequently seen with him than
ever. Their interviews grew more frequent, and lasted
sometimes for many hours. They were very rarely held
* The reader who is unacquainted with the Popish religion, will think many
things in this confession too highly coloured. But let him believe me, when I
most solemnly declare, that I copied the whole verbatim from the manuscript,
and that I have not made the smallest addition or alteration.
Note ob the German Editor.
the ghost-seer.
51
at the Prince's house, and when they were, the doors were
always carefully fastened, and no person allowed to be
present. This circumstance, together with their always
choosing the most secret rooms in the house for those
interviews, by which means they prevented all listening,
made it utterly impossible for the worthy Johnson to dis¬
cover the purpose of these secret meetings. The Prince
even carried the key of that room in his pocket, and very
often sealed up the door. This, together with Johnson's
having sometimes heard an extraordinary noise there, made
him conjecture that they must be employed in raising
ghosts; which was really the case, as will be confirmed by
the conclusion. How great an ascendancy this Armenian
must have had over the Prince, is evident from the circum¬
stance, that without his permission he did not even indulge
the most sacred feelings of parental affection, or any which
were once most dear to him. He had, for example, a
mother still living, who resided upon a small estate at
sh, and whom he formerly loved dearly, and used
very frequently to correspond with. He would not answer
a letter from her, notwithstanding the bigoted spirit
which was prevalent throughout it (and which, as I said
before, was peculiar to his whole family), contained such
striking marks of maternal anxiety and affection, that no
one can read it without being affected by it. Hitherto
there was no opportunity for mentioning his mother; and
as this letter is also the surest proof of what I have already
said of the Prince's education, and is in my possession, I
will insert it here.*
cc My Son !
" If thou t couldst know the sorrow which I feel, on
account of the afflicting news of thy unhappy apostacy
from the true religion and knowledge of God for thy
salvation, I do not doubt that (in case thou hadst not
* The reader must not expect to see a letter which might serve as a model
for the epistolary style.
The Count O has taken care to prevent any thing of that kind, by the
note at the end of it; and probably no one will blame me for not having given
it a more fashionable dress, because it would then have appeared like a picture
of one of our ancestors, drawn in the modern style, in which no one would be
able to recognise him. —Note by the Editoh.
f Jn Germany, parents always make use of thou and thee when addressing
their children.—Tbanslatoe.
E 2
52
THE GHOST-SEER.
abjured thy ever faithful mother, as well as thy true God),
thy dutiful heart would break on reflecting on the nume¬
rous tears thou hast cost me. Oh, son of affliction to me !
My tears are still my food, both day and night, whilst I,
poor mother, must lament and bewail thy loss, not of
earthly goods, but of thy eternal happiness, the condemn¬
ation of thy miserable soul. I weep with Rachel for
my child, and will not be comforted, because it seemeth
to me that he is not.
" But if all obedience to the fifth commandment, if all
filial affection towards thy mother be not extinguished, by
the erroneous doctrines which thou hast adopted—-Ah !
only listen to me, while I address thee, my son, in this
letter full of tears ! — Oh son whom I nourished ! attend
to me, that God may also attend to thee. I am thy mo¬
ther, my son; thou art flesh of my flesh. From me thou
hast experienced, as thy conscience must tell thee, all the
maternal affection which I promised to thee; and I must
certainly seek and desire thy welfare, particularly in things
which concern the eternal happiness and salvation of thy
soul, which is the most important concern of Christians.
Accursed be the mother who, either from a blind opinion,
inconsiderate temerity, or the consideration of temporal
advantages, would counsel her child to walk the path which
leads to eternal destruction, and the hellish abyss of brim¬
stone. Woe to such a mother ! — She might, with perfect
justice, be hated (according to the command of Christ,
Luke, xv. 26'.), and never obeyed by any child.
" My conscience clears me from the suspicion of such
a terrible conduct; and my heart gives testimony that I am
anxious to snatch my child from the claws of Satan, and
lead him to my bleeding Jesus. And, moreover, thy mo?
ther entreats thee, dear son, to listen attentively to her,
who is now throwing herself at thy feet with thousands of
tears, and not to neglect the care which thou shouldst take
of thy eternal welfare. Do not despise me, my child, on
account of the insinuations of thy seducers, that I am a
weak woman, who is not able to judge of controversial
points in religion. Thou knowest well, my dear child,
that the infinite grace of God has caused me to embrace a
religion in which women are allowed, according to the
THE GHOST-SEER.
53
custom of the primitive church, to enquire into the Holy
Scriptures, and to seek for eternal life; and even are
obliged to learn the mysteries of the faith, in order to
gain everlasting salvation: for which faith St. Paul, in
2 Tim. i. 5., commends Lois and Eunice, the excellent mo¬
thers of the holy Timothy. Every just person, whether
male or female, ought to live according to his faith. This
I have always kept in my mind, and made the word of
God the joy and desire of my heart. Thy own conscience
will convince thee that, according to the true and infallible
word of God, I have formed my judgment of thy new
doctrine. Upon that word, against which even the gates
of hell shall not prevail, is my judgment founded, and to
that does it appeal; and I declare with a broken heart,
O thou unhappiest of men ! that thou hast suffered thy¬
self to be seduced to a faith which will yield thee nothing
but condemnation and the torments of hell. Our divines
have already proved this on much more solid grounds,
with much greater accuracy, and more fully. I am con¬
tented with such evidences as my Christian soul can learn
from its Bible.
" Can that be the true and saving religion which shuns
the holy Bible, although that book is the only one in which
we can learn the way to eternal salvation (John, xx. 31.);
which violently condemns the Bible as its decided enemy,
and submits not in any thing to its authority, that its
fallaciousness and deceptions may not be discovered by it;
a religion which condemns the book which Jesus com¬
manded all men to read (John, v. 3Q.), and forbids them
to search into it, under the penalty of an eternal curse ? —
Oh, accursed doctrine ! The word which they have de¬
spised shall judge them at the last day, according to the
sentence pronounced by Christ. (John, xii. 48.)
" Can that be a holy and blessed doctrine which dis¬
regards the only Mediator of our everlasting happiness ?
Must thou not confess this thyself, my poor misled child ?
Confess to me what thy eyes have seen, and thy ears have
heard. What becomes of the cup in receiving the holy
conjmunion, which our dying Jesus has so earnestly or¬
dained and appointed ? — Ho not they scornfully deride
54.
THE GHOST-SEER.
that institution ? — Do they not snatch it from the hands
of the communicants, and consider it as perfectly unneces¬
sary, in contempt of Jesus ? It appears to me that the
Holy Ghost has already pronounced judgment upon those
doctrines ! Whosoever shall take away from the words of
the book of Jesus, God shall take away his part out of the
book of life, and out of the holy city. (Rev. xxii. 19-)
" Hast thou not heard, that man must have lost his
salvation, notwithstanding his good works ? wherefore the
anguish and blood of the tortured Jesus have been mightily
slandered, as if they were not fully sufficient for the sal¬
vation of men : but my religion assures me, that we can
be saved by the blood of Jesus alone (Acts, iv. 12.), and
that they who hope to save themselves by their works will
receive eternal damnation. Can that be a holy and blessed
doctrine which incites her children to encourage an un-
i mited idolatry, the invocation of saints, prostrations before
pictures, when it is the evident declaration of God him¬
self, that idolaters shall have their part in the lake which
burneth with fire and brimstone, which is the second death ?
(Rev. xxi. 8.)
" Behold, wretched child ! — For I must conclude, and
pass over other atrocious errors in silence ; because my tears
prevent me from writing. — Thou hast assented, alas ! to
such accursed doctrines, whose end is condemnation ; and
such are the chains of hell with which the Popish faith
enslaves thee ! Ah! dear child, as the Bible is dear to
thee,— as the blood of thy Jesus is dear to thee, — as Jesus
himself, who loved thee so ardently, is dear to thee, free
thyself from these fetters of the devil, come forth from
this Popish darkness, that thou mayest not be infected
with its plagues.
" Ijconjure thee, by thy conscience, to confess to me the
truth, and the thoughts of thy heart, which will be here¬
after disclosed to my omniscient Jesus. Is it not true,
that earthly gain hath enticed thee to adopt this faith ? —
But despise all such promises • for what good could it do
thee, if thou shouldst gain the whole world, and lose thy
own soul ? Dost thou think the greatest riches could be
of use to thee, whilst I am obliged to curse thee on account
of thy wickedness and abjuration of thy God ? Dost thou
not know that a mother's curse is able to destroy the
houses and fortunes of her children ? We Protestants
have a just God, who, if we put our trust in him, liberally
rewards us ; who also, when it is proper, will comfort the
wretched, and fill the hungry with good things. My
maternal heart stands also open to thee, my child, and is
ready at any time to receive thee. Have pity then upon
thy miserable soul, O thou child of my body ! whom I
have borne next my heart with great pain, and carefully
nourished. Have pity then on thy poor mother, whom
thou wilt otherwise bring down to the grave with sorrow,
and return again to the evangelic truth, that I may not
only live with thee here, but also, with thy blessed fore¬
fathers, in eternal happiness with Jesus. On account of
which circumstance, I wish that my womb had been thy
grave, that I might not behold thee in the gloom of hell!
Return, dear child, to God the heavenly father, by the holy
and certain declaration of Christ, that He will forgive thee
for the heavy crime which thou hast been guilty of, as well
as the apostate Peter; and that I, thy hitherto afflicted
mother, may then have reason to cry out with joy, —f For
my son was dead, and is alive again.' (Luke, xv. 24*.)
ec O blessed day ! O joyful hour ! that shall announce
thy return to me. I will therefore day and night implore
the goodness of God, and do not doubt but God will hear
my prayer and attend to my earnest tears; for a woman
cannot forget her child, so as not to have pity upon the son
of her womb. I will not forget thee, my son, in all my
prayers, who art in danger of losing thy soul. *
" I remain,
cc Thy most sincerely affectionate, but,
on account of thy dreadful apostacy,
thy sighing and bitterly weeping
Mother."
" sh, the 17—."
■ * Being very far from approving of many opinions discovered in this letter, I
here beg the reader to consider the person who wrote it. He will undoubtedly
pardon every harsh expression, when he considers that she laboured under the
erroneous idea that no one could be saved who was not of her own persuasion,
and that she was obliged to make use of every thing in her power to rescue her
6on. — Note by Count O .
E 4
THE GHOST-SEER.
56
THE GHOST-SEEB.
I must also mention, that a short time before the Prince's
conversion to the Roman Catholic religion his uncle died,
and that he is now hereditary Prince of •
Narrative of the Count O resumed.
I must now bring the reader once more to that period,
when Lord Seymour found me again in his disguise as a
showman.
Our common endeavours were made for a long while in
vain to learn something more of the Prince than what we
had discovered from Johnson's letters, which was but of
little benefit, as the source was locked up from whence the
information came. In every letter we received from him
(for he knew at present of my being with his Lordship,
and my intended plan of saving the Prince), he mentioned
that the Prince became every day more thoughtful, and
lived quite retired from the world. And that, in spite of his
endeavours, he could not discover the Armenian's object.
That the completion of it was near, we easily guessed, and
this made us so much the more anxious ; for he conducted
his operations so clandestinely, that nobody could either
discover or conjecture his intention. The before-mentioned
hieroglyphical letter was now understood by us more clearly
than when we first obtained it, as the Prince was now a
Roman Catholic, and stood at the foot of the throne ; but
the time when the contents of that letter could be fulfilled
was necessarily that when he should become Regent of
, which could not be expected so soon. Besides
this, we were fearful that all our presentiments were not
well founded ; and, though there should be a plan of mis¬
chief forming, we could not yet know for a certainty
whether the Prince, who ought to be the principal person
in it, was willing to consent. This prevented us from
taking a step which would inevitably have produced bad
consequences for the Prince, and which we agreed to delay
until the danger was greater. — This period arrived but
too soon.
One evening when it was very late Lord Seymour came
to me. His countenance announced something extra¬
ordinary. " Friend!" he exclaimed with astonishment,
THE GHOST-SEER.
57
" I have news to communicate which you never would
have imagined ! The Prince has found his Greek lady,
his Theresa!" You joke," I replied. " How is that
possible, when she is dead, and Baron F himself has
seen her dissected ? — How is that possible ? "
u This question," he answered, " you must ask the
Armenian. In short, she is alive, and every word of the
Prince breathes happiness and ecstasy. I saw her come
out from the convent — saw how he embraced her, and
pressed her to his heart, and heard him in the greatest
rapture call her by her name. In short she is alive, and I
discovered it by the strangest accident. I was wandering
about, and my feet conducted me by the convent .
The history of the Prince made this convent remarkable to
me; and I never went by it without giving a free scope to
my sensations. I found the church open, and went into
it. A solemn tranquillity surrounded me, and my steps
were gently echoed in the vaulted aisles. This little cir¬
cumstance made a still greater impression upon my imagin¬
ation ; and I found myself so unwell that I could not
proceed. A side door, which I never had observed, attracted
my eye. I opened it, and discovered a staircase which
led into the vaults of the chapel. I went down, and found
myself in a spacious cell, surrounded by the dead mouldering
in their coffins, and which was dimly illuminated by a
lamp that was suspended in the middle of the arch by a
chain. Before I could recover my powers of recollection,
(for I must confess that, natural as it was to find in such
a situation a burial vault, I did not expect it when I stepped
down,) I heard behind me the rattling of a door, and the
echo of some footsteps which seemed to approach. I was
afraid of being discovered, and detained for a thief. I re¬
tired into a corner where I could see every thing that
passed, without being observed, if they did not search the
whole vault, and which I did not fear. I had scarcely
stood two minutes in the corner, when the door opened,
and in came — the Armenian and the Prince. The first
was dressed in a long white robe, thrown loosely over
his body: there was a solemn but agreeable dignity, and
confidential seriousness, pictured in his face. He took
58
THE GHOST-SEER.
from under his arm eight torches, and lighted them at the
burning lamp. Each of them he moved towards the four
walls, and bowed each time. One of them he gave to the
Prince, and the other seven he placed around him in a
circle. He kneeled in the circle; and then, for a long
time, lay speechless and without motion upon his face.
At last he arose, and spread out his hands over the burning
torches. He drew from out his bosom a bottle in which
was a liquid, which he dispersed towards the four corners
of heaven, and uttered some words which I could not un¬
derstand. In the mean time there was heard delightful
music, which was at some distance, although it appeared
to be near. It seemed to me to be a small organ. How¬
ever, I must confess that all these unexpected magical
arrangements of the Armenian had a great effect upon my
mind, and I felt far more than I can describe.
" The Armenian now drew from under his dress a small
silver censer, upon which he put something that caused an
agreeable odour through the vault. That the whole was
intended to raise some spirit, I expected at the first sight;
and I was curious to know how he would succeed, as I
did not perceive the least apparatus for his purpose. I
must confess to you, dear Count, that I had determined, if
it were possible, to interrupt the mountebank tricks of this
Armenian ; and, under that idea, I always carried about me
a brace of pocket pistols. But it did not come to that.
He put the censer upon the ground, fell again upon his
face, and remained in that situation for some minutes.
Having risen again, he repeated the same indistinct wrords
which he had uttered before ; and, after a pause, stretched
his hand towards a new coffin, and let it fall slowly upon
it. Suddenly the lid made a rattling noise, and fell to the
ground. The Greek Lady instantly appeared. She was
wrapped in white burial linen. Inexpressible serenity
beamed in her countenance ; and there was not the least
appearance of her having been ill. The Prince let fall the
torch, which till then he had held immovable in his hand,
rushed towards her, and clasped her with speechless ecstasy
in his arms. I must confess that I was almost petrified
by her appearance, and had nearly betrayed myself. This
THE GHOST-SEER.
silent pause lasted for a long time, while the beloved pressed
each other to their hearts, and an eager kiss renewed their
bonds of attachment. They then uttered, with tender
emotion, each other's name, and each said —c Now thou
art mine again for ever !'
" The Armenian remained in his circle of torches, from
which he had not removed, and delighted himself with the
spectacle. He could not, however, conceal his joy at the
success of his artifice; and 1 perceived it struggled with
that solemn affected gravity which he sought to maintain.
' Let us not remain longer among the dead,' said she, and
led the Prince to the door. f Are you now satisfied with
me ?' said the Armenian to the Prince; ' and will you
now willingly fulfil my wish ?' ' All, all!' he exclaimed.
They went away, and I immediately crept out of my
corner. It was lucky for me that they left the door open,
otherwise perhaps you might never have seen me again."
Narrative of the Count O continued.
Early on the morning following the above-mentioned
interview with my friend, whilst I was lying musing in
bed, I heard a knocking at my door. I threw my disguise
carelessly over me, and ran to open it. The Armenian
came in, and gave me a letter directed to , and. like¬
wise a considerable sum of money, partly in notes and
partly in cash, desiring me at the same time to pursue my
journey with the greatest despatch. " If you arrive at the
place appointed expeditiously," said he, " and deliver this
letter into the hands of the proper person, your recompense
will be great; but if you fail in the least particular that
may be serviceable in the commission, death is inevitably
your lot, though you should hide yourself in any corner of
the world." These were his last words, and he went
away. Had I been the person whom he thought me to be,
his conduct could not have failed to accomplish his business,
and I should have delivered the letter as he directed for
my own interest. But he was scarcely gone, when I bolted
the door, and opened the letter. It was written in the
same hieroglyphical characters as the former; and, without
60
the ghost-seer.
waiting to dress myself properly, I ran to communicate to
Lord Seymour my acquisition. We both sat down to
decipher it. The contents were as follows: —
" The Prince is turned Roman Catholic, and has now
consented to every thing. His uncle is no more, and he
stands at the next step to the throne. A hint from me,
and he is elected. The appointed day for this is the
of April. Your's must be killed the of April, and in
the mean time the Prince must be proclaimed king by you.
That he will agree to all your proposals and execute them,
I once more assure you, and answer for his word. The
enemy from without and the citizens are to attack proud
Venice at the same time. Surely it must be conquered!
Rejoice ! From its ruins will blossom our happiness, for
which we have laboured so many years. But the fruit
tastes sweeter which we raise with difficulty, than that
which requires no cares.
" The Conspirators at Venice."
We stood and looked at one another, without being able
to utter a word. " The danger is now truly imminent,"
said Lord Seymour, after a pause; " and we must discover
all to the inquisition of the state, else we shall be deemed
equally culpable with these villains."
Before I could make any answer, Johnson rushed into
the room. From him we learned that the Prince, the
Armenian, and also Biondello, had already been secured by
the officers of the inquisition, and were in close confinement.
Our terror and astonishment were indescribable: we
remained for a long time immovable in the situation in
which this intelligence had thrown us; and we had a still
longer time to stay before we could form any resolution of
what we ought to do, not so much to free ourselves from
danger, as to make the situation of the Prince more tole¬
rable. As soon as we had, in some respect, learned the
dreadful plan which appeared so distinctly by the letter
of the Armenian, the thought that any offence against
the Rehablei here had been so often severely punished,
and that it had been the constant practice of these im¬
placable judges to condemn him to death who was only
THE GHOST-SEER.
61
suspected to be dangerous to them, even should he have
performed the greatest and most distinguished services to
the state, struck us with the most dreadful apprehension.
All my fortitude forsook me. Lord Seymour, who always
in misfortunes retained a coolness of temper, sat mute; and
the projecting Johnson kept his eyes fixed upon the ceiling.
By the account which our faithful boatman gave us, we
learned that already several noblemen had been imprisoned,
and many others had escaped. Our fear was now at the
highest. No doubt now remained that some person must
have given them information ; and every ray of hope,
which confidence inspires, forsook us. Plans were formed
and immediately given up, on account of their inconsistency.
Johnson took no part in them, but went away without
saying a word of what was his intention ; and before we
had time to interrogate him why he would leave us, he
was out of sight.
He returned after he had been absent several hours : our
door was suddenly opened, and a frightful officer of the
inquisition entered. How the mind of a guilty person
must sink at the sight of such a man, I could easily judge
by my own fears, which, in spite of my innocence, almost
overpowered me. I nevertheless recovered myself soon,
to which the cool behaviour of Lord Seymour contributed
in a great measure. " An open confession of truth and
intrepidity," said he to me in a whisper, " are useful upon
all occasions, and I hope will conduct us safely through this
business."
After the officer had looked at us for some minutes, he
told us coolly what was his commission, and that we must
follow him to the tribunal. This was said without cir¬
cumlocution ; and we endeavoured to determine with our¬
selves what could be the meaning of this exercise of their
power against us. Without a single word being spoken,
we arrived at the place of our destination, when we were
immediately separated from each other. The room into
which they conducted me, except the fortifications to
prevent the escape of any person, had not the appearance
of a prison. Every accommodation was contained in the
apartments; and this circumstance served to lessen my
62
THE GHOST-SEER.
fear. That we were confined here on account of the Prince
was very evident; but how they had discovered us in our
retirement was a matter still to be accounted for. Already
several hours had passed, in which I puzzled my brain to
find out by what possible means this accident could have
happened, when I was summoned to the audience. They
looked at me with stern countenances, and required of me
the history of my residence in Venice, and exhorted me
with calmness to speak the truth faithfully; for they said
it would be better for me so to do, as they knew already
every thing without my telling it, and that I must not
think I could utter a single falsehood undetected. When
I had finished my history, in which I concealed not the
smallest circumstance, and after I had attested every part,
the countenances of the inquisitors seemed to relax. My
examination was then read to me; and, after I had con¬
firmed every thing therein, I was recommitted to prison.
For several days they confined me under this arrest;
during which time, contrary to my expectations, they
permitted me to amuse myself with reading. After the
expiration of a week they announced to me my freedom,
with the condition that I should continue still at Venice,
that I might, if required, undergo another examination.—
The circumstances under which Lord Seymour and myself
had been committed were so singular, that I had no doubt,
although I had not seen him, but that he would again
obtain his liberty,— and I was right; he met me at the
door, and we returned arm in arm to our own habitation.
Johnson came to us, and our joy at meeting, notwith¬
standing our short separation, was as great as if we had
not seen each other for some years. The pleasure of
having regained our liberty was so sensibly felt by us,
that we forgot the Prince and every thing else, and gave
ourselves up entirely to excessive joy. Till then I had
always thought that the welfare of the Prince had lain
nearer to my heart than my own, but I found that I had
deceived myself; for otherwise how could I have become
so totally taken up with the first impulse of my joy, when
I knew not the least circumstance of his situation ? But I
will do my heart the justice to say, that I should not so
THE GHOST-SEER.
63
easily have given myself up to the natural impulse of my
feelings, had I not been full of hope for his safety.
All that I had hitherto heard concerning the police of
this place was descriptive of cruelty, or, if this word should
seem too harsh, of the greatest injustice, inasmuch as they
did not sufficiently distinguish between the innocent and
guilty, and maintained the horrid maxim, that it was better
that many innocent people should suffer than that one
guilty person should escape. They conducted themselves,
however, towards me in a way so different from my ideas
of their clemency, that it was not wonderful I should
indulge some hope for the Prince, and prefer my own
experience to what I had formerly heard, and of which I
knew nothing, although my passions persuaded me to
believe. I had besides, without departing from the truth,
spoken so much in favour of the Prince, that I did not
doubt but it would excite compassion in them for so exalted
a character. Nor could it reasonably be thought that they
would be so foolish as to depart in this instance from their
general rules, and execute justice with rigour, particularly
as, not being a Venetian nobleman, his removal would
secure the possibility of future danger to them.
After the first emotions were over, we asked Johnson if
he had not been in fear for us when he learned our mis¬
fortune ? " Not in the least," said he, smiling, and then
he gave us to understand, to our great astonishment, that
he had been the cause of our being brought before the
tribunal. "You!" interrupted Lord Seymour angrily;
" I am very anxious to know the grounds of this singular
proceeding." " It is very evident by your anger that
you did not suspect my plan. Do you think that the in¬
quisition would not have come in search of you ? Must not
the letter from the Armenian, and all the papers found
upon the Prince, have betrayed you ?'
" But it is fortunate that it did not happen. I must
add, that I see no excuse for so extraordinary an under¬
taking, when you could not foresee the good that was to
arise from it."
" That (I will affirm with the greatest truth) I could
always foresee; and, besides, had it come to the worst, the
64
THE GHOST-SEER.
evil never could have been so great as if we had suffered it
to be discovered. They will also be more satisfied if they
come at the truth by our examination, than if they suspected
we had kept hack from making these important discoveries
to the state till we were obliged to do it. — And in what
an advantageous light will the unfortunate circumstances of
the best of Princes be looked upon by such means, and how
greatly must our free confession contribute to our excuse,
which, discovering itself in a multitude of circumstances,
cannot have a different effect ? It certainly must dispose
them to believe our word in future, when they have found
that all our assertions have been so exactly conformable to
the truth."
" You have calculated upon the future very justly, and
I will spare my reproaches; but, as you kept up this
manoeuvre so well, you should at least have given us some
intimation of your design : for I must certainly confess
(you will excuse me) that you took a great liberty in acting
in this manner; and that it was very dangerous to put us
so suddenly and unexpectedly into a situation which we
could not possibly foresee." " As you speak so candidly, I
shall not longer oppose you; but we should have been
equally unprovided for the examination, if we had been
apprehended. If you recollect, I remarked, a little time
before I went out, that in case we should be brought before
the tribunal, it would be better for us to adhere faithfully
to the truth : and could you desire any further preparation ?
Can any danger attend speaking the truth ? Upon this
ground I formed my plan, and feigned your consent; be¬
cause it must end well. But the principal ground that I
went upon was not to lose any time; for I was instructed
early in the morning in what I ought to undertake. This
accident would have certainly happened, if we had delibe¬
rated any longer, and therefore I thought it most prudent
and wise to act as I did."
" It is a pity," said Lord Seymour, laughing, " that
your scheme is not published; it might serve to deprive
many an undertaking of its consequences." This observ¬
ation, which he joined with some friendly jokes, changed
our tone suddenly and unexpectedly to a greater degree of
THE GHOST-SEER.
65
happiness • and we delivered ourselves up to the felicity of
the present moment, without prying the least into futu¬
rity, and without being willing to withdraw the veil which
so completely obscured it. How many more happy hours
would mankind enjoy if they could always do so !
" But had we not now better dress ourselves in our own
clothes?" said Johnson.
I thought it was better to dress again in our proper
habits; because, if any of the conspirators still remained
here, we should be in less danger of being assassinated by
them. We concluded this to be the wisest plan; and Lord
Seymour and Johnson went out immediately to take mea¬
sures accordingly. They had not been gone above an
hour, when a stranger came to me, and, in broken Latin,
excused the liberty he was taking. I was surprised tha
he did not make an attempt to find whether I understood
the Venetian language. I could not help suspecting that
he already knew me, and was acquainted that, in the part
I had undertaken, I had studiously avoided the appearance
of understanding the Venetian tongue. And so it was. I
learned, soon after he had entreated me not to keep any secret
from him, that he was the keeper of the prison of the in¬
quisition of the state, and that the Armenian had sent him
with a letter to me for the , which he requested me
with earnest entreaty to deliver immediately. He gave me
at the same time every advice by which I could make my
escape, without creating suspicion. Men, he said, did not
always escape so well as I had done, after having been
cited before the tribunal; and he tried, by every assiduous
art, to make me hasten my departure. I promised every
thing; and ordered him to tell the Armenian that it was
not in the least my fault, but owing to indisposition, that I
did not immediately set out after the receipt of his last letter.
As soon as he was gone I opened the letter, and found in
hieroglyphics the following account: —
" If immediate assistance does not arrive, all is lost. I,
the Prince, and many other conspirators, are in prison. It
always appeared to me that this event would take place,
and therefore I had beforehand guarded against it: so that
YOL. II. E
66
the ghost-seer.
nothing can happen of consequence, and no loss will be in¬
curred, if our foreign friends are not too tardy. We have
long agreed that the information we shall give in this place
shall be exactly similar; and it will not be difficult for us
to delay the examination for some time longer. While I
myself was at the head of this state, and many high
offices were then in my possession, I took care to leave
the prison in such a state, that we could easily make
our escape; and I still possess many friends who will
enable us to regain our liberty, as soon as it shall ap¬
pear that our coadjutors, are as brave as usual. — To
the Count and I have already written ; and
there is no doubt but that all will go 011 as much to our
wishes as before, although they thought themselves so sure
of us after they had taken us into custody. The bearer of
this letter has also been before the tribunal, and has been
examined, and was fortunately acquitted: a proof that these
gentlemen are not so wise as they would willingly think
themselves; and that they will become the sport of me and
my confederates. Every thing else remains as before.
" The Chief of the Venetian Conspirators."
I and my companions were equally astonished at the
contents of this letter, which 1 showed them upon their
return, and particularly at the style in which it was written,
and at the new base plot which was already so artificially
planned and confided in. We were unanimously of opinion
that this letter ought to be delivered to the inquisition; but
we were not determined which of us could undertake this
with the greatest propriety, without exciting the suspicions
of the Armenian's coadjutors. Johnson charged himself
with this commission; and immediately went out with the
letter, under the supposition (as he had been formerly in¬
spector of the Prince's finances) of having something of
consequence to communicate. He was immediately ad¬
mitted. They were astonished at the contents of this
letter, and as much so at the possibility of so noted a prison
as that of the inquisition being thus faulty. They returned
me (together with a snuff-box set with brilliants, which
Johnson brought me back,) their sincere thanks for the in¬
formation which I had by this means given to the state.
THE GHOST-SEER.
67
It happened, as I suspected, after they had removed the
prisoners to other convenient and secure places, they im¬
mediately examined the prison ; and they actually found
iron crows, scaling-ladders, files, and such like tools, with¬
out which it would have been impossible to have made an
escape from so strong a place. The greater part of them
lay hid in the walls, so that they could not possibly have
been found without some previous knowledge of them.
They also fortunately intercepted the letters to —dr.
Neither the Armenian nor any of his confederates knew any
thing beforehand of this circumstance. They contrived
so that they should be totally ignorant of this new scheme,
intending by this means, perhaps, to entangle the conspira¬
tors the more strongly in their net; and they entreated me
to depart from Venice in my Jewish dress, and also to
assume the appearance of being willing to deliver the letter
which was intrusted to my charge. But neither by this
means, nor the innumerable spies which were always at the
service of the state, could they discover a single conspirator,
except those they were already acquainted with. Some
whom the spies accused falsely for the sake of money, and
who were afterwards happily cleared, cannot be justly
reckoned in the number.
I remained no longer absent from Venice than was
necessary to put myself into a condition to appear again in
the character of the Count O . My sudden re-appear¬
ance excited great astonishment; my friends would scarcely
believe their eyes; and I had enough to do to invent a pro¬
bable history which would account for my sudden departure
and reported death. They credited my assertions (in a
period so full of mysteries, in which they were every where
taught to expect wonders from those who stood in any
manner connected with the Prince), and very readily believed,
or at least pretended to believe me, which was quite sufficient
for my purpose; because they no longer made enquiries
after me, which I had endeavoured all along to prevent, by
assuming a mysterious air. Lord Seymour had also now
reassumed his former character, and, for appearance' sake,
had taken Johnson into his service.
And now all the suspected people belonging to the Prince
F 2
68
THE GHOST-SEER.
were at liberty; and it excited no astonishment to see me
with Lord Seymour, being an old acquaintance of his, and
they even saw me take lodgings in the same hotel with him.
Here we were all assembled together again, and this with
the wish and consent of the inquisition, not to give them any
cause of suspicion, and that they might know immediately
where to find us. The precaution with which we proceeded
may appear to some people unnecessary, because we never
heard the least report of the Armenian having accomplices
remaining, that could in the least interrupt our plans. I,
for my part, employed my time in endeavouring to obtain
an interview with the Prince; but this the scrupulous in¬
quisition constantly refused, although they conducted them¬
selves towards me with much complaisance; and it was
with great difficulty that I could learn thus much from
them, viz. that his present situation was not insupportable,
and that they treated him with greater consideration than
so capital a crime deserved.
With this I was obliged to content myself; and, that the
time of our waiting for the event of this important affair
might appear as short as possible, we frequented every
public place of amusement in the city. The best of these
was what they call Basini*, in which that reserved conduct
and cold behaviour were less observable, which always
banished every sociable friendship from the society of the
Venetians. One evening I was present at one of these
Basini; and there was also an officer in a uniform at the
same place. The history of the colonel and his com¬
panions came into my mind, and I could not help suspecting
that it was the same person who would have murdered the
Prince by means of his footman. I was not mistaken —
it was indeed the colonel himself. 1 heard his name by
accident. I could with difficulty hide my terror, in spite
of all the good I had formerly heard of the colonel. I was
in this case obliged to believe the evidence of the footman;
and I concluded that, perhaps out of an ill-judged zeal for
* These Basini were either private Basini, held in small houses, where the
principal Venetians spent their time in private meditation, or in the society of
particular friends; or oftentimes they were a kind of club, of which the follow¬
ing is a regulation:—" Whoever wished to have admission here, must be first
introduced by a member, and then he could return as often as he pleased."
These meetings, therefore, were not altogether public, as we might be led to
suppose from the Count 0 's account of them.
THE GHOST-SEER. 69
his court, he had consented that the murder of the Prince
should be perpetrated. I immediately left the room, and
went in quest of Lord Seymour, to whom I communicated
my discovery.
" Is the colonel there now ? " said he, interrupting me.
" Very likely," said I; " for when I left the room he was
deeply engaged at the gaming-table." " Let us then re¬
turn to him," returned he. "You surely joke," I observed;
" for how can I expect any good from him, since I am a
friend of that Prince whom he would have murdered ? Do
you not rather think that he has put himself in the way of
me because he has some design upon me ?"
" Do you really believe that the colonel, at the request of
the court, would have ordered the Prince to be murdered ? "
" Why do you ask me ? Have you not seen Johnson's
letter, in which it is so clearly proved ? " " Johnson only
related what he had heard from the footman, a man of
very shallow judgment, who might easily be deceived, pro¬
vided the sly Armenian wished to use him as a snare to
entrap the Prince."
" Well, that I may not have more objections to encounter,
I will readily concede to your opinion, that this colonel has
really sought after the life of the Prince, — nay, even more,
that he has dangerous views upon yourself, —and yet I will
entreat you to go with me. We shall hazard nothing by
this means; for we can easily remain at the Basini till day,
and there we shall be safe enough, even if your suspicions
are well founded; and you will learn also, if he is an honest
man, how to despise the wicked, and will moreover be freed
from a vain fear. Who knows but we may gain from him
information which may be of the greatest service to us !"
I was ashamed of my childish fears, and consented to go
with him. — As soon as he had an opportunity he began a
conversation with the colonel, which I overheard at a dis¬
tance ; and they soon became so well pleased with each
other that the colonel promised Lord Seymour to breakfast
with him the next morning, which circumstance was highly
gratifying to me, as I hoped the business would be then
entirely explained.—The whole company seemed to be
well disposed to pleasure, and pursued every thing that was
F 3
I
A.
70
THE GHOST-SEER.
agreeable or entertaining. They joked, laughed, and
sometimes entertained themselves with play, according to
the taste of each individual. The morning star had risen
before we consented to return home. The colonel, pleased
with the former invitation of Seymour, agreed to go home
with him immediately; and we took him in the coach be¬
tween us.
" This then is your lodging," said he, as we stopped
opposite to our apartment. " Now this is lucky for me ;
for I can at the same time pay a visit which I was willing
to have made this day, but could not find my man."
" May I ask," enquired Seymour, " who this person is ? "
" The Count O -." Lord Seymour gave me a side look,
which I returned significantly. " Do you know Count
O ? " said Seymour, after a pause; ce you and I will
visit him to become acquainted with him ; and I hope your
visit will be by no means unpleasant, as at first I feared it
might be." " I cannot tell you how the affair hangs, and
(you will excuse me) were I not an open-hearted German,
grown grey in the midst of gaiety, where one learns to hate
dissimulation, as you are desirous of procuring a secret
from me, I would invent a tale to deceive you, and then
laugh at you behind your back."
The open conduct of the colonel brought him more and
more into my favour, particularly as he did not take the
least pains to conceal any thing. Johnson now came to us
and opened the door. The colonel awoke as from a dream.
He asked Seymour his name, and, as soon as he had heard
it, stepped back a few steps, and stood with folded arms in
astonishment. " Seymour!" he exclaimed, are you
Lord Seymour ? Have I not out of pure civility committed
a stupid blunder, in not having long ago asked your name ?
And am I really with you — and even going to breakfast
with you ? Surely you will not make me go mad ! —And
you," addressing himself to me, " perhaps you are Count
O himself ? "
" The same, at your service." He took my hand, and
shook it very heartily. " I rejoice from my heart," said
he, " to see you ; and am truly glad to become acquainted
with you." Every remaining distrust which I entertained
THE GHOST-SEER.
71
was removed, so soon as I learned from him that he had
been here oitly a few days, and that it was the first time he
had ever been in Venice; and this he proved by many in¬
contestable evidences. It was also evident that Lord Sey¬
mour had judged rightly, and that the appearance of this
colonel with the Prince's footman must have been an
invention of the Armenian; for the colonel was confined
at the very time by a severe illness. We became more
and more communicative to each other, and this was not
wonderful; for, besides every other consideration which
could induce us to become so, a mutual interest drew us
together, as we both hoped to clear up every thing relating
to the Prince, concerning whom we now began to converse.
What I was able to tell the colonel respecting the Prince,
the reader already knows from tl^e foregoing part of this
history; and, for the better elucidation of this matter, I
will relate in regular order whatever he informed me
respecting the history of the Prince.
" You have, perhaps," said the Colonel, addressing him¬
self to me, " heard from the Prince himself what a good
understanding subsists between the present Regent of
and myself. — And I must say, I cannot conceive how the
Prince should take affront at a letter (which, I will believe,
might contain some harsh expressions), and suffer himself
to be totally separated from him for such a trifle. Would it
not have been better to have endeavoured to refute the false
calumniations, which appeared at last to be too well founded?
Good God! perhaps by that means all these misfortunes
might have been prevented. But, instead of this, he re¬
turned so harsh an answer to the good man, that it forced
tears from his eyes. I must tell you, that he converses
with me in the most friendly manner. What could be more
likely than that an irreconcilable rupture should happen
between them ? Neither of them would concede, so long as
each person thought himself in the right, and to be the in¬
jured party. And yet my master would, in all probability,
have condescended so far as to request the Prince to justify
himself, had it not been for the shameful interposition of
some men, whose interest it evidently was to prevent this
reconciliation. ■—You must not think that the bad reports
f 4
72
THE GHOST-SEEK.
which you heard concerning the regent were altogether true.
He is really a good man, although no philosopher ; nor will
he even purchase the title of a great man by shedding
human blood: and hence it happens that many people call
him a fool; but they only show their own weakness.' *
"But," I interrupted him, "have you not learned by
chance who it is that has calumniated the Prince at his
court ? " —■ " The accounts came from different places,
and agreed so exactly with each other that they would have
almost made us believe impossibilities. The first account
was given by the President , who had a correspondent
in Venice that communicated every thing to him; but the
principal account was from the Baron F , who had
always been so warm a friend of the Prince's, that one
would rather have expected him to have written in his
favour than against him." " I would risk all my hap¬
piness for a nutshell," I exclaimed, " if the Baron F
ever wrote a word to the court prejudicial to his master;
yea, rather"— "We now know, with certainty," said
he, interrupting me hastily, " that all was treachery ; but
how could it be known at ^hat time ? —The shameful and
infamous plot is now unfolded; and I am come here to have
the whole discovered, and to imprison all the other con¬
spirators."
" Have you," exclaimed Lord Seymour and myself, at
the same instant, " been able to discover this secret con¬
spiracy, which the very watchful and vigilant state-inqui¬
sition could not effect?" " The President , whom I
have already mentioned, was also in the plot, and had been
the cause of all the changes which took place among us.
A terrible fall from his horse brought him to death's door.
—All the physicians gave him over. — But his accusing
conscience, which continued to torment him, did not permit
him to die in peace. For some time he lay in the greatest
agony, sweating as it were drops of blood. At last he
desired to speak in private with , because he had some
information of the greatest importance to communicate to
* We easily perceive here the character of a friend ; but, nevertheless, we
must not altogether reject the whole of his account. — The truth commonly
lies between extremes; and that the reader might not be deceived by the
former account, and might judge for himself, I have set down every thing that
related to the Regent.
THE GHOST-SEER.
73
him"; and we learned with horror that he had put to death
the hereditary Prince, and the uncle of the present Prince,
by means of poison, which he had procured from Venice;
and that a similar fate was likewise to have befallen .
Death, certainly the most terrible that ever fell to the lot
of a man, prevented his discovering every thing. — He had
burnt his papers beforehand; and it was with difficulty
that he could name to us the principal actors of the con¬
spiracy in this place. Only the Count and myself
knew any thing of this affair ; and I have travelled day and
night to arrive as soon as possible. The inquisition were
astonished at my account, and you well know the rapidity
with which they act. — Yesterday I learned from them,
under the strongest injunctions of secrecy, what you, Lord
Seymour, and a Mr. Johnson had done for the Prince; and
this induced me to seek you immediately, to become ac¬
quainted with you; and I hoped also to become your friend:
—but the servant told me you were not at home."
Johnson now came from a side room, in which he could
overhear all our conversation; and a scene followed, the re¬
membrance of which will ever be dear to me, and in which
the amiable character of the colonel became more and more
conspicuous. — But the more interesting it might be to us,
the less, perhaps, would the reader gain by the description ;
and I shall therefore omit it, as it does not regularly be¬
long to the history By means of the colonel, who had
received unlimited power from the court to act in this
business relating to the Prince, according to his best judg¬
ment, we obtained access to his highness. He viewed me
with a smile full of grief, and shook my hand in a sorrow¬
ful manner. " You come not, my dear Count, I hope, to
reproach me ? " said he to me, after a short pause, during
which I endeavoured to summon up all my resolution.
" Prince," said I, " can you conceive this of me ? I wish
to God I had not found you in this situation; and I would
give my life if it could undo every thing. But I believe
this was ordered in the councils of eternal Providence,
which often permits evil to happen, that good may arise
out of it; and you have at least my compassion, although
I can give you no other assistance."
THE GHOST-SEER.
" I thank you; you pour sweet balsam into my wounded
mind: but, alas ! I must not accept even this compassion.
I deserve not the compassion of any man, and least of all
yours. Yes, that would be too much for a sinner of my
description. I know how readily men excuse themselves,
but I cannot do it, and you will therefore conclude whether
it is possible another should. — Let me confess to you, that
the chain of sins which I have committed almost distracts
me." " But were you not driven to the commission of
them all by irresistible artifice ? Oh ! I know the whole
of the transaction; I know more even than you do; and
here I will declare before the all-wise God, that you have
resisted every thing like a man, that you did not suffer
yourself to be easily overcome, and that hundreds in your
place would have yielded long ago." " But I, however,
sunk at last, and so deep ! — Was this necessary ? Had I
not the power to withstand it ? Ah ! I know I had; for
what would be virtue if it had not the power to combat the
charms of vice ? And what would be man, if you should
take from him his free agency ? Could we shun vice, and
adhere to virtue if we were forced by circumstances to act
as mere machines ? No, my dear Count; I had rather perish
under the weight of all my unworthiness, than ascribe to
God the cruelty that he can create men like an artificer,
who from the same metal makes instruments for the benefit
of mankind, and for their destruction."
" That I will not say; but Oh ! Prince, I feel the
narrow limits of my reason, and can offer you no farther
comfort than what our religion affords, ' God is loving
and merciful.' But he is just in the same degree, without
which he would be deficient in his greatest attribute, per¬
fection. How well it is for you, then, that you did not
willingly commit these errors, nor until you became, as it
were, intoxicated with zeal!" " I have answered that
argument before — that does not excuse me. I disre¬
garded my true friends, and suffered them to be murdered
in cold blood." " But you did not consent to it till you
thought you were convinced that they were traitors, and
had betrayed you." " I consented to it, however. Invent
no more excuses for me, dear Count; for those crimes will
THE GHOST-SEER.
75
totally destroy my comforts." " Will you then perti¬
naciously reject every comfort that your friend or your
religion can offer ? "
" That I will not; but must not the remembrance of my
disgrace for ever follow me ? Must it not purs': e me to
eternity, and even there make me wretched ? Can I drive
from my memory my past conduct ? Can God forgive
me ? Alas ! my dear friend, all consolation is lost —
every hope gone ! An arm which has once been broken
retains the effect of the fracture for ever." " But, not¬
withstanding, it afterwards performs its services, and the
possessor very often forgets that it has been injured. —
Believe me, upon my word, you may be happy again if
you choose. Shall I remind you of those eminent con¬
soling words in the Holy Scripture: —f There is more joy
in heaven over one sinner that repenteth, than over ninety
and nine just persons who need no repentance.' " . The
Prince meditated; his countenance lost its fearful ex¬
pression. His eyes were fixed, and darted wildly a look
of despair, but with a mixture of composure that denoted
hope. — I thought proper to leave him alone.
That the reader may comprehend, in the most adequate
point of view, the situation of this unhappy man, I have
put down the whole dialogue. Oh ! reader, bestow on him
thy compassion, who feels thy reproaches, which will be a
benefit to the heart. Do not triumph that thou hast not
yet been seduced. — Let his errors teach thee, that the
smallest step from the path of virtue is the beginning of
the greatest crime.
At my next visit, I found the Prince, to my great hap¬
piness, more composed than when I saw him the last time.
Before him the new Testament was lying open, which I
had procured him at his desire. — " Now," said he, " I
understand many things which before were dark to me.
What a benefit is our religion ! It has again elevated my
soul, which was cast down by so many heavy burdens, to
the highest pitch of gladness. To that alone I am in¬
debted for not falling a sacrifice to the most horrid despair.
Now the hope again revives that God will forgive me for
the sake of his Son, who sacrificed himself for me."
76
the giiost-seer.
He seemed to have renounced every thing in this world,
and his whole occupation was to prepare himself for fu¬
turity ; religion was his only thought. — " And have you
no other wish, the fulfilling of which might make you
happy ?" I asked him at last. — He continued thoughtful
for some time. " If it were possible," said he, " I could
wish to understand entirely the texture of the deceptions
and malice through which I became so unfortunate. No¬
body can give me a key to it but the Armenian, and they
will refuse my seeing him. I should also choose to die in
my native country, and to speak, were it only one word,
to the •, and to ask his pardon: — dear Count, you see,
my wishes go too far ; I renounce them. I promised him
to do all in my power to fulfil his request, and hastened
immediately to the colonel.
Happily he met me in the room. " Behold," said he,
cc a new proof how nobly my master the thinks, and
how much is to be hoped from him for the Prince. This
moment I received the following letter from him." He
gave it to me, and I read it: —
" My dearest Colonel,
" My situation at your departure did not permit me to
give you other than common charges, in respect to the
Prince. — There is no mistrust in your mind, nor deceit
in your heart, to prevent my making you acquainted with
my inclination very distinctly, and not to leave every fur¬
ther proceeding to your prudence; I am confident that
you will endeavour to fulfil in every particular, on account
of your love of justice, and your hatred to wickedness, all
that can alleviate the distresses of our unhappy Prince.
Know then, that I forgive him every thing from my heart,
release him from every punishment, and even wish that he
may become my successor. It is on this side that we
ought to contemplate him. My heart dictates it to me
when I consider that he did not act in that way willingly,
but was urged to it, by unheard of deception and villany.
I wait for your objections. It is understood that all this
can happen only as soon as he shall have reformed himself
entirely; and I hope this will be effected by his manifold
THE GHOST-SEER.
77
sufferings: the whirlpool of misfortunes and accumulated
miseries into which he was thrown must have opened his
eyes and purified his soul.
" Should my wishes, however, not agree with the con¬
sequences, I can do nothing more than forgive him on
account of myself; yet I do not expect that all must be
kept secret from him, that my proffered forgiveness may
not put a stop to his conversion. If I should die before
I have an opportunity to relate to him all myself, you may
show him this letter. The whole history shall be made
known in Venice, according to my wish, and the punish¬
ment of the criminals. As soon as the Prince is dismissed
a§ an evidence, you may come secretly hither with him.
That all this may not give trouble, I have written a letter
to the tribunal, which you only must deliver.
" Nobody here knows any thing of the fearful history ;
and you will, therefore, contrive as much as possible to
assist the prevailing secrecy.
" My old malady has again attacked me, which sorrow
has not a little contributed to increase, and my writing and
broken sentences will show this distinctly I believe my
end is not far off; and I wish once more to speak to the
Prince. Let this induce you not to be detained by any
circumstance that is not of real consequence from hastening
your departure. " —d—
" Is it not true that he is a most noble man?" exclaimed
the colonel, and tears of joy rolled down his cheeks. " See,
how he gave himself the trouble, on his sick bed, whence it
must have been very difficult for him to collect or connect
his thoughts, to write to me this letter for the welfare of
the Prince, who in the mean time—but let us forget that,
for he was also formerly a good man."
The colonel now took his hat and sword and departed,
that he might deliver the enclosed letter to the tribunal.
This and his representations had such an effect, that the
following day the Armenian was conducted to the Prince,
who surveyed him with composure. No look of revenge
disfigured his eye — no reproach escaped his lips. What
a difference between him and the Armenian, who now
78
THE GHOST-SEEIt.
seemed to call up all his powers to hide his embarrass¬
ment!
" Prince/' he began, " you see my embarrassment,
which (for what reason I know not) I am not able to
conceal. Have you commanded me to be brought hither,
to delight yourself with my sufferings ? I swear to you,
you shall behold me no more, although my body is so much
enfeebled by imprisonment, that I am now unable to com¬
mand it according to my desires. Or, do you wish for the
happiness," whilst he looked around the room, " to see me
murdered before your eyes ? Oh ! I shall not die like a
coward, for to me life is but a vapour — I feared nobody,
and my death shall not cost me a sigh." " You wrong
yourself," answered the Prince with sorrow, " by such an
idea. I forgive from my heart all that you have done to
me; I forgive with joy that you made me unhappy, if you
can be benefited by that ? "
" Can you forgive me ? I know not why this thought
so much delights me. But what do you desire of me ? "
ce An explanation of what has happened to me." " No,
that cannot be. — Oh ! Prince, I acknowledge your com¬
passion, which I do not deserve. It affects me more than
the most excruciating torments. Now I contemplate my¬
self as a monster. But to what purpose? I see that I
am overpowered, and my schemes are at an end. Is
this the case with all my confederates? You wish for an
explanation : — hear then my history, without which
nothing can be understood by you. I will deliver it to
you faithfully; for at present it is impossible for me to
lose any thing by it. You cannot think otherwise than
that I am one of the greatest villains, and my narration
will tell you the same. This short dialogue will con¬
vince you, that the leaden roofs alone have produced in
me a feebleness which I can bear no longer; the former
strength of my principles are certainly not fitted for a
deficiency of intellect. You must ascribe it to that, if in
my narration I should make a mistake."
THE GHOST-SEER.
79
History of the Armenian,
RELATED BY HIMSELF.
" My father was a senator in this city, which once trem¬
bled at my word, but now rejoices that it need no longer
fear me ; like the child who is pleased to see the wall beaten
against which it hurt itself. He had conducted himself in
many honourable situations with prudence and judgment.
On account of these qualities, which he knew how to make
the best use of, and his great experience, he was invested
with the office of ambassador at Rome. His young consort,
who loved him with the warmest affection, accompanied
him thither, and presented him a few weeks after their
arrival there with a son — this was I. The excessive joy of
my father was but of short duration — my mother gave
me life but to lose her own by it, for she died a few days
after her delivery. Doctor Silvio, who had attended my
mother during her pregnancy, and by his indefatigable
care had acquired the confidence of my father in the
highest degree, from this moment took charge of me.
He consigned me to the care of his wife, who had been
a little time before brought to bed of a daughter, and
promised, with the greatest pleasure, to fulfil all the duties
of a mother towards me. In the strictest sense of the
words she did not fulfil her promises; for she spoiled me,
and never, in the smallest degree, observed what pro¬
pensities I discovered, and how they ought to be directed
The Doctor believed also that he had done his duty when
he prescribed a dose for me from time to time; and as for
my vicious tricks (which are usually called the early blos¬
soms of a more than ordinary genius), nobody ever thought
about them. Hence it happened that my disposition, not
confined by any curb, very soon took a bent which no re¬
straint was able to control.
" Before I could pronounce my father's name, he was re¬
called from his embassy. It was his desire that I might
(before I should know him) be educated here at a distance
from Venice, and be drawn from my obscurity when I was
formed as he intended me to be. He thought to procure
80
THE GHOST-SEER.
me by that means great advantages over other children of
our nobility, who were in general most wretchedly edu¬
cated. Every thing was made use of, both to form my
mind and body. I comprehended every lesson easily, and
very seldom forgot it again ; I possessed judgment and
memory in a very extraordinary degree. Every science,
art, or exercise, which they taught me, soon became mere
play to me ; and I very often embarrassed my teachers with
questions and objections. I was every where celebrated as
a wonderful child, and the papers very often extolled me
and my bon mots. This was carried so far that foreigners
of the greatest note frequently came to see me, or sent for
me to their houses. By the extravagant presents which
they made me, the Doctor, whom I shall call father, as I
thought him so till a future period, became very soon one
of the richest of his profession. I hope not to incur the
odium of gasconading. The idea is intolerable to me. No ;
I have facts enough, which would seem incredible if they
had not been transacted before witnesses. And what should
I gain by it ? Must not even my extraordinary talents be
an additional incitement to every one who does not profess
my principles to condemn me ? Will not every one who
conceives that a great gulf is placed between himself and
me say, that the opinion and use which I made of my ex¬
traordinary talents, rendered me the greatest monster with
which the earth was ever cursed in the form of a human
being ? Am I not to be detested for abusing talents which,
if otherwise used, might have blessed mankind a thousand
fold, and which employed so basely became its curse ?
" Prince, I am not able to conceal my sensations — for
what cause I know not. I always had fortitude enough,
but now it ceases. It is as if all my confidence were de¬
serting me, and I was on the point of cursing the hour in
which I was born. Do you shudder at the idea? — Re¬
member that I do not repent of any of my actions, although
they may be the cause why I shall not breathe out my last
sigh upon a downy pillow. But yet, not to give any pain
to your re-converted heart, I sometimes shall play the cha¬
racter of a repentant sinner. I tell you this beforehand,
that you may not take it for earnest, and utter, before the
THE GHOST-SEER.
81
proper time, some pious sighs over the lost but recovered
sheep.* But to continue. My external form corresponded
with my mind : whoever beheld me, caressed and admired
me; and my father would have been ashamed to chastise such
a universal darling, if I had ever been so incautious as to
suffer myself to be surprised in the execution of an un¬
pardonable trick. I soon considered every encomium as a
tribute which was due to me. If I took a dislike to any
one, it lasted much longer than the hatred of children gene¬
rally does; and if any one ventured to blame me, woe be
to him ! for I never rested till I revenged myself. One
incident may be recorded here as an example of the rest,
and will give you an idea of what I was in my seventh
year.
" My father had a very sincere friend, named Cabellioni.
He visited us almost every day; and, notwithstanding his
continual gravity, he was esteemed by the whole family,
because he was universally believed to be a man of principle
and integrity. I alone was perfectly indifferent about him, till
the period when I hated him from my soul. I was playing
at cards with some other boys; and being already too much
accustomed to have the advantage, I was angry that Fortune
did not that evening use me very politely. I endeavoured
to gain that which she denied me by unfair means, and such
as were far beyond my years. My companions, who were
all much older than myself, did not perceive it: however, I
had a lecture for my unfair dealing ; for Signor Cabellioni,
without my perceiving it, slipped himself behind my chair,
and was observing me. As much as I was enraged at his
reprimand, I yet knew how to hide my vexation under a
smiling countenance, and had presence of mind enough to
profess that my tricks were merely a trial to see how far I
could go on with them before my playfellows discovered
them. Cabellioni shook his head thoughtfully; and this
very circumstance enraged me so much the more against
* These words were accompanied with a burst of laughter, the thought of
which even now makes my hair to stand erect His countenance was indescribably
frightful. At that moment I was doubtful whether he was really a human
being: for what must he be who could consider repentance of actions (for which
Satan himself could not blush) as disgraceful; and when it oppressed him with
violence, seek to conceal it before us by the most shameful duplicity?
_ Note of Count O—.
VOL. II. G
82
THE GHOST-SEEK.
him, because it was a proof that he did not believe my
excuses: I was obliged to wait several days before I could
be revenged.
" Behind our house there was a small garden, and a sum¬
mer-house. A party of my father's friends were drinking
chocolate in it. Cabellioni was leaning with his back
against a window, which was very low. With the greatest
ease I got up to it on the outside, and fastened to his large
periwig a piece of packthread, to which also was affixed a
heavy stone. This I laid upon the window frame, in such
a manner that the smallest movement Cabellioni made must
throw it down, and consequently carry away the wig with
it. Scarcely had I very gravely seated myself in my place
when this happened. While the company broke out into a
laugh at the ridiculous appearance the astonished Cabellioni
made, I ran out to unfasten the wig from the stone, and
restored it to its owner : he thanked me for this attention
as kindly as if I had rendered him a great benefit; but
"whilst he caressed me I meditated (not yet sufficiently re¬
venged) upon a new scheme, which would do him real in¬
jury, and I found it very easy to accomplish. Cabellioni
had a very rare collection of fine porcelain, on which he set
his heart. I thought of nothing less than the depriving him
of his dearest treasure by destroying it; and in this I suc¬
ceeded without incurring the smallest suspicion : I left not
one single piece whole; and the next day I had the pleasure
to see him bewail his misfortune to my father, with tears
in his eyes.
" This thirst for revenge, which could be roused to the
highest degree by the most trifling advantage which any
one gained over me, or by the smallest offence against my
pride, increased so much, that, even in my sixteenth year,
I plunged, in cool blood, a dagger into the heart of one of
my companions, because I was reprimanded on his account
by one of my masters. I threw the body into the Tiber
and no one ever knew of this action. — You will easily
imagine what an effect it must have had upon me, that all
my undertakings ; succeeded and I frequently was able to
procure the greatest advantage by them."
ri "But," said the Prince, interrupting him, "the most
the ghost-seer.
83
consummate hypocrite has moments (be it ever so seldom)
when his real countenance may be discovered through the
mask. Was this never your case?"
ff It happened but very seldom to me; and then I always
managed to extricate myself so well, that the most refined
wickedness was willingly believed to be the intemperance
of youth. — In such cases I never spared my tears; I ac¬
cused myself, magnified the crime, severely reproached
myself with it, and often, when my preceptors had forgotten
it, pretended to recall it to my mind with the deepest sighs.
They embraced me with rapture, and begged me not to
think any more about it. Had I reason to fear that one of
my tricks must unavoidably be discovered, I was immedi¬
ately the first to make it known to them ; on which account
they naturally placed unlimited confidence in my candour.
By these means, I easily discovered the weak side of every
one with whom I was at all acquainted, and, as soon as it
was necessary, I knew how to make this discovery serve my
purposes, and this aided me in the commission of many
crimes; for their eyes were always blinded with regard to
me, and those who surrounded me did not narrowly watch
me. My father spent the few hours of leisure which his
public business afforded him in his laboratory, and was
too much occupied by his studies to observe me otherwise
than superficially ; because that fairness of character in me
which is inherent in a child was merely external appear¬
ance. He seldom spoke to me except at table, and there I
always contrived to display such a brilliant side of my cha¬
racter, to set off all my talents to such advantage, that he
always treated me with encomiums. As for my mother, I
only had to say a few soothing things to her, and she readily
forgot all that she had observed wrong in me; and my pre¬
ceptors were satisfied when they received their monthly
stipend, and praised my talents when, to soothe my ambition,
I had learned more than had been assigned me.
" By all these great faults of my youth,—by the greatest
ambition, and insufferable pride, which made me sometimes
look down with contempt upon the greatest men, —by the
detestable envy, and the unconquerable desire for re¬
venge on all whom I thought my enemies, I possessed an
g 2
84
THE GHOST-SEER.
unbounded and never-satisfied wish to govern. All my
playfellows were obliged to submit to my authority.
Where I dared not to command, I employed other means
to attain my end, and which very seldom failed. I was the
master of the house, and sometimes commanded when my
conduct bespoke obedience. I knew well what would lead
in every instance to the gratification of my wishes ; I could
act with the greatest humility in every situation ; and there
was not a moment when I could not shift my disguise at
pleasure. Of good qualities which I possessed, according
to the ideas of moralists, I can reckon but very few ; be¬
cause I knew how to use them for my own benefit. How¬
ever, I will resume my relation, having explained my ideas
of right and wrong : otherwise you often would not under¬
stand me, if I should absent myself too far from the com¬
mon mode of speaking, and use language agreeable to my
principles.
"With talents to comprehend any thing very quickly,
and to form of it a proper idea, I was also possessed of
fine sensibility, which was affected by the most trifling
circumstance. If I once began any undertaking I per¬
severed in it with the greatest obstinacy, without being de¬
terred by the most formidable obstacles; (for to give it up
I was ashamed) though the consequences might not be at
all pleasant to me. My pleasing, flattering behaviour en¬
chanted all, although it was nothing more than policy,
which the pious simpleton degrades with the name of hy¬
pocrisy. To govern every where soon became my deter¬
mination ; to shine and to be admired, my favourite thought.
To satisfy it, those means only seemed to me fit which
would have deterred other people; and the most expeditious
way to arrive at my aim was the most welcome to me. A
path over putrified skeletons seemed not at all frightful to
me, if it was but the nearest. The little advantage I could
gain by the misfortune of other people, was, however, a
great acquisition to me. My heated imagination pointed
out to me the pinnacle upon which I should hereafter be
elevated, and painted my prosperity to me in my night
dreams in glowing colours. I looked with ecstasy upon my
rising consequence, and was delighted with it; like the
the ghost-seer.
85
hero, who rejoiced at seeing his brother's blood which
twined a laurel round his temples. I was often secretly
vexed that my birth did not give me a right to regencies
or command; but I soon found out the method to procure
them, and my chagrin was dissipated.
" When a boy, my thoughts were often engaged on that
subject; for my comrades frequently told me that I did
not pay any attention to the game. The man possessed of
a knowledge of human nature would have laughed or
sighed within himself at such ideas, according to his hu¬
mour ; or would have looked upon me, perhaps, as a fool
full of wild projects, and to whom Bedlam would be a
benefit; but my reflections never escaped my lips.
" Earlier than common I left the circle which was drawn
for my age; I shook off my childish behaviour, like a cater¬
pillar which, warmed by the beams of the sun, emerges
before its time from the surrounding film. Urged by the
most violent desire for knowledge, I undertook to accom¬
plish objects which surmounted the experience of my years.
I was never satisfied. The first step that I took in this
new field displayed the horizon before me; and the unex¬
pected clearness which it represented to my mind, gave me
courage to venture on and to study it closer. I was dis¬
satisfied with myself that my spirit had not wings; for I
was often obliged to stay a long time to accomplish the
object, which at first appeared to me like little hills at a
distance. Upon that which I could attain without much
difficulty, I ventured first. Every day the fondness my
father entertained for chemical experiments increased.
His patients were obliged to sigh in pain whilst he was
busied in attending to the crucibles; and in a little time
not one person employed him. This was perfectly agree¬
able to his wishes, for he was less disturbed. I was
obliged very often to stifle a laugh, when I covered him
with coal dust, and saw him come from his laboratory
smothered with dirt; but I thought that chemistry must
have some particular charms, to attach my father so forcibly
to it,—and this was sufficient to excite my curiosity, and
induce me to enquire into the nature of the science.
g 3
85
THE GHOST-SEER.
ff Nothing was easier than to request the Doctor to give
me permission to spend the following day in his laboratory;
and he triumphed, indeed, at my proposal. My mother,
who was an inveterate enemy to such business, because it
made a great deal of dirt, and spoiled the skin, endeavoured
to prevent my application to it, but in vain; none of her
objections had any weight with my father, although he had
shown her much respect in other cases. To the remark,
that it was too early for me to begin, she added—that it
did not at all suit me, with a sarcastic smile; whilst my
father maintained, that such an excellent attachment to the
art could not commence too early, nor fail to produce the
most beneficial effects :— I kissed from my mother's lips,
all her objections, and my first resolution remained; —
I went, at daybreak, with my father into the laboratory.
" The many instruments which I found there, — ovens,
melting pots, coals of every sort and description,—excited, in
the first instance, my attention. My father had not time
to answer the multitude of questions that I put to him,
and he desired a little patience. That I thought was to
set a boundary to my active mind, which it could not sub¬
mit to; and when my father absented himself I immediately
went to work. He corrected my indiscretion, and put that
into my hands which was fitted for a beginner; but this
method was too tedious for me. My ambition alone pre¬
vented my not giving it up, for I wras certain of being ex¬
posed to the laughter of my mother, who had announced
the difficulties to me beforehand; and I studied not to lose
any thing in the esteem of my father, who was so proud of
my showing such an early attachment to the science. The
hope to attract new admirers bid defiance to my dissatis¬
faction; and I went through every part of the business
which my father set me upon with the greatest fortitude.
This restraint did not last long; for I very soon discovered
a real taste for chemical processes, and became as fond of
the science as my father. — I hope I do not deserve any
reproach from you, because I am here a little too explicit.
If I had given to you only a mere sketch of it, it might
have appeared to you improbable; for I was then no more
than eleven years of age.
the ghost-seer.
87
cc In a short time I made such progress that my father was
astonished. I manufactured phosphorus of the best quality,
made sympathetic ink of every kind, and invented parti¬
cular things which no person hut myself is acquainted with:
I had now to shine in a new department amongst my
schoolfellows, and other inexperienced persons. I practised
the miraculous, and they thought me a phenomenon. They
were astonished prodigiously, when they saw at night
around my whole body a brilliant flame, or when I filled
the whole room with light by the vapour of camphor, or
when I struck fire with a dagger against the wall of the
room, or played some other tricks of that kind. All seemed
from this circumstance to keep at a distance from me; for
they feared me without loving me, though that is not com¬
mon in those years, when our hearts beat warmly in our
bosom, and are open to every tender tie. It flattered my
ambition that I had not a rival. By the extraordinary
appearance which I sought to give to every one of those
insignificant tricks, I obtained excellence; and I was satisfied
with it, as I had no friend, no confidant, that would have
been an acquisition agreeable to my natural character. I
pursued my way alone, and very early found the avenues
to every human heart shut against me. I seemed very
often to act the friend, but in fact was never sincere. Our
servants also were very much afraid of me: my tricks
frightened them, and my boastings were believed. My
father laughed at their childish fear, and suffered them to
remain in ignorance — because it amused him.
" To be thus always surrounded by persons who thought
me far superior to themselves, and who acknowledged it,
you may easily conceive, had a great influence on my cha¬
racter in the subsequent period of my life. In relating the
trifles which formerly delighted me, I will not lose the
time which I must bestow upon greater actions. My
impetuous disposition did not permit me to meditate long
upon any thing. Every book in my father's library which
suited my purpose, I read with the greatest avidity, and I
soon made, with the assistance of them, and my own in¬
ventions, experiments which were not common. That
this is true you may easily conjecture, when I say that I
g 4
88
THE GHOST-SEEH.
thought many of them worthy to be made use of, and
applied them, Prince, in your adventures, where I had to
fear curiosity. Till I come to these I shall say no more
of them. — A certain book, which I found in my father's
library, was of great service to me : it was written by
Albertus Magnus *, in the Latin language. From it I
learned several things, and their use, which conducted me
always farther; and I was likewise possessed of a great
number of other instruments, as magical lanterns, mag¬
nets, electrical machines, &c.; as my father had already
a large collection of them. With the electrical machine,
which was at that time almost unknown, and which they
knew not how to manage, I made many attempts'; and se¬
veral of my discoveries effectually answered my purpose.
" Let me now overleap the space of time till my six¬
teenth year. The greatest part of it was taken up with
such business (though I did not neglect any other) which
could be serviceable to the cultivation of my science. The
little circle in which I had lived till then, and in which
I had shone, and tyrannised, became now too narrow
for me. The applause and admiration of those who daily
surrounded me was tedious to me, because I no longer
found pleasure in it. There always burned in me a desire
for great achievements, which never could be satisfied. I
easily perceived that my father would not willingly suffer
me to go from him; and I resolved, without much diffi¬
culty, to make myself a path into the great world without
his consent. Do not wonder at that; for every thing was
disregarded so soon as it hindered the gratification of my
passions. The following night I packed up those things
which would be necessary and useful to me on my journey;
and at the break of day I found myself in the right road,
and full of exultation from the prospect of success in my
plan. I left for my foster parents a letter, which I laid in
a place where I knew they would not find it before even¬
ing ; and at that time I believed I should be safe from
being discovered.
* The title of that book is : " Albertus Magnus de Secretis Mulierum • item
de Virtutibus Herbarum, Lapidum, et Animalium." Amst. 1665. '
the ghost-seer.
89
" ' My dear Parents,
" fMy spirit soars beyond the sphere in which I am
confined under your auspices, and seeks after things that
I can never attain in your society. These I am going in
pursuit of; and let this serve as an excuse for my leaving
you so suddenly, and without bidding farewell, as I did not
think that you would give me your consent.
" ' A better method to accomplish my purpose, and which
might have been more agreeable to you, I could not find.
" ' Y our
" f Ferdinando.'
cc Without having any settled plan, I passed the first
town-gate. It was the same to me whither I went; and,
wrapped up in contemplating the prospect of any future day,
I walked through the street without observing the objects
which surrounded me. The road that I pursued was
encompassed with small bushes, which by degrees grew
thicker and thicker, as I pursued the track. £ Stop !'—>
cried a thundering voice, and immediately a frightful
fellow stood before me, who held a cocked pistol to my
breast. I appeared willing to deliver up to him the pro¬
perty that I had about me; but, when he was off his
guard, I wrenched the pistol from his hand, and at the
same moment plunged a dagger into his breast. I made
myself master of his money. The passport too, which I
found in his pocket, struck me as a thing which might
one time or other be useful to me, and I secured it. By
the assistance of his clothes, I disguised myself so that no
person could possibly know me. Thus was I secure against
any warrants that might be issued to apprehend me; and
extremely happy that so fortunate an adventure had at
once enriched, and enabled me to pursue my journey with
greater security.
" The extravagant ideas which I had of myself, and
upon which I built the greatest expectations, were soon
dissipated by experience ; for, in every city that I travelled
through, I found the total reverse of that, which I had
supposed would take place. I flattered myself that I
90
THE GIIOST-SEEB.
should be received every where with open arms; and with
what astonishment did I learn, that no credit was given to
the idle and bombastic tales that had been circulated
respecting me! I cannot conceive how it happened that I
put up with such gross affronts, and why I did not seek
to revenge the insult in a manner which would have
taught the people in future to credit my assertions. Was
it] for want of worldly experience ? Or did the charms of
novelty so much enchant me, as to prevent any other cir¬
cumstance from making an impression upon my mind ? —
Both might, perhaps, have influenced my conduct; together
with the piercing reflection, that I was an abandoned
outcast upon the world. My former resolute spirit seemed
quite lost, and an irresistible power pressed me to return
to my parents.* As long as my money lasted, however,
all went on very well; but I observed with sorrow, that it
decreased very much, and that the furies of want would
soon begin to attack me. I saw no way to prevent the
dreadful consequences of such a misfortune — I confess
that my indolence sometimes overpowered me with shame ;
but, still retaining my old prejudices in favour of my
abilities, I went into an inn, with scarcely any thing in my
pocket, and suffered myself to be treated like a gentleman,
without ever thinking in what way I was to satisfy the
landlord. I could with very little trouble change my
dress, and disfigure my face and person, so that no one
could discover me; and in case of necessity I intended to
practise that artifice.
" The greater part of the strangers who dined with me
at the same table called for cards after the cloth was re¬
moved. They invited me to play. The valuable ring I
had on my finger, I suspected, attracted their notice; flatter¬
ing themselves, no doubt, that I should fall an easy prey,
from my youth and inexperience. They played very high ;
but I soon found, from the many dishonest schemes I
pursued, that I had the advantage of them; I stripped
them of almost every thing they had. In the height of
anger, they gave up the game; and, elevated with my
success, I reproached myself for not having followed before
.7. "Z l * Or it was, perhaps, the piercing voice of conscience.
THE GHOST-SEER.
91
such a lucrative business. From that moment I resolved
to make it my principal study; and I was so successful,
that in a little time it led me to keep a coach and servants.
My youths I thought, would be a bar to that respect which
is in general paid to age ; so, to obviate that difficulty, I
contrived to make myself appear a man of about thirty
years of age; and, as at that time I was as tall as I am
now, the deception was practised with effect; for, by an
artificial beard, brown manly colour, and false testimonials,
I procured an entrance into all eminent societies. Besides
gaming, I did not neglect to satisfy my attachment for
extraordinary performances. At every place where I
resided I played some trick or other, for which they
generally remembered me. But they were all however, of
such a nature that they did not do any material harm.
Thus, for example, many an eminent prelate became the
object of laughter, if I ornamented his cowl with a jack¬
ass's head: many a lady was out of countenance, when X
assured her that, instead of a red riband she had put on a
grey one ; and she at last found this a truth before a look¬
ing-glass. Another scarcely could recover herself from a
fit, when they told her, that she resembled a black lady to
a hair; and a third was half dead, when she perceived
that the beauty-spots on her face, which she had managed
with great care, looked like sun, moon, and stars, and had
all the colours of the rainbow.
" I only mention these tricks to you that I( might not
leave a blank in my narrative, but will not trouble you
with them farther, because I think they are mere trifles,
and fit only for the stage of a mountebank. I very seldom
had any other views than those of momentary pleasure,
and to see myself admired, and looked upon by those in
whose company I practised such foibles; they have not
the least influence upon my future history. You may
easily inform yourself of those mysterious pranks, if you
procure the book of Albertus Magnus.
" I must now turn to those events which originated
with'me, or have at least been guided by me, in order
that I might ascend to the highest pinnacle of my ambi¬
tion. The pious drone, who neglects to make use of the
92
THE GHOST-SEER.
wings which nature has bestowed upon him, will no doubt
say that they are the offspring of malice, revenge, and decep¬
tion, and stamp them with his detestation, because, from his
natural stupidity, he is not able to fathom the design.
Many are rendered famous by following the systems of
their predecessors; but I was without that advantage, and
depended entirely upon myself. I acted coolly, but not
without machines the smallest motion of which I had
calculated with the greatest accuracy. Villains, in general,
destroy those whom accident throws in their way. I only
committed murder when I discovered any enemies to my
plans! You, Prince, will see I played by that a capital
character."
Narrative of the Count O resumed.
The Armenian here paused and endeavoured to conceal
his repentance, by the ecstasy into which he laboured to
throw us and himself. But it had seized so powerfully
upon his hardened heart, that, in spite of all his artifices,
we could perceive his remorse; and he very soon became
exhausted. We were obliged to permit him to go away.
That his health might not entirely be destroyed, which was
already very much injured by the terrible prison in which
he had been confined, under the leaden roofs of St. Mark's
Place"; and fearing that he might be prevented by a sudden
death, or madness, from giving us the key to events of so
much consequence, the Colonel interceded with the best
effect to remedy his situation. After a few days he felt
himself sufficiently recovered to continue his narrative,
which he seemed inclined to do. He might, perhaps, have
reflected on his past life; for his self-satisfied countenance
had changed very much, and his high-toned speech was
lowered, although every now and then he displayed his
savage disposition ; and on that account it was very difficult
for us to judge of his true character. From his appear¬
ance, I supposed he was influenced by the effects of
returning sensibility, though he endeavoured all in his
power to suppress it. The remainder of his story is as
follows: —
THE GHOST-SEER.
93
History of the Armenian continued.
" I have related^ to you, as sincerely as any biographer
can do of himself, that which will give you an idea of my
character. The period until my thirty-second year (which
indeed contains so much that I could fill up several folio
volumes) I shall run through very briefly: it includes
nothing that concerns your history, nor does it cause in me
such dreadful reflections as the subsequent days of my life.
In this space of time, I endeavoured to obtain that which
was necessarily wanting on account of my youth. I
studied with infinite assiduity the knowledge of mankind,
which was easily obtained from the multitude of events
that constantly occurred to assist me in my speculations.
During that time I travelled through all Europe, and a part
of Asia and Africa. I also procured partisans at several
courts. With their assistance, I played my tricks in every
department in which they were concerned. This flattered
my ambition, which aimed at nothing less than to be go¬
vernor of some state.'
" And was that really your expectation ?" interrupted
the Prince, hastily.
" Yes; and I should certainly have accomplished my
aim," answered he, " if I could have remained undis¬
covered one quarter of a year longer."
" One would think it almost impossible, that an idea so
extravagantly absurd should have entered your mind; and
yet you endeavoured to carry it into effect, notwithstanding
all the difficulties that surrounded you ! But how was it
possible for you to procure such partisans in the cabinets
of the great, upon whose influence you could depend ? —
Are not persons of integrity elected to such employments ;
men who are proof against corruption ? "
" Oh! Prince, if other people doubted the possibility
of accomplishing a purpose, I reckoned with the greatest
certainty upon its attainment. I frequently suggested to
them new plans, and suddenly the work was finished.
They looked at it with all the astonishment that a blind
man would do upon the world, were he suddenly to be
9*
THE GHOST-SEER.
restored to sight. No one suspected its existence, no one
comprehended its design. Even those who were employed
on it very often did not know what building they were
constructing, when they were putting the finishing stroke
to it."
" You forget yourself—you load me with new myste¬
ries, without having unravelled the first. I should like to
know by what means you succeeded in bringing the persons
engaged [in the secret cabinets of the different courts you
mention so entirely to your interests ? "
" To your reply, that the great only elect men of un¬
doubted sincerity to such employments, I could, if I
wished, prove to you quite the contrary; and that the
greatest treacheries have already been committed by such
people. But I did not want to make use of such means as
they could procure me ! — The method by which I en¬
chanted them was, to indulge their passions. The miser's
hands I filled with money — the frantic, I threw into
enthusiasm — I painted before the fancy of the ambitious
the satisfaction of his wishes — those that sought revenge
I assisted in fulfilling their desires — and the voluptuous
became my foil. Oh ! you will scarcely believe what un¬
bounded influence I often obtained with the most con¬
scientious, by procuring them a pair of blue languishing
eyes, or by the assistance of a pretended virgin — accord¬
ing as the taste of my subjects required.—There was not
one in whom I did not discover a weak side, by which I
could guide him at my pleasure; and sovereigns very often
listened to my inventions. I tell you this last for your
own tranquillity, my Prince; as it proves that others were
in a similar situation with yourself."
" No more of this — your answer is not satisfactory ; I
wish rather to draw new questions from it. From whence
did you, in the first place, acquire all those large sums,
which were necessary, as you said yourself, to feed avari¬
cious men ? — You could not possibly acquire sufficient by
gaming to do that, and support at the same time the
pageantry which you were obliged to display ? "
" That I could not forward all my plans by gaming, I
own, though I acquired large sums by it. But having
THE GHOST-SEER.
95
adopted a title to my own fancy, it procured me easy
access to the best of company; I resorted likewise to a
variety of other methods; I forged handwritings, and
manufactured false bank-notes; and by that means I
carried on a genteel roguish trade. I will relate but one
of my tricks to you, to convince you of the possibility of
this.
" At n, whither I travelled for the purpose of pro¬
curing sixty thousand dollars, which I wanted for the
corruption of a minister of the court of , I gave
myself out for the Duke of . — This Prince was, as I
knew for certain, upon his travels, Aand residing at that
time in incognito. This lucky^accident was assisted
by his resembling me very much in his person; and what
was wanting I easily supplied by art. The conversation
which I had with him, whilst on a visit at his court,
enabled me without any difficulty to imitate his gestures,
and other peculiarities that were characteristical. I also
clothed my servants with the same livery as his. Very
little prudence was then required to manage the rest.
Who would have mistrusted me? For to make the de¬
ception complete, I wrote false letters for the Duke, and
sent them several days before my arrival there, which
obtained for me a good reception. I soon perceived that
they thought it a great honour to furnish me with jewels,
and supply me with great sums of money. So fortunate a
circumstance soon raised me to a state of affluence."
" Incredible audacity! But were you not afraid of
being discovered ? "
" Not in the least. Even those who had seen the Duke
were deceived; and my extraordinary assurance was of
great assistance to me. The real Duke, too, was at a suf¬
ficient distance from me not to discover the plot. Besides
that, I did not give out directly that I was the Duke
himself; but only made use of such favourable Circum¬
stances as would induce them to believe me to be him. I
gave myself out for the Count Sta . This was the
name under which the real Duke travelled: and they
whispered to one another, that they were certain it was the
Duke ; but they did not choose to call me so to my
96
THE GHOST-SEER.
face, because it was known that I travelled secretly, and
that I did not stay in a place where I was known. Suppose,
for instance, I suspected any one of treachery, it was very
easy for me to change my appearance, and to make my¬
self entirely unknown, which I could readily perform. In
your own history you will find examples of it, which I
omit here, to avoid being too circumstantial. As soon as
I had collected my treasure, I took a journey into the
country, under the pretext of paying a visit to one of my
acquaintances. Having penetrated some way into the
forest I was obliged to pass through, all about me was im¬
mediately changed; for every thing was prepared for that
purpose. My carriage became of another form ; my horses
were changed from bays to black; one of my servants sat
by my side as my wife; the others were entirely meta¬
morphosed ; and I exchanged my title for that of major.
It was impossible for any one to know me again! For
appearance' sake, I left several of my servants, and some
large boxes, behind. They indeed knew not who I was,
for I took them a few days before, for that purpose, into
my service; and the trunks contained nothing of any value,
by which the good landlord could satisfy himself for my
account: they were all filled up with earth and stones."
" That is vile!—But could you always trust your foot¬
men, who were acquainted with your tricks, and were
obliged to act their part in them?—Were you not afraid
of being betrayed by them ? "
" They were all so much involved in my interest, that
they feared the discovery as much as I did. And, besides,
I had only cunning people in my service, such as under¬
stood the mere movement of my eyeballs, and who, before
I engaged them, had been accustomed to deceit and ras¬
cality. It was a long while before I could muster a tribe ;
to whom I could intrust the execution of my schemes;
and for that reason I sent those into the other world that
I suspected. They enjoyed the best life that people of
that description could wish for! They had a superfluity
of every thing. I very seldom troubled them with any
business; but when I did, it was of such a nature that
they executed it willingly, for it cost them neither trouble
THE GHOST-SEER.
97
nor drops of sweat. And as they could display great
characters, mountebank tricks, and wonders, they were sure
of not being discovered; as they told me, that by those
means they contrived to have themselves held in the highest
respect. Believe me, Prince, those people were very much
attached to me, punctually fulfilled my smallest commands,
and feared me so much that I am not able to describe it.
An angry look from me made them tremble; and I ascribe
this extraordinary fear to my deceptions, which I some¬
times displayed before them; to instil into them the idea,
that supernatural powers were at my command."
" But how easily might those people, whom you your¬
self call so cunning and artful, have experienced the con¬
trary, if they had reflected, that you made use of them as
instruments in the execution of your plans, when your
influence with supernatural powers would have been suf¬
ficient ? "
" This is a just observation. But consider for a moment,
what an effect the miraculous produces, if it is skilfully
managed. It is but natural to expect great things from
him, whom we once have seen perform a miracle; at least
we do not doubt the want of ability, but conclude, that he
begins and ceases at pleasure. But you must consider
that I only gave my people inconsiderable characters to
play ; the capital part I performed myself; and they always
found something extraordinary in their part, though they
assisted me individually to finish the whole."
" I must confess, that you always acted with the greatest
precaution. But I must go back to my former questions,
one of which only you have answered to my satisfaction,
namely, the way you got the large sum of money to
defray the expenses of your plans. How you pleased the
fanatic, and how you satisfied the revengeful and volup¬
tuous, I can easily imagine; but what could the ambitious
expect of you, as you could not dispose of titles, or lucrative
employments ? "
" Very much, Prince; for before I applied to any one,
and previous to my becoming closely connected with a
person, (for I avoided carefully the appearance of seeking
their friendship, and always contrived it so that they
VOL. II. H
L
v
In
I
ml
■ Hi
til
■
it
98
THE GHOST-SEEK.
sought for my acquaintance first,) I gave those persons
such proofs of my power, that they were easily led. to expect
much from the connection. And we find no great dif¬
ficulty in crediting every thing that tends to promote the
accomplishment of our wishes. Extraordinary as it may
seem, they sometimes obtained from me what I promised,
though the difficulties that presented themselves were un¬
bounded. It was not my intention to be so circumstantial
in my account of this period of my life, but only to point
out the consequences which were produced by my actions;
— but I read it in your countenance, Prince, that you will
not be satisfied with it; and I begin on that account the
history of another part of my life, which of itself would
make me notorious; though it ought to be thrown in the
back ground, when compared with that which follows.
" The court of , which at that time took part in
every war, and at the conclusion of it prescribed the con¬
ditions of peace, seemed to nourish some creatures, who
would become useful to me, as soon as I wanted their as¬
sistance : with that view I travelled there. To discover
those that could be at all useful to me in the execution of
my plans, was my first endeavour. I had not long to seek
for them ; they soon presented themselves to me. These
were the two first secretaries. Through their hands passed
the most important matters that concerned the government.
They were the oracles of the ministers, who troubled them¬
selves with no other part of the business, than that of agree¬
ing to the plans proposed to them by their secretaries, and,
if requisite, signing their names; although fame sounded
their praise, and extolled their wisdom. In short, the
first ministers, who had no other merit than that of having
sprung from ancient families, were decorated with the
ribands, and enjoyed the titles, whilst the secretaries per¬
formed the labour. You are astonished ; but it is really the
fact, though few had a knowledge of it; for the honour¬
able and learned private counsellor, baron had a pen¬
sion on account of his old age, which rendered him no
longer capable, notwithstanding his great abilities, of trans¬
acting any business for the state. Those who were in
office had only to thank one person for their situation, who
the ghost-seer.
99
did not regard their being adequate to the station they
filled ; but only, whether they had handsome features, and
were well made. Some I must except; but they were
either ambassadors, or had little influence in the cabinet.
All the principal business fell upon the two secretaries ;
and through them alone the court obtained and augmented
that dignity which the before-mentioned baron — had
procured.
" It is incredible, what two men can perform, when
placed in such a situation, if they act together. One pas¬
sionately loved the lady , the only daughter of the con¬
ference minister; and the other aimed at a lucrative
sinecure. But as both their designs were thwarted, they,
for that reason, became sincerely attached to each other.
They were of plebeian birth ; and neither the lady nor the
elevated situation could possibly be obtained for them,
according to the arrangement. Their superiors would not
suffer them to be too powerful, for fear it should depreciate
their own authority. Those two men laboured with great
industry, and yet neither of them could advance a step
farther in the attainment of his object. The first secretary
L , who was in love with the lady, thought of gain¬
ing her heart by his great merits and talents, and he was
not entirely mistaken ; for she valued superior abilities more
than high birth. But how could she be aware that he
was so accomplished a character, when all that he per¬
formed was attributed to the account of another ! and the
laws of etiquette hindered him from forming any other ac¬
quaintance with her, than that which some stolen looks
procured him. He did not imagine, though the lady loved
him sincerely, that she dared give him her hand; as she
reckoned eighteen degrees of nobility ! A dreadful idea, to
connect eighteen degrees of birth with a plebeian of merit!
— yet he did not despair.
" The other secretary, D ~, had for many years faith¬
fully exerted himself in his situation ; he undertook the
most important business, and accomplished it with credit;
but he was continually disappointed, for all the vacant situ¬
ations were given to strangers. They both had daily busi¬
ness together; and their bad fortune and repeated disap-
h 2
100
THE GHOST-SEER.
pointments were the subject of conversation, and the cause
of a very intimate friendship; which is, in such circum¬
stances, very rare: for we generally wish to surpass each
other, and instead of expressing real friendship, exhibit
masks of hypocrisy. They justly considered, that, if there
were a possibility to arrive at the summit of their wishes,
it could only be brought about by their being united. And
this at length happened. L sought every oppor¬
tunity to praise the talents of 1) to his superior, and
was only satisfied when D (who was in great favour
with the lady's father) spoke a good word in his behalf,
on account of his beloved.
" Both were very near gaining their aim. L was
beloved by his girl; and elevated with the idea, supposed,
like lovers in general, that things might easily be settled
after their union. D also was on the point of obtaining
an eligible situation as a counsellor, with the prospect of
procuring a still better employment; when, behold, all sud¬
denly fell to the ground.—And who brought this event
about? It was I. I destroyed their plans, in order that
I might restore them again to happiness, when it should
seem to them totally impossible. I could then with the
greater certainty rely upon their gratitude for my generosity.
" Observe how I undertook that difficult task, and how
I persevered in it!
" Into the house of the lady's father I had long before
acquired access. I assumed the character of an Italian
baron, by name Vatifiello, and gaming, which he was fond
of, procured me a ready admittance to his table. To in¬
crease his esteem, I made use of no other method, than to
let him always be successful when we played. He was
weak enough not to see through this manoeuvre; and I,
with a most cheerful countenance, submitted to every thing
that he proposed. We were, when his business permitted,
always together. I therefore became, in a great measure,
necessary to promote his comfort. At his house I also con¬
tracted an intimacy with both the secretaries ; and L
must acknowledge himself beholden to me for engaging the
attention of the father, purposely, that he might entertain
himself undisturbed with his beloved. This seemed to be
THE GHOST-SEER.
101
the time for blowing up the mine, which I had so artfully-
constructed. It was necessary to render the courtship of
the secretary with the old gentleman's daughter suspicious,
without his being able to guess at my intentions. This
was admirably effected. The poor young lady very soon
received positive orders from her father to avoid the com¬
pany of the secretary. She now could only weep in the
solitude of her chamber over her misfortunes. L was
received coolly when he came to the house; and too soon
perceived the cause from which this treatment originated.
He therefore discontinued his visits, and sought in vain to
recover his lost repose in the silent path of retirement,
where nought could disturb him in the hallowed pleasure of
pouring forth the sorrows of his soul. Believe not, Prince,
that this is an addition of my own : no; the poor fellow
had, indeed, loved so passionately, that he was almost driven
to madness, and could not apply any longer to business.
" D did not obtain the promised situation, but was
thrown into prison, because a document of consequence was
missing which had been put into his hands. He was suspected
of having sent it treacherously to a foreign court. Reflect,
my Prince, how this circumstance must have operated upon
the mind of poor L ; for he justly feared he should be
involved in D 's affair. This would indeed have hap¬
pened, had I not suspected, that if I any longer delayed un¬
ravelling the business, it might in the end become a task of
great difficulty, or, at least, ultimately deprive me of what I
expected to arise from my scheme. On that account I
hastened to accomplish all I had undertaken. I pursued the
steps of poor L- , in one of his solitary walks. For
some time I could discover no traces of him. I ascended
the steeps, and pentrated into the deepest part of the wood,
at several points, before I found him. I was on the point
of giving up the search, when I fortunately perceived him.
For the situation of his mind, he could not have chosen a
more convenient spot than that where I found him. Before
his feet a silver stream glided silently along, supplied by a
torrent that rose among the scattered shrub-crowned rocks,
that ornamented the opposite shore, and in which were
formed a variety of beautiful grottos. Over it there was a
ix 3
102 THE GHOST-SEER.
shelving precipice, which almost reached the bank on which
he was sitting. It was barren, and produced only here and
there a few little shrubs and moss. From the middle of it
there issued a rivulet, which with pleasing murmurs united
itself with the stream of the river. The sun still gilded
with his setting beams the summits of the rocks; and im¬
patiently the pale moon seemed to wait for the period, when
she should resume the government, and shed her faint light
on the rippling waves. The ravenous night-birds had left
their haunts, and were wandering with hideous cries in
search of prey. He was sitting upon the stilmp of a tree
covered with moss. His head was placed on his hand, and
he apparently struggled with some horrid resolution. In
his right hand he held a writing tablet. I silently drew
nearer to him, and beheld the following words inscribed
upon it:
" ' Not to the dregs is the cup of sorrow emptied, which
was filled up to the brim. No : it falls from my hand.—
Behind me — all is irrecoverably lost; before me — impe¬
netrable darkness ; within me — despair. No other path
which leads from this labyrinth of innumerable sufferings,
than through the gates of death. — Oh ! come then, come !
welcome friend ! — Thy broken hour-glass is no frightful
picture; thy horrible face seems to me the sweet smiling of
a bride before the altar ; the voice of the destroyer sounds
more charming to me than the most beautiful music on the
long wished nuptial day. — Oh ! come then, and bring me,
weary of life, to the vaults of rest. — Thou comest not ?—
Then I will hasten to thee, who hast thy habitation in every
element, to whom every moment of our lives brings us
nearer. In these waves, my beloved, I seek a period to my
sorrows, because my affection for thee is unconquerable. My
last breath will be employed in calling upon thy name; and
it will be first repeated, when my tongue shall resume its
powers again, roused by a sound which will penetrate even
into the most profound depths.'
" He started hastily up, lifting his clasped hands to¬
wards heaven ' Thou, O eternal God !' he exclaimed,
c wilt forgive me; for thou art gracious, and I am thy crea¬
ture ! My beloved Concordia !' — He rushed, after uttering
the ghost-seer.
103
these words, precipitately towards the river; but I caught
him iu my arms. The fright, which my sudden appearance
occasioned, threw him almost into a swoon; but he soon
recovered, and remained speechless for some time, staring at
me with great earnestness. I thought it best not to inter¬
rupt him; but to wait, and to discover what would be the
effect of such a sudden shock to his whole frame. f I know
not,' said he at length, ' whether I should thank you, or
curse the moment in which it came into your mind to visit
this desert and frustrate my attempts, whilst I was willing
to break the chain of my sufferings, which is become too
heavy for me.' f When you know of what consequence it
will be to you, then you jwill thank me.' ' The gift of a
joyless life. — For that must I thank you?' f You will
thank me.' f Incomprehensible !—Can we thank him, who,
when we are seeking for a thing with anxiety, returns us
that which we threw away ?' — ' But if the thing were a
diamond, which we had falsely imagined a worthless stone,
how then ?'
" ' I do not find myself in that situation. I was willing
to throw aside a distressing burden, which you have again
imposed upon me against my inclination.' ' A distressing
burden ? — Is it possible that life can be despised by him
who sees himself on the point of obtaining the object of his
wishes ? — Impetuous man ! What joy, what happiness
still awaits you; of all of which you would have deprived
yourself, if I had not prevented your accomplishing the
dreadful act of suicide.' f The object of my wishes near
me? Happiness still awaits me !—Cruel sport! And this
from you, who are acquainted with my whole history ?'
c You are near the object of your wishes ! — I am not sport¬
ing with your feelings. I have spoken the truth. But I
had almost forgotten, that mortals, when hurried to despair,
are devoid of reflection.' c And are not you a man ? Do
you not feel the force of hope, the galling pangs of desire ?
Does not inability remind you of your gross matter, when
you would exert your faculties beyond their limits, and en¬
deavour to fly to the boundaries of the atmosphere ?' ' These
are questions which your own shame will unravel to you.
' Did I not see you frequently, and with passion, play with
h 4
104.
THE GHOST-SEEH.
the father of my beloved ?' c Did I play with passion ? '
' Is there left any other presumption, when we observe, that
it becomes the daily business of a man?' ' Short-sighted
mortal ! — Not to trust me farther ! — But I pardon you :
however, mark this rule : if you see a wise man, according
to your sentiments, act weakly or improperly, admit that he
perhaps does it merely on account of its good consequences;
for he acts like a prudent botanist, nourishes noxious and
poisonous plants, in order that he may extract from them
an efficacious fluid.'. ' But, what do you want with me ?' .'
" ' To make you happy. Listen to me without inter¬
ruption, and answer merely my questions. — You were
about to cut, with your own hand, the thread of your life,
because you thought yourself unhappy, whilst you met with
obstacles to your love!' f Obstacles which were insur¬
mountable ; to remove which I employed all my powers, but
I exerted them in vain. And is not this sufficient to make
me unhappy ? Is not the largest and most magnificent
building overthrown, when we sap the foundation on which
it is supported? And the history of my friend, will not
that also add to my miseries ? Is it possible for me to
escape the dangerous gulf into which he has fallen ? Will
not my grief, on seeing an intimate friend in distress, sooner
than make my innocence appear, render it more suspicious?
— Leave me, or it will drive me to distraction, to find that
a man can be witness to all this, and yet remain indifferent.'
" f I have heard you with patience. Your words are
those of a man overpowered with calamities. If you had
listened to me coolly, you would have been able to explain
to yourself my unconcern, which seemed to you so much
to deserve censure and reproof; but which arises merely
from a conviction, that I can restore to you that which you
think irrecoverably lost!'—f You! you restore me that
again ! Alas ! how willingly would I believe your words if
I were able !'—f Well, then, acknowledge your incredulity,
and be convinced of the fact!'
" We arrived, during our discourse, before a coal-hut,
sequestered amidst thick bushes, and by which a little ri¬
vulet ran ; I conducted his steps to the door, almost without
his knowledge. His beloved Concordia flew out of the hut
THE GHOST-SEER.
105
into his arms. I can now, with reason, expect the question
from you, my Prince, how the lady came there? — It was
by my contrivance that this was effected. On what a good
footing I stood with the lady's father you know already;
and his opinion of me was increased, when he saw that my
sentiments coincided with his, namely, that the love of his
daughter must remain hopeless, because it was fixed upon
a man, who, if even he had the merit of being learned,
would, in spite of that, be a disgrace to his ancient family.
He charged me, for that reason, to explain to his daughter
this truth, and I was very willing to perform that task.
Daily I conversed with the poor Concordia in secret, and I
made use of every opportunity to make her more and more
attached to her beloved; insomuch, that she at last pro¬
mised me to venture every thing for him, rather than to
lose him. On his account she disregarded the inheritance
and ancient family of her father. As I had also contrived
to render abortive all the attempts of her beloved to speak
to her, or to send her a letter, she impaired her health by
incessant anxiety ; and it was found advisable to procure
her a physician, fie advised, as I had suspected, frequent
airings in|a coach, and as soon as her strength would permit,
to walk frequently. I was obliged to accompany her ; and
in one of our walks, I discovered the coal-hut, and pro¬
posed it as a place of ambush for her, because they would
be the least likely to find her in such a situation ; and in the
mean time we could arrange the business. She consented
to my proposal, and flew thither, according to my advice,
on a certain day, when her father was absent from home.
" In the mean time I sought for her lover. I fortu¬
nately found him not far distant from the very spot, and
brought him near to the hut, where, by the sudden appear¬
ance of his beloved, and the recollection of what I had
before told him, I made an impression upon his mind that
could never be effaced. Every word that he spoke evinced
how deeply he felt his sorrows. Their embraces lasted for
a long time in the hut, which I observed from without,
through a chink ; then L rushed out, and threw himself
at my feet. ' Pardon me,' exclaimed he, c pardon me, that
I did not believe your words. — But how could I expect
106
THE GHOST-SEER.
this from you, when I thought myself abandoned by every
one ?' I raised him up. £ Have I kept my word ? said
I, smiling. ' Have I fulfilled my promise ?' ' Oh ! mag¬
nanimous, noble man, forgive me !' c Is your life still
indifferent to you ?' ' That you saved it, this angel shall
thank you.' He brought forth Concordia, who, not reco¬
vered from the effects of her ecstasy, was still weeping
for joy.
" A scene now ensued, which, if any thing could have
operated upon my sensibility, would have had the desired
effect. I saw two souls, elevated to the height of happi¬
ness by my exertions, who idolized me with speechless
affection and gratitude. I partook of their joy, and was
thus more than rewarded for my trouble. As soon as the
first intoxication of delight had subsided, the lady began to
express much anxiety and fear (so natural to virtuous
women) for having ventured 011 such a perilous undertaking.
I stood near them, and listened to all they said. They then
reflected upon many things which could not previously have
been thought of. The young lady, who had conquered so
heroically her attachment to her country, her love to her
father, and her regard to his wealth, was now troubled with
the thought, whilst she held her beloved object in her arms,
whither they should fly, and whence they should derive sub¬
sistence ; for she recollected with sorrow, that she had not
taken with her, in her great haste, either money — or dia¬
monds.
" f And will,' exclaimed L , ' our generous friend,
to whose kindness and exertions we owe all our happiness,
will he leave unfinished the work he has begun ? '— ' Cer¬
tainly not,' said she, whilst she turned herself to me, and
seized my hand, which she pressed suddenly to her lips ;
and every little cloud, which was before visible upon her
countenance, disappeared immediately. ' At the idea, the
most horrid which could influence my mind, that my be¬
loved could again be torn from me, I forgot, for some mo¬
ments, that you were our protector, and would provide for
us. Pardon the weak, the anxious maiden, who has placed
such confidence in you.'
" I could easily imagine, that in this uncommon confi¬
dence placed in me, which had now occupied the souls of
'4*1
THE GHOST-SEEK. 107
this couple, fancy ■would do much; and I only waited to see
this manifested, when I represented to them, in its most
striking point of view, what they might expect from me, if
that which seemed to them an impossibility had been
brought about by my management. ' It is right,' I began,
' for you to trust me; and you have reason to expect more
good fortune from him, who can give you more than even
your most sanguine wishes would lead you to expect. This
very day (for day began already to break), and before the
moon rises again, you both shall be joined in wedlock by
the hand of the priest, and pass in happiness through this
transitory state; united, by the consent of your father, my
dear lady, who will give you, moreover, his paternal bless¬
ing to increase your bliss. To-day, also, before the sun
shines in his meridian splendour, shall D be liberated
from his imprisonment, and replaced in his situation with
dignity and honour — and (turning to L ) which also
waits for you. — I go to accomplish what I now promise :
till I return, I request you to continue in this cottage.'
" I left them in great astonishment, and flew, as hastily
as possible, through the bushes, so that they believed (as
they afterwards confessed to me) I had disappeared like a
spirit; and I took care to favour the idea. I hastened to
the residence of the lady's father, and immediately present¬
ed myself before him. He was sitting melancholy upon
a sofa; being much alarmed by the flight of his daughter.
All who had been sent after her, had come back without
having been able to discover the place of her retreat. He
reprobated his own obduracy in the most violent terms.
Under the mask of a comforter, I was about going to
acquaint him with what might probably happen; but he
would not at that moment listen to my proposals; for he
still spurned the thought of procuring the return of his
daughter by giving her hand to a plebeian. I tried every
method I could invent to induce him to abandon his pre¬
judices ; but before I could obtain my end, there came an
officer with several soldiers to take up the minister as a
state prisoner. He immediately intreated me, in the hum¬
blest manner, to accompany him to his sovereign, who
expected me, and had every where enquired for me. I
,
ill
,VfrJ
11
!
§
I*
108
the ghost-seer.
followed him readily, as I had foreseen this ; for it was a
part of my plan. From the manner in which the king
received me, I could easily judge that he had a high esteem
for me. Fie related to me that D 's servant had ab¬
sconded the foregoing night, and left a letter behind him,
which was shown me. It was to this purpose : —
" ' Sir, —The secretary D is innocent. The docu¬
ment which is wanting, I stole from him clandestinely, in
the most roguish manner, and sold it to the minister
for a large sum of money; the greater part of which will be
found in my trunk, as I cannot load myself with the wages
of treachery. Repentance and anxiety persecute me every
where. They seduced me to accomplish that wicked action;
and I confess with horror, that it was accursed avarice alone
which prevented my discovering the villany of such an
infamous transaction, till the baron Vatifiello last night ap¬
peared suddenly in my chamber, and warned me of the
consequences. God only knows from whence he could have
got intelligence of it. He must be omniscient! — You
may ask him ; an anxious desire to save myself will not let
me remain at rest!
" 'John Kleinbart.'
" I read it without emotion, although the eyes of the
king were fixed upon me all the time. ' Is this true ?' he
asked me. I answered him by a look, whilst I assumed an
air of superiority. He might have understood it, for he
seemed ashamed, and thanked me for the service which I
had rendered him in having preserved an innocent, useful
man. After an interval of several minutes, he said,
' From what I have this day seen of you, you seem to me
to be an uncommon man, of whom I know not how to form
a correct idea; but I believe you will be kind enough to
answer me some questions. I have not forgotten, that
when I enquired whether the account given in the letter
were true, you seemed to be not quite satisfied. I was not
induced through any suspicion to ask such a question ; but
I wished merely for your confirmation of this extraordinary
circumstance." — e And I believed,' said I, e that my looks
would explain this better to your majesty than many words.
THE GHOST-SEEH.
109
'Tis the boaster only that speaks his own praise. However,
put your questions.'
" ' To-day they found you at the minister's, and you
knew he was a traitor to his country.' ' That he is not.'
—f But he has, however, bought the document, upon which
so much depends.' ' That he has not.' f Enigmas, and
nothing but enigmas ! — However, the letter ? ' O king !
all is not gold that glitters. — The counsellor, who after¬
wards obtained the place which was reserved for D ,
bought the document, and designed to sell it again for a
large sum to the enemy, as all depends upon it in the pre¬
sent war. Send to him. The messengers will find the
paper behind his writing desk, and they will find him lying
in his bed, poisoned, as he thought it not advisable to live
any longer by such iniquitous means. A letter in the right
pocket of his dressing gown will unravel the mystery.'
" The king looked at me with astonishment, and imme¬
diately gave such orders as I recommended. The mes¬
sengers soon returned, and found every thing as I had
described. His surprise then arose to the highest degree;
he showed so much veneration for me, that he lost the
power of speech, when he attempted to address me, as I
looked at him. The note the messengers found in the
pocket of the counsellor's dressing gown, was as follows:
" ' The baron Vatifiello appeared to me last night,
though my door was locked. How this was possible for
him, I cannot comprehend, and still tremble to reflect upon
it. He knows all about the document. He has com¬
manded me to discover it; he has, however, permitted me
to do it by a letter, which I shall leave behind me, and to
fly, if I wish to become better, and that I will now do !
Their cursed money I leave behind me! In my letter I
have accused the minister of the crime; this was
done that I might not break the oath which I have sworn,
that I would not betray you. But if your conscience will
not induce you to liberate an innocent man, who suffers for
you, the baron will do it. Good God, what a man must
he be, who can discover such hidden secrets ! Save your¬
self if you can, but rescue your conscience from pain, and
leave behind you such evidence as will prove the minister
110
the ghost-seer.
an innocent man. I know not how to remove my painful
anxiety. Alas ! if I were but in security ! You alone are
the cause of my misfortune, with your cursed money and
your artful persuasions. I, who had such a good master,
became his betrayer ! Oh ! that I were able to describe
to you the hell which burns in my bosom ! God will
assist me ! Save yourself, or at least your soul. I can
write 110 more, I must be gone.
" ( John Kleinbart.'
" Secretary D and the minister immediately ob¬
tained their liberty, and thanked me in the presence of the
monarch, who had attended with much emotion these cir¬
cumstances. He entreated me very much to stay with him,
and be his friend and counsellor in the administration of
state affairs; but I refused it. My ambition would have
been flattered by it, I acknowledge; but in such a situ¬
ation I could not pursue the system I had adopted, and my
prospects being infinitely superior to that of being a
royal favourite, I made the following answer to his re¬
quest : —
" ' Your kingdom, my sovereign, is populous and extensive,
but the other empires in the world are of equal magnitude.
All of them have a demand upon me. Every where they
need my powerful services. I dare not give you and your
country that which I have taken from others. To be your
favourite, or even vice-governor, would be limiting my
power to too small a circle. I cannot now give a farther
explanation of my conduct. Indeed, if I were to endea¬
vour to do so, you would not comprehend me. Do not
press me to do that which I must refuse. If you will
honour my memory, then follow my example: save inno¬
cence from oppression or seduction wherever you can, and
make men happy who deserve it. I will at present give
you an opportunity for so doing. Both your secretaries,
L ——— and D , are the most deserving men in your
court. You have hitherto known them too little. Follow
my advice. Y ou will find in them men who deserve your
patronage, and who will serve you with fidelity. As soon
as they are able, I will let you know it. For the present,
THE GHOST-SSER.
Ill
let them both be your private counsellors. L loves
the daughter of the minister; command the hard-hearted
father to give him his daughter's hand. They are destined
for each other; their marriage is concluded in heaven :
for that reason, neither rank nor power shall separate
them !'
" The king willingly consented to all, and the minister
was too prudent a courtier not to be guided by the voice of
his sovereign rather than his own opinion. It was impos¬
sible for him to meet with a better fortune for his daugh¬
ter, when he saw L was the king's favourite as well
as mine, and contemplated the honourable employments
which his son-in-law would arrive at. It was then very
easy for the king to complete the happiness of the father,
by giving L a diploma for the number of petty degrees
which he had required. He reflected, however, that his
daughter and L were gone, and he bewailed his loss
to the king. f Ho not question me concerning them,' I
interrupted him, ' my actions are secret, they are impene¬
trable to men; very often they seem contradictory, and I
am covered with the dark veil of mystery. In a short time
both will be here.'—c My daughter here !' exclaimed the
minister, ' my daughter!' I made no reply, but threw
myself into my coach, which was ready for me, and soon
arrived at the hut, where I met the lovers. I say nothing
of their ecstasy, when I delivered to them the unexpected
news. My seriousness alone deterred them from pressing
me to death, out of love and veneration; and immediately
upon my arrival with them in the king's saloon, a priest
gave them the matrimonial benediction.
" Tell me yourself, Prince, had I not reason to expect
fidelity and gratitude for such an act of generosity ? Pur¬
posely had I conducted the business so, that their future
happiness must depend upon me ; and they were, for that
reason, obliged to endeavour to secure a continuance of my
favour. Did I not also show myself to them in such a
manner, that they must think me the most perfect and best
of mankind, from whom nothing could be expected but acts
of goodness? You must have observed how firmly even
the king believed every thing; and what; in cases of exi-
THE GHOST-SEER.
gency might I not hope from him, who saw that my con¬
duct was quite disinterested, being merely careful for the
welfare of others ? And to enforce these impressions so
much the more, I absented myself suddenly from d-
without the knowledge of any person ; and that they might
not discover any trace of me, I went off in a dress in which
nobody had seen me before, in order to make the people be¬
lieve (which really happened) I had disappeared.
" And now hear, in what a natural manner I worked
all those seeming wonders. One of my people had, before
I arrived at d , been engaged in the service of
secretary D , and thus, by him, I obtained a know¬
ledge of all before-hand. He was the pretended John
Kleinbart. Pursuant to my command he stole the docu¬
ment, which was not difficult for a man like him. I was
obliged to have a person to hire him for that purpose, and
he could not remain alive, because he could have proved
his innocence by discovering the fact. Nobody was more
fit for that than the counsellor. John had a love-intrigue
with his female cook, and was often in the house when the
counsellor was absent. I made use of this favourable
circumstance. It was very easy for John to put the docu¬
ment, the evening before, behind the writing-desk, and to
convey the letter, written by me, into the pocket of the
counsellor's dressing gown. And, in order kill him, no¬
thing more was requisite than to put a powder into the
drink he was accustomed to take before he went to bed, and
which stood ready prepared for him against he came home.
The reason why I acted in the manner described,, and
caused the minister to be suspected, you will, without ask¬
ing me, very easily perceive ; for those were the only pro¬
per means to display my powers. All the purposes which
I wished to accomplish, will now be manifest: so clearly
will they appear, that I may now be entirely silent. Nor
need you ask me, in, future, how it was possible for me to
attach indissolubly to my interest, the best and most pru¬
dent men, and afterwards to persuade them to do any thing
that I wished.
THE GHOST-SEER.
I had hitherto accomplished was (except.acquiring an ac¬
quaintance with several courts, and a degree of influence in
them) often nothing more than a continual chain of decep¬
tions, by which I endeavoured to gain creatures, and to
acquire credit in their eyes. I too soon perceived that my
absence from any place very soon effaced the impression
which I had left there. To my terror did I discover, that
the ties of gratitude for certain services I had rendered,
which I thought had united so many to my interest, were
not so strong as I had reason to expect, as soon as the
evident advantages which I had procured for them ceased.
I must, however, here except my creatures in -d .
There every circumstance had been favourable, to me.
They could never discover in my actions any thing more
than the noblest and most virtuous design that ever entered
the mind of men, who never wished any thing contrary to
their duty, and who were unacquainted with all my shame¬
ful expedients. But how seldom was I so fortunate! I
was often obliged to appear despicable to them, when they
saw their criminal plans brought to a conclusion by my
means, and they hated me, though they did not show it
openly, perhaps from fear.
" From my own experience, alas ! I learnt that a villain
is not loved by his fellow; and that those ties which bind
the hearts of others with such firm affection, are to them
unknown. What causes them to unite together ? What
renders them inseparable from one another ? What makes
one submissive to the other ? Nothing more than self-
interest. If this should be once satisfied, all bonds would
break, and each would, with indifference, see the downfall
of his companion, and rejoice if he could derive a profit
from it. That a profligate man can respect those virtues
which he despises, I know from my own example, although
I carefully stifled every impulse towards it; but that those
who pursue a system of immorality cannot love the man who
follows the same path, and adopts the same principles, was in¬
comprehensible to me. I said it was always incomprehensible
to me. Now, alas, I see too late theu true value of virtue,
which I once considered as imaginary : virtue, which alone
can make us happy; which alone can fill the heart of an-
VOL. II, I
114
THE GHOST-SEER.
other with love for us; which — oh ! I never knew what
real joy was since iniquity enslaved me. — How can an
abandoned wretch enjoy happiness ? — It is virtue alone
that influences the heart to revere her tender sentiments.
I once had delighted in the contemplation of her charms,
but knowing my depravity, she abandoned me. — Ah ! I
have loved, Prince, I have loved; but I soon found that
the enchanting pleasures of this passion were only to be
possessed by untainted souls; they were too pure for mine.
Without remorse I sacrificed the happiness of an angel, and
smiled with triumph at her sorrows. She followed me in
all my wanderings, clung to my knees, entreated, prayed,
wept at my feet, and I with indifference plunged a dagger
into her breast, and destroyed at once the hopes of our
embraces ! But away with it ! away with it ! I cannot
think; of what use is repentance ?"
Narrative of the Count O resumed.
Mercy is so peculiarly the property of tender minds,
that we were deceiving ourselves in causing this Armenian,
the most detestable of wretches, to partake of its blessing.
We beheld his repentance, and our eyes overflowed with
tears of affliction for his conduct. We forgot ourselves so
much, as to endeavour to comfort him by religion, and
made use of every argument in some measure to soothe
him. His apparent attention encouraged us, and we col¬
lected every thing which could contribute to our purpose.
We wished to insist upon his forbearance for the sake of K
virtue, but he burst out into a most horrid laugh, and bit
his chains. The imprecations against religion, and every
thing sacred, which flowed from his livid lips, evidently
showed how strongly he felt the want of them; and how
much all consolation arising from them increased his despair.
— All this made a strong impression upon the Prince.
As soon as the Armenian was conducted away, which
was immediately, he fell upon his knees, and returned
thanks to God, for having ordained every thing in such a
manner, that it convinced him what a treasure his religion
was, which he had wished to reject in exchange for the
.v u
THE GHOST-SEER.
115
wretched principles of scepticism. But his prayer did not
inspire him with that cheerfulness, which alone can give
strength to an innocent and suffering soul. His eyes seemed
to betray a confession of offences, which he had been guilty
of, to which his former irreligiousness had led him, and an
anxious melancholy clouded his brow, and riveted bis eyes
to the ground.
Suffer not thyself, O man ! who art 'reading this, when,
perhaps, my hones, reduced to dust, are quietly reposing in
the bosom of the earth, till the great day of the resurrection,
— suffer not thyself to be robbed of thy religion, thy greatest
treasure, which will lead thee through the world in security.
Consider him who would snatch it from thee as an enemy
who wishes to murder thy rest, and flee from him. Trust
not alone to the light of reason, which thy beneficent Creator
hath awarded thee, that thou mightest be able to distinguish
the good from the bad, and pursue the straightest way to
virtue. Since he is the God of truth, trust in him. Do not
give thyself up entirely to thy own judgment; for how soon
mayest thou err! Learn this from the example of the un¬
fortunate Prince. He became, from an arrogant reliance
upon his reason, and an unbounded confidence in his own
abilities, so indescribably miserable, that his former tran¬
quillity and cheerfulness never returned. Impress this
truth, O Christian ! strongly upon thy mind, that religion
alone can lead us securely through the valley of death. By
it is the grave deprived of all its terrors — by it does death
become a friend, who opens for us the door of eternal hap¬
piness. Without it every thing vanishes into darkness and
desolation, we are seized with terror and dismay. Religion
alone can make the beneficent gift of reason, that image of
the Deity, a blessing to us. He who hopes to be happy, and
rests securely without religion, resembles a traveller, who
perversely quits the direct road, where guides would prevent
his foot from erring, and by following the path which he
himself has chosen, is lost in an impassable country, where
his cries cannot reach the ear of a deliverer, and thus he at
length irretrievably sinks into an unforeseen abyss.
Had I not been previously convinced of these truths, I
should have been so now from the sight of the Armenian.
116
THE GHOST-SEER.
Oil! that all men, who are about to adopt erroneous opinions,
had been present when the Armenian spoke. They must
have been captivated by religion, and her daughter virtue,
and inspired with the warmest attachment to them. Nothing,
probably, ever placed their loveliness, and the certainty with
which they reward their adherents, in so strong a light as
the conduct of this Armenian, whose words alone I cannot
relate without shuddering with horror. When the Armenian
was brought, the following day, to the Prince, he was in the
same disposition as before. Not the least trace, by which
one might judge of what had happened, was perceivable.
History of the Armenian continued.
" The coolness towards me, which I observed in so many
of my companions, as soon as they perceived I could no
longer assist them, induced me to contrive a method which
attached them to me more firmly, and united them in my
own interest. Such a method I very easily discovered. At
that time the order of stood in very high esteem, and
contained members of every rank, religion, and manner of
thinking. That members of every persuasion could adhere
so closely to this order, naturally led me to conclude, that
every one either must derive advantage from it, though this
seemed incredible, or that the retreat from it might be dan¬
gerous. Both these effects I designed at times to turn to
my advantage, and without further hesitation I became a
member.
" The fundamental principle of this order was to aug¬
ment the number of members as much as possible, and by
that means to obtain a great influence in all external
departments, and even to procure the direction in some.
Only the superiors were acquainted with this, and it was
difficult to obtain their degree. Every one of the under¬
graduate members represented to himself a different object
to this superior degree, according to his individual situation,
and as his manner of thinking induced him. A solemn
oath was required, binding them not to divulge a syllable
of what related to the order; and every member of it was
consoled by the thought, that he had made a progress
THE GHOST-SEER.
117
farther than another, without communicating it to his
brother. A general equality of sentiment being introduced^
nobody considered that he was a mere instrument in the
hands of others; and this equality was alone sufficient to
attract the plebeian, when he thought himself in this
society united with many great men. Figurative language
and pretended wisdom, for appearance sake, veiled in
symbols and characters pleased the fanatic, who wished
anxiously to pass beyond the boundaries of human know¬
ledge. Humane actions influenced the noble, and opened
the hands of the rich and powerful to extensive charity,
and curiosity frequently induced many persons to enter
into the order.
" The strong inclination of the greater part of mankind
to a mystical union, made many desirous of joining this
society, though it stood not in need of members. Their
number was called a legion. To preserve them, no ad¬
ditional manoeuvre was wanted, and their defection was
prevented by many methods; and even if that should have
happened, it could not be of any material injury to the
order. Unwearied with every possible endeavour and ex¬
ertion, I sought to push myself forward, and I at length
succeeded, and became one of the leaders. I was elected
to that employment with the greatest solemnity; and it
was then that I discovered the real views of the society,
which before that period were not quite clear to me. A
small tablet of silver, with black letters engraved upon it,
acquainted me with the motive of its institution. The
contents were as follow :
" ' Let the dominion of good he the object of pursuit;
and the continual endeavour to become better, be the daily
labour of yourself and your brethren. Secrecy and dark-
ness secure the good, and prevent the wicked from obstruct¬
ing their proceedings.'
" Do not believe that this grand object, which seemed
so entirely irrelevant to my principles, deprived me of my
courage, although I had not expected it. My first thought
was, that every thing might be conducive to my benefit by
well managed proceedings. And I therefore endeavoured
immediately to gain the most exalted character among my
i 3
118
THE GHOST-SEER.
brethren. One grand principle of the order was, to raise
its members, who were known as good and useful subjects,
to the highest places in the state. Nothing could be easier
than this, and by such means to place every one in that
department which he best understood, and was most worthy
of; from which he might succeed to others by degrees,
from the lowest to the highest, so that all might be go¬
verned by members of our order, which would enable us to
attain our object the sooner. Twice every year the supe¬
riors met together in different places. There they com¬
municated to each other the experience which they had
acquired. The members were then proposed and examined,
and they that were found fit for employments, soon obtained
them.*
" As much precaution was prescribed by the laws in
respect to the choice of the superiors, and as many con¬
ditions were necessary in order to obtain places of conse¬
quence, it was very soon evident to me, that I had not
obtained my situation by undue influence. Many had
nothing more in view than the gratification of their vanity ;
and under the pretence of working for the order, were
satisfied with having obtained their wishes. And I per¬
ceived with pleasure, that the majority of the superiors of
that order were not at all interested in promoting the vir¬
tuous ; their only object was to govern. To bring them
over to my side, without discovering to them my plan, was
a very easy task.
" And now my game was won. Almost all places were
either given away by me, or at my intercession ; and I saw
very soon all the places filled by people, who only waited
my suggestion in order to communicate to me all which
could be serviceable in accomplishing my plans. My
power was now very far extended; and I ,'may reasonably
suppose, that what I have already communicated to you,
will enable you to understand me in future without further
explanation, as soon as I mention that order: without it I
never could have reached those situations which by its
' * That peoplemay not suspect I mean the order of masonry, I solemnly de¬
clare that it is not the case ; for this still exists, while the other, by its in¬
famous conduct, was destroyed. — Note of the Count O .
the ghost-seer.
119
means I arrived at. In the mean time the Regent —d—
died. During the government of his predecessor many
changes happened. From one of my associates there, I
obtained the following letter in hieroglyphics:
" ' The creatures of the present Regent —d— raise
up their heads in grandeur. They always surround their
master, and know how to please him in such a manner,
that he listens to all their proposals with blind confidence.
All is changed; and merely from a national hatred, it is
in contemplation to break off an alliance, of which our
court was so proud till this period, and without which, we
shall not long be able to avoid a bloody war. Both the
prime ministers L and D * are dismissed, and
have been beheaded in their prisons. The haste with
which this was performed, did not permit an enquiry into
the crime which was imputed to them; and the secrecy in
which all is enveloped, scarcely leaves us room for conjec¬
ture. I believe that something of a serious nature was
alleged against them, which irritated so much the passion
of —d—, that the idea of coolly enquiring into the
business did not once occur to him. The Count P ,
who is now at Rome, as ambassador, has received orders to
return as quickly as possible. His employment is given to
another, and he has a more advantageous one. The
—d—, whose heart he possesses, waits with the utmost
anxiety for his arrival. He has made him his private
minister, and all is in expectation on his account. The
exactness and care which I observe in writing to you
nothing but what is really true, and the great haste with
which I proceeded to deliver all this into your hands,
makes me wait with eager expectation your further com¬
mands, and it will, I flatter myself, meet your appro¬
bation.
" ' Charles.'
" This Charles was by birth a Frenchman, and one of
my principal confidants; his talents having fitted him for
that purpose. Scarcely had I read the letter, when I
* These personages procured their appointments as ministers by the recom¬
mendation of the Armenian.—Editor.
I 4
120
THE GHOST-SEER.
threw myself into my carriage, and travelled day and
night, that I might arrive speedily at Rome. I soon
became acquainted with the Count P ■, and found in
him exactly such a man as I wished for. To bring him
into the order of was very easy, because he was long
before inclined to it. If I dare call the connection of
common interest, friendship, there soon took place between
us an intimate friendship. I discovered to him a part of
my plan, and he swore faithfully to assist in fulfilling it,
for which I promised to help him to the — d — throne;
though this was in truth not my serious intention. I need
not relate to you that I magnified my influence, and by
the adroitness and mystery of my words and actions whi,ch
I displayed, I acquired his entire confidence. I was still
in doubt which empire I should make the object of my
government. Soon after I discovered circumstances that
induced me to relinquish my former choice. I looked for
the favourable moment that should direct my power; and
for the present, I was satisfied with augmenting the
number of my partisans.
" This favourable moment was nearer than I thought,
and all my undertakings became a settled point upon
which they could direct themselves. Besides the intimacy
of Count P , I had the good fortune, on account of
this journey to Rome, to find again my foster-father by a
curious accident, by means of which I learnt likewise the
secret of my, birth. His continual employment in his
laboratory, and the neglect of his patients, had brought
him into the most unpleasant situation. The proprietor of
the house in which I resided, and who was formerly a
physician, maintained him out of compassion. Chance
procured us an interview. I found no difficulty in re¬
cognising him immediately, for his physiognomy was not
altered, and it had made such an impression on my mind,
that I should have known him among a multitude of men.
On a former occasion, it was neither my intention to seek
for him, nor to make myself known to him, and this was
the case now; although I saw the poor old grey-beard
standing before me, who so much wanted my assistance.
I exulted in the firmness of my principles, which were
THE GHOST-SEER.
121
not shaken even by the sight of a father; and which
suffered not my heart to indulge the. least emotion of
tenderness.
"It happened that my foot slipping, I fell down a
staircase; I remained lifeless for some time, and when
my senses returned again, I found myself laid in a bed,
under the care of my foster-father; besides whom nobody
was present. I looked at him with surprise, and then
apparently meditated upon something, the nature of which
he could not discover. f What has happened to me,' I
exclaimed angrily, f that I find myself alone with a man
from whom I ought always to fly, because he could discover
the lowliness of my birth.'
" ' A fall from a staircase — your fit — I assisted you—
I opened your shirt collar.' f I shall recompense you for
that.—Where are my people ?' ' I contrived to have them
absent, because ' ' And how did you dare to
do it ? Let them come up immediately; I command it.
Ring the bell.'
" His knees trembled, tears gushed from his eyes. —
f Do you not know me ?' ' What a question ! Ring the
bell !' And in the mean time I jumped out of the bed,
and was going to ring it myself. He put himself in my
way.
" f For God's sake, let me have but a few minutes. I
am indeed Sylvio, and you are my Ferdinando. Are then
the traces of my face become entirely strange to you ?
Does your happiness and fortune not permit you to indulge
the pleasing recollection and acknowledgment of your
father's love?' f You are mad, fellow,' I exclaimed, and
pushed him from me, whilst he endeavoured to embrace
me. c Behold the mark on your neck; by it were you
made known to me, when 1 opened your shirt collar during
your fit. Oh ! let me not have in vain thanked God, that
he has enabled me to find you, and given me an opportu¬
nity of presenting to you your real father, who sighs for
your embraces. Oh ! if there arise not in your breast any
sentiments of gratitude for me, be attentive at least to
your own advantage, and force not him from you, who is
the only person that can relate to you the secret of your
122
THE GHOST-SEER.
birth, and can help you on that account to an immense
fortune.' c You were then no deceiver?' said I, in order
to maintain the character which at present I ought to act.
' Oh ! did not your heart tell you this immediately ? —
However I forgive you; who knows what deceits may
have hardened it, so that '
" 'Yes, dear father—' I pressed him to my bosom. It
was by no means difficult for me to shed a few tears, when
the old man mingled his with mine. f Oh ! there are villains
among mankind. I have been deceived by one to whom
I entirely sacrificed my friendship, and whom I charged
to seek after you, because I could not, by enquiry, obtain
any account of you, and my business did not permit me to
undertake this agreeable journey myself. The monster !
He abused my confidence, and instructed a rascal, who
acted the part of my father. My childish heart was easily
deceived, and I embraced him with affection. But by a
lucky circumstance, I discovered that he aimed at my life
and fortune, so that they might divide the spoil among them.
Yet he entirely owed his existence to me ! Oh ! father,
how difficult it is to believe always in the Almighty ! *
For by the treatment I had experienced, I was almost ren¬
dered a complete misanthrope.'
" The old man willingly believed my stories, and his
eyes overflowed with tears of joy. c Yes,' cried he in an
ecstasy, ' you are my Ferdinando. The falsehood and
deceit you have experienced in the world, could only give
you the appearance of an enemy of human kind, but your
heart remained noble. Oh ! how your father will be re¬
joiced ; for the only wish which glows in his bosom is,
that he may live to see you again.' 1 You were not my fa¬
ther !' said I, shedding a fresh stream of tears. ' Yes, I
deserve now to be cast from you.' f Not so, my son. I
only was your foster-father, and that is sufficient for me,
although you absconded. But enough of that, I now have
you again !—Read this letter.'
* Many such expressions I have omitted. In the mouth of such a diabolical
villain they seemed to me to be blasphemy. — Note of Count O —.
the ghost-seer.
123
" ' Venice, August 6. 17 —.
•c ' My dearest Sylvio,
" ' I have wronged you by my reproaches. I now know
that you are innocent. Though I have lost my sun, it was
not your neglect or harshness that induced him to run
away. Alas ! forgive the oppressed heart of a father, which
led me to treat you rigorously. I thought I should make
my son happier than his equals; that he might shine and
soar above all others ! God has punished my pride severely;
though my punishment is milder than I deserved. Oh!
that my son were still alive, and could be restored to me
again ! >—That thought drives far away the long-cherished
idea of death, which otherwise I could embrace with
pleasure. It is this alone which keeps my almost stagnant
blood in motion. It is this alone which nourishes my
soul. Could I but once more behold my beloved son, then
would I fill his hands with immeasurable riches, with which
the goodness of Heaven has blessed me, who am so un¬
worthy, and which I preserved but for him, my only one.
Could I but lay my trembling hands upon his head, to im¬
part my blessing, and might he with gratitude close my
fading eyes; then after my death, every one would bless
my name for the sake of such a son. My old feeble head,
thou wilt be obliged without that consolation, without that
happiness, soon to lay thy grey hairs in the grave. But
Sylvio, is it the feebleness of old age or presumption ? I
cannot yet give up my hope. Do not spare any trouble to
find him out. Willingly I would then — Oh ! what would
I not—bear all your guilt, nay, were it the greatest, I
would suffer for it in your stead in purgatory.
" ' Miscarini.'
" It was not the desire of my heart to see my father,
but the idea of obtaining his fortune, and many other
plans which I had already in view, that induced me to
hasten my journey to Venice. Sylvio was obliged to send
a letter before me, in order to prepare the way for my
sudden appearance, and to procure me a welcome reception.
My father embraced me with ecstasy, and the feebleness of
124 the ghost-seer.
his old age seemed to leave him. I played the part of
a tender affectionate son, and endeavoured to render light
the burdensome embraces of this disgusting grey-beard,
by the thought of his fortune, and its accomplishing my
plans already laid. But as soon as I saw that his palsied
head would induce him tenaciously to attack my religious
principles, which some of my papers (which his curiosity
led him to open) had discovered to him, and that he wished
to make me a fanatic, I began to perceive that even the
little time he had to live, would be of too long continuance.
He could be of no more service to me, and was a barrier in
the way of my undertakings; why should I wear longer the
mask, when I could expect no further profit by so doing ?
Better, I thought, that the old tree should make room for the
young one, that it might gain more strength: and of this
my father reaped the profit, for I suffered him not to strug¬
gle long with a painful death. In a sweet slumber I sent
him to a better world, after having despatched Sylvio his
bosom friend."
" Good God !" exclaimed the Prince: " How! Is it pos¬
sible for a man to murder his father !"
" You should add in cool blood; this alone distin¬
guishes me from all those who perhaps have committed
such an act in the heat of passion. Indeed I could have
spared him, had he not by his irresistible curiosity opened
some of my papers, by which a part of my plans and man¬
ner of thinking might have been betrayed. He could have
no confidence in my words, for he, with the help of Sylvio,
usurped the authority of a father. He even began to com¬
mand, to admonish, to threaten. Prince, I could not bear
a superior, who began to interrupt my course ! And had
I not to fear that his complaints of me would lay me open
to suspicion, and by that means injure my reputation, as
many thought me a pattern of sanctity ? The coward only
trembles at obstacles which appear insurmountable.—I was
wont to break through them."
The Count O in continuation.
Every nerve of my frame now shuddered from an
over-powering complication of terror and grief. It was to
THE GHOST-SEER.
125
me, as if my soul, filled with detestation, laboured power¬
fully to destroy the limits of its habitation, in order to flee
from this more than infernal malice-breathing outcast. My
eyes were fixed in my head. Though deeply oppressed,
my heart throbbed—my breast seemed to deny respiration,
and a cold sweat spread all over me. The Armenian re¬
mained with steadfast looks, and seemed to view with a
contemptuous smile our horror at his situation. No signs
of repentance were discovered in his countenance, in which
we might have hoped to trace the feelings of a man.
At length he proceeded in his narrative.
History of the Armenian resumed.
" I continued but a few months at Venice, as a great
many young patricians pressed around me, each of whom
earnestly endeavoured to gain my friendship. My family
and fortune gave me frequently a right of pre-eminence,
which I made beneficial without appearing to assume more
than was due to my situation. I discovered, with pleasure,
that many had already conceived an unextinguishable
hatred against the government, and which became more
bitter whenever they endeavoured to suppress it, and there¬
fore so much the more dangerous. All circumstances
united for the accomplishment of my plan. Venice was to
be overthrown by me, and upon its ruins was be laid the
foundation of my throne and government. To rise much
higher would be no difficulty, could I but gain one step
from my present situation. In this thought I was daily
more and more strengthened. Each day convinced me,
that in no place could my plan be so well executed as here,
where I found all things prepared for my purpose. A great
part of the nobility were dissatisfied with the tyranny of
the government, most of the provinces sighed under the
greatest oppression; the mob were like blades of corn,
easily agitated and put into motion; nothing was wanted
but to make use of all these favourable circumstances.
" From what I had already heard and known of the
government of Venice, I found it necessary to use the
utmost precaution, and to proceed with the greatest care
126
THE GHOST SEER.
in every thing that I was about to undertake. I observed
these rules the more, as they had been already a kind of law
within me; they, therefore, gained me much attention
and respect. I endeavoured by many means which I
employed to discover, nay to extort, the sentiments of
every one (which is very difficult here) without giving
them the least hint concerning mine. But carefully as
I thought I had concealed every thing from the eyes of
the public, some, however, had looked further into my
character than I supposed. In disguise, and wrapped up
in deep contemplation, I walked upon the platform of
Saint Mark. It had just begun to grow dark, when a
party of bungling musicians came and surrounded me. I
thought that this was nothing more than a common diver-
tisement; hut I had deceived myself. The kind of
romance which they sung seemed to have some allegorical
reference to myself. Little as this might be perceived by
any other person, the meaning of it did not escape my ob¬
servation. I was willing to consider it as accidental, when
one of their company pressed close to me, and put a paper
secretly into my hand, whilst the others began to sing : —
' Hide it,' said he, ' cautiously, and take care that no one
discovers it; else thou wilt lie to-morrow stretched at
length in thy grave.'
" These words, which were sung by a woman disguised
as a fairy, did not escape my attention ; and on account
of the emphatical manner in which they were repeated, they
made a deep impression on my mind. I put the paper
into my pocket, and went immediately home. As quickly
as possible I opened the letter, and read as follows : —
£f c Friend or foe, it will entirely depend upon yourself,
which of these names shall be applied to you by us for the
future. For your own benefit we wish that it may be the
former ; and now hear our request. We all are dissatisfied
with the government, which hitherto has tyrannised over
our country, cruelly oppressed its most noble subjects, and
recompensed its most sincere friends with shameful ingra¬
titude. Prerogatives, that in other countries are the right of
every honourable patriot, which the enraptured poet makes
THE GHOST-SEER. 127
the object of his sublimest strains, and thus transmits them to
posterity, of what benefit are they here ? They only lead the
victim to a disgraceful punishment. — Is not this calculated
to banish from our country all greatness of mind, anu to
destroy every incentive to magnanimous actions ? How cften
has the greatest general that drew his sword to revenge
his country's wrongs fallen a victim to prejudice, whilst he
was the friend of liberty ! How often has the greatest
statesman been sacrificed to the lowest intrigues and mean¬
est jealousy ! Our history is fraught with examples of
this kind, every one of which will be an infamous stain
upon our character, and must render us contemptible in the
eyes of every stranger. — And shall we longer support this
evil when it is in your power to relieve us ? We delight
in the idea of freedom, though the faintest shadow of it
cannot be found among us ! — Are not all our steps watched
by numberless spies ? Do not they catch at every syllable ?
And do we not often become a prey, even though we pos¬
sess the greatest innocence, to the despotism of those aban¬
doned creatures? — Does not the blood of our brethren
and relations, which was spilt by that never-sated lust of
murder, which they call state-prudence, cry aloud for
revenge ?
" ' Ferdinando, from the noble race of Miscarini, need
we tell you more ? Does not your blood boil within you ?
Are not such insults to common sense sufficient to drive a
man mad ? —Can your country be indifferent to you ? —
And will not the blood of your relations move you ? We
dreamt of freedom — we awoke, and the picture which
fancy had portrayed disappeared. Real liberty shall oc¬
cupy its place, or an eternal sleep, at least, shall procure us
an eternal dream; where the ideal picture, to which we
sacrificed our freedom, shall perpetually stand before our
eyes. There is a great party of us, linked by an indisso¬
luble tie, and ready to meet death, or live like men; our
numbers will increase, for our voices will rouse many from
an apparent state of stupor, who will immediately see their
error. Courage inspires us all — large sums of money are
in our hands ; — a prudent leader only is wanting,
" ( Ferdinando, will you be that person ? Your high
128
the ghost-seer.
rank, together with your judgment, induce us to make this
request. We are more acquainted with you than you per¬
haps imagine. A peculiar circumstance has given us the
information — (only us alone). We well know the history
of the various events, which by your management occurred
to both the secretaries at —d—. It is as incomprehensible
to us as your conduct, and on that account you are our
man. We hope you will not hesitate to accept our invitation;
for you are, perhaps, not so much a stranger here, as not to
know that by our excellent government we can effectually
employ the assassin's dagger. We could have made use of
it, but we confide in you, of which this letter is a proof. If
you accept of our offer, as we scarcely doubt that you will,
then let your apartment be illuminated at midnight. Yet it
is requisite that you should be alone. You shall then hear
more from us. Till that time you will be closely observed.
The business requires great foresight, and on that account,
and with anxious hope, we name ourselves, merely,
" ' Your
.1- y
s " ' Friends. ,
cc Nothing could be more desirable to me than the receipt
of such a letter. I must confess that it overcame me at
first. However I had prepared every thing, being in ex¬
pectation of such an offer; for I knew many of the nobility
were dissatisfied. But that this invitation would be given
me so soon, exceeded my expectation. The enthusiasm
that was displayed in the letter, delighted me so much, that
I read it several times over; for experience had long since
taught me what to expect from men wdio were actuated by
such motives. These only ought we to make use of, and
they may be managed as we please. I could pretty nearly
guess who the authors were, and with great impatience I
waited for the appointed midnight hour.
" It arrived. My sensations were directed to something
solemn, and even the clocks seemed to sound differently from
what they usually did. I thought it a kind of premonition
of what might happen in future. Suddenly the door flew
open, and a figure, very much disguised, stood before me.
f Ferdinando Miscarini, are you resolved ?' said the stranger,
THE GHOST-SEER.
129
with a deep expression and seriousness of voice. ' I am !'
I replied. Then follow me.' I was obliged to wrap my¬
self up in black, and we went off. As soon as we came to
the canal; we found a boat for us. He blind-folded me; and
when he took the bandage from my eyes; I found myself
in the hall; to which you both were once brought. *
" About twenty black masks rose from their seats; and
bowed respectfully; whilst; my companion brought me
nearer to them; and addressed them in the following words:
—'He is resolved — he belongs to us.' 'You are then
resolved to belong to US; in order to fulfil our demand ?'
said one of them who occupied the first place. ' I am.'
' And your resolution is not premature ? Is it firm ?'
' It is; for ever.' ' And you will not repent ?' 'I am
a man.' ' And if; by being linked with us, the most
shameful; the most tormenting death should be your lot,
and you could even by treachery revenge yourself, and pro¬
cure riches and honours, what would you do ?' ' Does
there need such a question ? Let them slowly boil me in
hot oil, and even extract the marrow from my bones, and
pierce me with red hot irons: I should be silent!' ' Then
swear,' they all exclaimed at once.
" This I did with all the solemnity possible. Whilst
kneeling, they all pointed their naked daggers towards my
breast. They swore obedience, to me in the like manner,
because I earnestly desired it from them. They then
snatched off their masks and exclaimed, ' Welcome, wel¬
come, Ferdinando Miscarini; welcome the chief of our
band.' ' And now,' said I, ' attend to this your sacred
duty. Be careful in every word which you utter, and in
every step you intend to take, to avoid every clandestine
conversation. Moderate the just revenge which burns
within their breast, till the period arrives which I shall fix
upon; it may then burst forth like a rapid overwhelming
torrent.—Will you do so?' 'We will.' ' I shall do
all, even what your most sanguine expectations can suggest;
but till then, I again repeat, patience and obedience!'
" I now diligently sought to gain the confidence of my
fellow conspirators, or rather my subjects; and each day
* See vol. i,p. 11.
VOI- II. K
130
THE GHOST-SEEK.
gave me new proofs how well I succeeded. One of my
principal objects was, to extend as much as possible the
order of . There was scarcely an employment or
situation but what was filled by some of its members. The
good fame of the order had already been of great advantage
to many of my plans; and they rejoiced to find me a
representative of it. They came in multitudes to be re¬
ceived by me, and thought it a mark of honour to wear its
official symbols. The considerable fees of entrance which
were paid by the wealthy, and the extraordinary contribu¬
tions which the members gave, united with my large
income, not only enabled me to live in the greatest splen¬
dour, in order to obtain my views and to purchase the
assistance of poor people, whom I wanted very much; but
I even saved considerable sums. I do not choose to say
any thing to you of the meetings of the order, for it does
not belong to this place. They were repeated weekly, and
I never failed to encourage the conspirators to persevere in
the exalted ideas they had already formed. You will also
imagine, that I accounted for the expenditure of the money,
which I obtained in the order, as contributing to the honour
of the society, although I spent it merely to gratify my
own desires, and to further the designs of the principal
conspirators.
" It was one of our most rigorous laws, that every
thing was to be discovered to the chief of the order, to
prevent surprise or misfortunes. This circumstance I
turned to very great advantage. Treaties, and all secrets
which had the least connection with me, or with the order,
I cautiously applied to assist our designs. No oath of
secrecy was so great and solemn, but it would have been
broken for that purpose; no person was spared; any one
was despatched immediately, when the order had reason to
be suspicious of his integrity. And there was not one
among the whole society, who would not with pleasure
have stabbed that man to the heart, whose death-warrant I
had signed in the name of the order."
" This astonishes me exceedingly," observed the Prince,
" surely the order must have greatly suffered by it, if they
encouraged their members so often to commit murders ? "
\
THE GH08T-SEER.
131
" The riddle, Prince, is so easily explained, that I
wonder you can require this now from me. How many
have been assassinated by monks without their influence
and authority being diminished by it ? And how was this
accomplished ? They made it a cause of religion, and I
made ours the cause of the order and zeal for the benefit of
the community. Can you not readily conceive, that he
whom I commanded to be murdered, I carefully repre¬
sented to the assassin as a villain who did not deserve
mercy, or we should willingly have granted it ? I always
employed people for that purpose, upon whose secrecy I
could depend. Under such circumstances, an inviolable
secrecy was preserved, the pious members of the order
knew not a syllable of it, and the numbers increased
daily."
" But did not such a society awaken the suspicion of
the state ? "
" In that respect, the order was advantageously circum¬
stanced. I took care that no proceeding was made known,
from which a bad opinion of it could have been fairly
inferred. The many benefits which the order conferred
upon the poor, and which were bestowed sometimes for
appearance sake, at others for the promotion of my plans,
could not be hurtful to the state. On the contrary, we
gained acquisitions from that side; many members came
over to us who had the highest offices in the state, and who
were spoken of as moralists."
" But amongst so great a multitude of members, might
there not have been some who had considered it more
deeply, and discovered that the order was a mere mask for
concealing dangerous designs ? Must not such a thought
occur to those who executed these wicked deeds ? "
" Would not you place confidence in the man who was
able to form such effectual plans, and pledged himself for
their execution ? — Would you not think that he must be
wise and discreet ? Every man of consequence had his
spies about him, for we contrived that even his footmen
should be our tools. By such means I was acquainted
with all their actions and movements; and as soon as they
seemed unfavourable to me, one hint was sufficient to have
k 2
^ m
driX'
u1
132
THE GHOST-SEEB.
the victim of my suspicions sent to the grave. I confess,
that my once retentive memory cannot now state the
number who experienced that fate. If the informations of
common spies were insufficient, it was not difficult for one
of us to introduce himself as a friend, and thus discover
his most secret thoughts; and if this scheme was frustrated,
then I had recourse to the power of the state inquisition,
and by that means had him condemned at all events. I
sought, besides, to increase the dissatisfaction to the govern¬
ment which the conspirators had already excited, by every
method which offered itself to me, and even considerably
to inflame their own secret hatred against them. Nay, I
knew how to corrupt the minds of those with revolutionary
principles, who had not been of that opinion. This was
very easy to do, without their being able to discover my
views.
" The jealousy of the state, which has often deprived
the most noble family of an excellent member made its
sacrifice, was always detested by the relations of the de¬
ceased ; but all were too much accustomed to regard that
blood-thirsty hyena, the inquisition, as a necessary evil, or
rather they were prevented by terror, from publicly ex¬
pressing their detestation for such an iniquitous tribunal.
Thus the evil was reconciled, and their only consolation
was, that others had suffered the same fate, and if they
canonised the victim, it was considered as an honourable
mark of respect to his ashes, and reckoned a sufficient
recompence for their infamous cruelty.* All these wounds
I sought to irritate, or to make fresh ones, and I could see
with the greatest certainty, the good effect of it, as nobody
would bear without discontent unmerited affliction. Does
not (thought I) even the most insignificant insect stretch
forth its jaws to bite him who endeavours to crush it ?
Thus all feeling will not be entirely extinguished, and of
course many will think of revenge.
" It was mine, as well as my associates' most serious
occupation to procure sacrifices to this state jealousy, and
* See an interesting publication on that subject in " Maier's Description of
Venice," 4 vols. Second edition. Leipsic, 1793.
THE GHOST-SEER.
133
we naturally selected those whom we in the least suspected.
We employed false witnesses, treasonable letters were
produced, and sometimes nothing more was wanting to
ensure the suspicious person a tomb in the canal Orsono.
I could relate to you many histories, to show how we pro¬
ceeded, but I think them rather too trifling to detain you
by such relations. How often did even the most wretched
spy succeed in sacrificing an innocent man, merely to
obtain the appointed reward ! In all these affairs, I was
the sole director of the whole, and left the execution of it
to those subordinate to me. By that means I had the
consolation to see in every department conspirators at the
head, who had all possible influence in forwarding our
grand aim. How easy is it to irritate a despicable state
like that of Venice, to the commission of the most horrid
murders !
" Every undertaking was successful, and the number
of conspirators increased every week. Their desire of re¬
venge was already risen to so high a pitch, that I alone,
and that by the most serious admonitions, could prevent
the storm from bursting. I told them, that it was not yet
the proper time for our purpose ; and did all in my power
to persuade them to wait with patience for a short interval,
when we should be sure of the most signal success. My
arguments, my courage, my resolution and actions, soon
acquired me, even among the most savage, such unlimited
influence, that they gave up themselves blindly and with
great alacrity to my direction, and without enquiring into
many things which appeared paradoxical to them.
" Prince, you seem not surprised that a party of con¬
spirators gave themselves up entirely to my plans, promised
to adhere to me by an oath (which in their eyes you will
say is not looked upon as any thing), and kept it punc¬
tually. Do you not ask how it was possible for me to
acquire such a great ascendency ? You must have forgotten
yourself, when you, a great moralist, a pious, virtuous,
and highly esteemed person, who are known to be possessed
of so much human knowledge, would have obeyed any
suggestions, let the execution of them have been ever so
k 3
134
THE GHOST-SEEK.
capricious or wicked.* The putting the mob in motion
was left to me, as without their aid the whole fabric must
have been demolished. Many of the statesmen among the
conspirators, as I have observed, had high employments,
and I myself was soon elevated to a similar situation. We
did every thing in our power to make the poor people
think their burdens insupportable. Even if this end were
not answered, it produced still another advantage, as they
confined to us all the places of dignity, and confirmed our
appointments; for you cannot yet have forgotten, that this
is the case with all those whom the people hate the most,
because the state has the least to fear from them. We
became more and more powerful, and I did not suffer the
original scheme to be at all violated, but studied how to
increase our influence. The oppressions of the state we
contrived should rapidly increase, as the breaking out of
the conspiracy approached. We began to oppose the com¬
mon attachment to idleness; we declared that begging
should be prohibited, and by that means the mob kept to
industry and labour; moreover we determined to abolish
the frequent festivals and other diversions.
" The few statesmen who did not belong to the con¬
spiracy, were easily overcome, or deceived by the appearance
of this innovation ; and if none of them would suit, there
was another method of obtaining our aim, which never
failed, namely, restoring to the mob their pleasures and
their feasts, by our authority. The advantage we were to
derive from that is very obvious ; for the mob, who think
the government good and perfect only when it sanctions their
favourite inclinations, must of course be the more enraged,
when they find themselves so suddenly deprived of their
pleasures, and no beam of hope left that they shall ever
return. We then began to show ourselves from a distance
as their saviours, and we could expect them with certainty
* The Prince had never the intention to give him any answer to such ques¬
tions. His countenance showed distinctly how much he suffered, how much
the burden of his crimes oppressed him, and that he now saw clearly the conse¬
quences of his guilt, which he heard from the mouth of a seducer. My com¬
passion towards the Prince, which continually agitated my inmost frame, could
only be diverted by the strongest detestation for the Armenian, whose face
seemed to glow with pleasure at the thought of having seduced an honest man.
—Note op Count O——.
THE GHOST SEER.
1S5
to join us in large parties. All these things were prepared,
and the proclamation was merely delayed, because I
thought it as yet not proper. I could see plainly, that the
conspiracy, though it should break out in its most horrid
form, would not satisfy my views, which were extended to
the throne of government Is feared internal divisions; or
that they would not like a sovereign at the head of a
republic, the principle of which they had long before
imbibed.
" To behold myself as a kind of Doge, which dignity I
could have acquired without great difficulty, seemed rather
too mean for me, who had ventured so much. I justly
conceived, that every one of the noble conspirators would
have contended with me for equal rights, although till that
period they strictly obeyed my commands. I at least had
reason to expect this from their interest and vanity, as
soon as they saw that their purpose was accomplished, and
that I was of no more use to them. The power of a
foreign court only could support me, which I hoped, from a
variety of ^circumstances easily to obtain; yet there were
some difficulties in my way; for my personal appearance at
different places would have been of the greatest assistance
in my designs, but it was necessary for me to continue at
Venice. I had many concerns of my own which I could
not trust to another; and besides, I was at the same time
Inquisitor of the State.
" Before I had resolved how to proceed, I received a
letter which at once removed all embarrassment. It was
from Charles. I commanded him to stay at — d —, and
to give me an account of all circumstances which took
place there. Till now I had heard nothing of him ; I
began, therefore, to consider him as lost, when I received
a letter in hieroglyphics to the following purport: — *
— d— the 15 th—, 17 —
ec ' As I darejsay you are surprised at having heard
nothing from me for so long a time, I must tell you the
reason. Trifling affairs I thought not worth while to
* This letter I found among the papers of the Armenian. All his writings
were in my possession.—Count O .
K 4
2 36 THE GHOST-SEEK.
communicate to you, and business of importance I did not
think proper to trust to the post. I know, that at Venice
they have eyes like Argus, and an hieroglyphical letter
might excite suspicion. On the supposition that you would
be angry with me for not using other means to give you
information, I entreat you to read this letter, and your
anger I hope will soon change into joy and satisfaction;
for myself, I am so proud of what I have done, that I
look forward with confidence for your commendation.
That it might in some great measure be obtained, I
thought proper not to acquaint you earlier with my under¬
takings, till I could be perfectly sure of their entire success,
and on that account you will excuse my delay.
" f Now to the business. I informed you in my last
letter, that both the private ministers L and D
had been despatched in their prison. Rejoice with me,
that this is false. These warm friends have been preserved,
though their death was asserted so confidently that I
myself was deceived. At that time, one did not know how
to proceed, nor whom to believe. Only a very few, who had
been in the confidence, and always about — d —, could
know the proceedings with certainty, and on that account
I do not wonder that my endeavours to obtain some news
from my associates were fruitless. The Count P is
now arrived. You are a great favourite of his: and if you
were not the man, I should wonder; for he speaks of you
with enthusiasm, and this is not his common method.
You have studied his weak side so accurately, that he is
involved in perpetual conjectures. He believes that you
have the power of working miracles; and I cannot at all
comprehend this peculiar phenomenon, which is such a
direct contrast with his usual mode of thinking. The
greatest physiologists could not learn very much of us ; for
were they to examine us closely, they perhaps might
entirely lose themselves in the labyrinth of hypothesis. I
became acquainted with this Count P in one of our
lodges. As my character at present is in high estimation,
I easily obtained admittance into his private societies, and
I soon succeeded in ingratiating myself into his favour,
when he heard that I knew you personally.
the ghost-seer.
137
ec ' I learned from him, that hoth the secretaries L
and D were still alive, but in close prison; and as they
would not confess any thing, in spite of all the rigorous
means which had been employed, the d had not yet
passed his sentence upon them. Before I had heard the
truth of their fate, I formed the resolution to save these
persons at all hazards, and in that I have succeeded so ex¬
cellently that you will exult in your worthy scholar. My
first business was to prepare for the gaoler a dose which sent
him to his long home. By means of the count P I
procured another person in his place, who was one of my
associates, and a cunning fellow. By his means, all the
locks, bolts, &c. were so prepared, that they could be opened
with little trouble, and your newly invented aqua fortis I
used in this instance with incredible effect. A dark night
was chosen for the purpose of setting both at liberty. In
order to prevent their searching after them, and to exalt
your power in the eyes of count P •, I threw into the
prison the following note :—
cc e You have experienced my power, and yet you dared to
confine my favourites in dismal prisons. Could you sup¬
pose that it would he impossible for me to break open locks
and bolts ? Do not enquire further after them, else shall my
powerful arm execute the punishment which compassion and
iveakness still withhold.
"' Baron Vatifiello.'*
" ' The effect which this produced was so great, that it
was prohibited on pain of the most severe punishment to
speak a word of these circumstances, particularly as they
found the gaoler shot, which business I contrived, but in
such a manner, that it appeared as though he had commit¬
ted this action himself. I pitied the poor fellow, for I
could have made further use of him; but, I feared that he
might not be cautious enough ; and besides that, I had pro¬
mised him a recompense, which I could never bestow.
Besides, it was calculated to produce a deep impression, as
it appeared that this man had killed himself through mistake.
* The reader will recollect that the Armenian was known in d under
this name.
138
the ghost-seer.
The most certain way is always to be preferred ; you have
frequently told me so yourself; and if I had considered this
sooner, I should not have made such an ample excuse,
thereby exhibiting a kind of weakness, as if I ought to he¬
sitate before I sacrifiecd a man for either your interest or
my own. I am heartily ashamed of that, and now give
you the greatest assurance of improvement, that I may
obtain your pardon.
" ' As soon as I had my prisoners in safety, they fell
before me upon their knees; for till then, it seemed to me
as if veneration and terror had confined their tongues.
They thought me an ambassador from you, and I suffered
them to continue in that opinion. They then confessed to
me that they had confidently reckoned upon your delivering
them. These men are entirely at your service, for tliey
have promised me to perform any thing that you command
them to do. One I have sent to , and the other to
• , after having given them instructions. I hope this will
be agreeable to you; and so much the more as D sent
me a letter to-day, a copy of which I will communicate
to you. That count P is the favourite of d
I have already told you. I only add, that he has made
himself so necessary to him, that nothing can be undertaken
without him.
" ' Charles.
ec ' P. S. — I have just received a letter from L ,
saying that he already begins to act a great character at
——. All goes on agreeably to our wishes, and as soon as
I hear any thing of consequence from him, I will commu¬
nicate it to you. I believe he may do you many great
services there. The bearer of this you may entirely con¬
fide in.
" Copy of the enclosed letter.
" ' The President to Charles
" 1 the 17th —.
" f My joy and haste oblige me to tell you that in a few
words with which I could fill many sheets. But with
the ghost-seer.
139
■what shall I begin first? I find that this task is more
difficult than I imagined. I have been wonderfully success¬
ful in all my undertakings. By your management I am at
present so disguised, that my fear of being discovered is
now converted into boldness, and nobody has any idea who
I am — I think that this may principally be attributed to
the baron Vatifiello. If this immortal being would once
vouchsafe to make me so happy as to employ me as an
instrument in his wonderful deeds ! Yet I perhaps wish too
much. You know I have assumed the name of , and
am already risen to the rank of president. The has
given me his favour in the highest degree. I should be
vain enough to imagine, that this, or at least a part of it,
might be ascribed to my personal abilities, were it not, that
when I seriously consider, I think that I must attribute all
to the baron and the Order of , into which your good¬
ness has introduced me as a member. Before I conclude,
I must give you a proof how well I am beloved by .
His nephew will soon be at Venice, and will stay there for
for some time incog.: this he has told me in confidence.
You will perhaps say in reply, that this is not of sufficient
consequence to cause much exultation ; but I would observe,
that it may become so, for keeps it as a secret from
every other person without exception, and without pretend¬
ing to have any other intentions than those which are laud¬
able. I made myself dear to the sovereign by degrees, and
have been obliged to write in his name several letters to the
young prince. I must expedite the bearer of this, who
goes on business for my master ; and without making his
appearance, he will send this letter to you by a third person.
I hope I shall soon be able to write you more fully. I con¬
clude with thanks for your kindness: I do this in few
words, because my heart is not able by any language to ex¬
press its gratitude. You may rely upon my fulfilling all
your commands in the most punctual manner. I look with
anxiety for your satisfaction, which will increase my hap¬
piness in the highest degree. In the mean time I remain
your
" e Debtor.'
140 the giiost-seer.
" c P. S. — I was obliged to open this letter again. It
was forgotten by an unpardonable negligence of the messen-
ge, who had for a long time carried it about in his port¬
manteau. When I was informed of this, I could account
for your long and till then inexplicable silence. At this
time I have ready a parcel of letters for you, which will in¬
form you what this letter can but tell you in a small degree.
All is going on according to your own wishes. As soon as
you inform me where I may send the parcel of letters to,
you shall receive them without delay. The sincerity which
you will find in them, must convince you how much I am
disposed towards him to whom I owe every thing. The
prince of has been some time at Venice : this inform¬
ation may be of the greatest consequence. All is tolerably
quiet here, because the has been very much attacked
by his usual disorder.'
" The account that you, Prince, were here, as well as
the rest of the information, gave me great pleasure, for
nothing ever occurred but what I overcame without any
difficulty. You were from that moment the principal ob¬
ject of my attention; and that I should make you sub¬
servient to my purpose, I deemed certain, before I could
possibly know your character. The idea may seem absurd,
but I could not bring myself to think otherwise. My con¬
jecture became so much the more strengthened, when I
beheld you, and observed in your countenance a pleasing
melancholy, which promised me the best effect, although
your other qualities seemed in some measure to be in op¬
position to your appearance. To make you entirely depend¬
ent upon me, was my first resolution, being the groundwork
of my plan. I was desirous that they should choose you
king of . This seemed to me certain, because I learned,
during my stay in , that there were many dissatisfied
and rebellious persons in the nation, anxious to obtain a
regent from the house of , who would restore them all
their ancient privileges.
" Prince, I feel how difficult it is to make a plan of mine
appear to another person clear and intelligible; let it suffice
that I executed them with effect, and triumphed over seem¬
ing impossibilities. The success of all my schemes, till the
\
THE GHOST-SEER.
141
period when they arrested me, and when I, as the master
spring, was made inactive, vouch for the truth of my as¬
sertions.* Now, Prince, recollect the period when I made
myself first known to you, from which time I intend to
trace your history minutely.f It was upon the terrace of
Saint Mark where I followed you in the mask of an Arme¬
nian, and announced to you the death of one of your re¬
lations. I believed it to be the best method to act mys¬
teriously ; justly conceiving, that under such circumstances
you would retain a greater veneration for me, and be very
desirous to procure a more intimate acquaintance with me."
" In this," replied the Prince with sorrow, " you did but
too well succeed, for I had scarcely any desire but that of
speaking to you. How could it be otherwise, since your
account agreed so perfectly with the truth ! That you knew
my real name, I now no longer wonder : but that you could
announce the death of the hereditary prince, and the hour
in which he expired, is still an enigma to me; at least I
wish to have it unravelled, that I may no longer judge er¬
roneously."
" I have already told you," said the Armenian, " that
I) was then in under the name of , president,
and was in complete possession of the favour of the .
This person was a willing tool in my hands. I sent him
some poison, which he was to put in the drink of the he¬
reditary prince; and I was so well acquainted with its slow
effect, that I could calculate the hour of his death very mi¬
nutely. Finding that you lived very retiredly, it was ne¬
cessary for me (in order to afford my spies an easy access
to you) to involve you in the intoxicating pleasures of dis¬
sipation ; for every thing that tended to promote serious
consideration was disadvantageous to me: with this view I
discovered your rank, and the natural consequence was, that
the ambassadors of the senate received you with all possible
respect: you found that it was agreeable to what I had
previously informed you. This was done to give you a fresh
« I omit what he has related here. The reader knows it already, from the
intercepted hieroglyphical letters by lord Seymour. The Armenian did not
then know that their contents were already made public. *
f I must beg of the reader to recollect all that happened to the Prince, as re.
lated in the foregoing volume.
fit
i1 i
142
THE GHOST-SEER.
proof how materially I was acquainted with all that con¬
cerned you, and to prevent any embarrassment in the as¬
sembly to which they conducted you, I was present as a
nobleman, and observed with pleasure how deep the impres¬
sion which I had made was engraven upon your mind. To
surprise you with something wonderful, and to strengthen
the idea that I every where followed you invisibly, I went
the next evening (for the purpose of observing you) to the
terrace of Saint Mark in an unknown mask. I was not
long there when you appeared with Count O , and were
compelled by a shower of rain to enter a coffee-house.
" The circumstance which happened there you cannot
forget.* It made part of the plan I was pursuing. The
hall into which you were brought by my command, was the
rendezvous of the conspirators; and the beheading of the
Venetian, who belonged to our party, was merely a piece of
deception with a large puppet, by which means I recom¬
mended to you caution during your continuance at Venice.
Knowing as you do, that what I have explained actually
happened, it will not appear singular to you, that I delivered
your watch (as a sign that you might perhaps not come
home so soon as usual) to one of your attendants. I took
it from your pocket in the tumult." t
" And what was your intention by that ? Perhaps no¬
thing more than to raise yourself in my estimation."
" Partly so; for by that I prevented their enquiring after
you, and it convinced them that you were not, as some had
supposed, in the hands of the state inquisition, the discovery
of which might have had bad consequences. I knew per¬
fectly well that you were not very desirous to remain longer
at Venice, in spite of what had happened to you; and on
that account I contrived with the president that you
should receive a letter, in which your court suggested that
they would be well pleased with your continuing at Venice.
Hence it was that you were enabled, by large remittances,
to make that splendid figure in the circles of gaiety which
your situation required j and without this I was confident
you would not have continued so long there. It was pur-
* See vol. i. p. 13,
t See vol i. p. 15
THE GHOST-SEER.
143
suant to my commands that the physician proposed a jour¬
ney of pleasure upon the Brenta, after you were recovered
from a fever; and all that happened to you there was pre¬
viously ordered by me, and was executed by a cunning
fellow whom you suspected to be a Sicilian. He has given
you an exact explanation of most parts; and I will only
inform you of that in which he dealt falsely with you, ac¬
cording to the character he was obliged to display. The
scene which took place with the children *, I designed should
not only please your fancy, but elevate your ideas beyond
the sphere to which they were at that moment confined."
" Then I was not mistaken when I thought the Sicilian
was concerned with you ? "
" Certainly not. I now reflected what other means I
should use to accomplish m„y plans; and wisely considered,
that the sooner I began the better. In what manner the
first appearance of the ghost was contrived you know al¬
ready ; and it could not have been difficult for you to have
discovered it yourself, because I meant it merely as an in¬
troduction ; and, for that purpose, I chose the Sicilian to
act the part, who, without doing me any mischief, could
easily come forward as a deceiver, and whom I designed to
assist me in the subsequent performances.
" And you would have obtained your object if the Si¬
cilian had not related so much to me, which inevitably
weakened the impression, if it did not extinguish it en¬
tirely."
" I know it, and he has suffered very severely for it. On
that account many schemes to support my plan became re¬
quisite, which would not have been necessary if a mistrust
had not been excited against me."
" But the second apparition you have not yet explained
to us."
" It was a very cunning person whom I had instructed
in the business, and who had shrouded himself, in case of
violence, with a strong suit of armour. As I had your
snuff-box many times in my hands, I examined the portrait
upon it very minutely, and knew that it was a copy of your
deceased friend: thus I was able to give the ghost a strong
■* See vol. i. p. 17.
1U
THE GHOST-SEER.
likeness, by means of a wax mask which I had manufac¬
tured myself. The other circumstances were trifles; as, by
the smoke of olive wood and spirits of wine, I prevented
your making any exact observations."
" But where did this man enter so suddenly ? "
" Do you not remember that a cloud of smoke filled the
whole apartment ? It came from an opening in the boards;
and these means were employed to obscure the figure as it
ascended through the trap-door, which closed itself by a
spring."
'• And the appearance of the constables ? "
" Was contrived by me, that you might not suspect that
I was concerned with the-Sicilian."
" The ball rolled slowly upon the altar, how was
that ? "
" I had loaded the pistols with powder only, and the
Sicilian himself rolled the ball upon the altar."
" Oh God!" exclaimed the Prince, and tears stood in
his eyes, " was I then so near discovering the trick, and
yet —
" You ought to admire me so much the more," said the
Armenian, bursting out into a violent fit of laughter. " Is
it not true, Prince, my invention rises far above my con¬
ception ? It must be done by art, if you mean to catch
a person after he has perceived the net." *
" You ordered the Sicilian to be apprehended. Did you
not intend by that to let us have a conversation with him,
that it might give us the key to his juggling tricks?"
" Undoubtedly: for as he explained to you the appear¬
ances falsely (which lie you might have discovered by a
little attention), I thought those which I had to produce
myself would be represented to you so much the more plau¬
sibly as wonders."
" And that was the very point in which you entirely
missed your aim," said the Prince, " that was exactly the
method to open my eyes."
" But for how long?—Yes, Prince, I eonfess, that I
* The remainder which the Armenian explained of that apparition was.
nothing more than what the reader already knows from the Prince's conjec¬
tures ; and the more this was unravelled, the more his sorrow increased, so that
we scarcely were able to comfort him. — Note of Count O—.
THE GHOST-SEER.
145
did not expect that of you. It was something uncommon,
and I was not sufficiently acquainted with you to be aware
of this. Besides, the Sicilian went further than my orders
extended."
" I perceive that. And is it true, then, that the whole
story concerning Lorenzo del M— was invention?' " *
" Nothing else, I can assure you."
e( It was of no great use to you, for the Sicilian gave a
feeble account of the story of the ring t; there the wretched
deceiver was too much unmasked."
" And yet this was exactly agreeable to my plan."
" How ? "
" I have told you before, that I did not know you well
enough; and I believed, that if a deceiver of such a kind,
who was in connection with a murderer, impeached the
character which I had played—if such an one I say, should
give evidence against me, it must make a stronger impres¬
sion upon you, as by every inducement he had a tie to the
contrary."
" But what could you imagine would follow the letting
us know, that he made his escape ? as by that our suspicion
must have been augmented."
" That indeed happened without my knowledge. I was
under the necessity of being absent for several days: they
did not find out his escape in time, otherwise you would
never have heard of it."
" What view had you in causing the second apparition
to say that I should experience it at Rome, and that I ought
to look to myself ? "
" This was nothing more than an allusion to your future
conversion to the Roman Catholic Church, and to try whe¬
ther you would by such means be persuaded to take a
journey to Rome. If I had perceived that you were in-
dined to go there, I should have employed other means in
order to dissuade you from it. From that also I could
conclude, that you thought the second appearance of the
ghost to be no deception, and this was a sufficient induce¬
ment for me to proceed in my operations. I soon discovered
you to be a sceptic; on that account, I was obliged to use
* See vol. i. p. 39. + See vol. i. p. 47.
VOL. II. L
146 THE GHOST-SEER.
other means by which I might obtain my aim; and
although this could not be done suddenly, I thought it would
be effected with certainty. Through the contrivance of a
certain priest, your servant was drawn into my net, and
I commanded that he should even be surprised and taken
up."
" And this also happened through you ? Oh God !—And
what views had you in doing that?"
" Many: but those which concerned you were not an¬
swered— (only in a subsequent period he became useful to
me; but till 1 describe that time, 1 will delay mentioning
him) — I succeded by his loss in bringing one of my most
skilful creatures into your service,—the cunning Biondello.
All that they told you of him, when you engaged him, was
done merely to induce you to take him without hesitation.
That it was easy to obtain your favour, the consequences
of this event have shown. As they had told you so many
fine stories of his disinterested character and fidelity, and
that by the multitude of his associates (whom he could
make use of every moment), he must become very necessary
for you, it was not to be wondered at that you made un¬
conditional use of him, and placed in him the greatest
confidence. From him I became acquainted with every
little project of yours, and when you thought I had no
concern in your undertakings, they were solely under my
direction.
" Without even my expecting it, there arose another ad¬
vantage, when you conceived the idea of explaining in a
natural manner that which you believed at first to be a
wonder, namely, the idea that the whole system of religion,
which you had imbibed in your infancy, might be founded
on erroneous principles. I heard with great pleasure from
Biondello, that you already began to doubt its purity, which
seemed to you till then too holy to admit of an attack.
Whatever Biondello said against the proposition, I could
so clearly see the beneficial consequences which would arise
from it, that I employed every method to detach you from
your religion, and, if possible, to make it detestable to you,
and to convert you into a free-thinker. It was then that I
hoped to find you a perfect victim to my authority. It
THE GHOST-BEER.
147
was by my contrivance that your imaginary friends put
into your hands all those books which seconded my in¬
tention, and that you were afterwards introduced into the
Bucentauro. And to prevent your again enjoying that tran¬
quillity of mind which was so much distinguished in you,
and which upon reflection might have returned, they sought
in every possible manner to lead you into dissipation.
They solicited your friendship, they seduced you, led you
into the most agreeable companies, and endeavoured by
every method to make your new manners of life as agree¬
able to you as possible.
" Do not think, Prince, that this was merely accident, al¬
though it might appear so to you. So humiliated as you
now are, it can have no other than good consequences upon
your Christian heart, particularly if you exercise this be¬
loved virtue. On that account I once more remind you,
that, notwithstanding your superior qualities, of which you
boasted so highly, you would not have become the idol of
every society you went into, if it had not been partly
because you were a prince (a title which hides what would
much disfigure others), and principally because I designed
it to be so. Know, prince, for the many pleasant hours
which you have passed in this manner, you still owe me
your thanks.
" I now endeavoured to get rid of you, Count O .
It was effected by a letter to one of my brethren at the
court of your sovereign; and your presence there, you know
yourself, became so necessary, that you dared not stay
longer here, though you were very much inclined to it."
" But I am surprised," replied I, " that you did not
take a shorter step : you might have assassinated me by one
of your banditti."
" Do not think so highly of yourself, my dear Count !
—You were too despicable for me to have you murdered;
and besides, it might have become too evident to the Prince,
and perhaps (for what will not such trifles sometimes
produce?) might have caused him to alter his opinions."
" If I was so despicable to you, whence was it that you
feared my presence ? "
l 2
7"
148
THE GHOST-SEER.
" I feared your presence! We often avoid a little stone
that lies in our road, or rather, we push it away with the
foot, to walk more commodiously, not because we fear to
break our neck or leg by its being in the way. The hin-
derances which you could throw in my way, in respect to
the Prince, were so trifling, so— But why do I defend
myself? The wise man very often suffers himself to be
stung by a fly, when he has it in his power to chase it
away. Yet I must be a little gallant to you, and for that
reason I willingly will confess to you, that in comparison
with the other cavaliers of the Prince's household, I had
more to fear from you than those buzzing insects of the day.
You see, Count, that I speak plainly to you.
" Now I will return to you, my most gracious exalted
master ! Till this period you had not made an appearance,
which would in the end cause your circumstances to be em¬
barrassed, and for which I wished so heartily. I saw before¬
hand, that this could happen in no other manner than by
introducing you to a person with whom you would be
obliged to draw a parallel, and by that means aid the ac¬
complishment of my wishes. No one was better calculated
for that purpose than the Prince of —d , and I could
easily induce him to come hither by the assistance of the
Order— and the Count P , who was much esteemed
at that court. That his presence had the desired effect
upon your conduct, you know without having it again re¬
peated. That you should soon fall into the hands of
usurers, was natural; but anxious to prevent this taking
place immediately, I contrived to throw a stranger in your
way, and so make you dependent upon him. This was
(till then unknown to you) the Marquis Civitella."
"How!" exclaimed the Prince, "did I not save him from
the hands of the banditti ? and—"
" It was done by my express orders, Prince," interrupted
the Armenian hastily. " Recollect the evening when you
were carried home from the Bucentauro in a chair. Bion-
dello had purposely fixed upon that which he knew would
soon break ; and he conducted you wrong, in order to guide
you unperceived to the spot where Civitella and his ban¬
ditti waited for you. As soon as they heard your arrival,
THE GHOST-SEER.
140
they began to make a noise, and I knew that you would be
led to the spot by your courage, and assist the person at¬
tacked. As soon as this happened, the banditti fled, for
they were employed by us for that purpose, and you
imagined you had rescued the Marquis."
" But his wounds," said the Prince, " were visible, and
I myself was covered with blood."
" He had no wounds at all. At the dawn of morning,
when the lamps were nearly extinguished, and in such a
situation, it was very easy for him to deceive you by
sprinkling blood upon your clothes. Consider also, that it
was Biondello himself who, for appearance sake, dressed
his wounds. Nobody from you even came to examine
him."
" But why did you use such means to introduce to me
the Marquis, as it would in any other manner have suc¬
ceeded equally as well?"
" Because I wished to have him closely connected with
you, which could not otherwise be done so well; for amongst
the many with whom you were surrounded, you paid little at¬
tention to individuals; and besides, it would have displeased
you if he had offered to lend you such large sums of money,
had you not supposed that it was gratitude which induced
him to do it. You were not aware, that your own egotism
attached you to the Marquis, and he, on that account,
conducted you every where, and by his extraordinary finesse
persuaded you to many things which were agreeable to my
intentions, and to the character which he was engaged to
play. Biondello was no less expert at his employment;
and he chose his apartment near the side of your sleeping-
room. Now, therefore, consider whether it was wonderful
that the least movement which you made was communicated
to me, as you were always surrounded by two of my tools,
in whom you placed an unlimited confidence. The other
spies, who still served me, and who were found in every
society in which you entered, I will not mention. I only
remind you of these circumstances, that you may not be
surprised when you find that the line of conduct which you
thought an act of your own, was directed solely by my
will.
n 3
150
THE GHOST-SEEK.
" What I had foreseen and expected now happened.
You were entirely without money. Your letters of credit
were kept back by my contrivance; and, to make your embar¬
rassment still more pressing, I contrived that you should
borrow of an usurer. The whirlpools of dissipation and
show, which the stay of the Prince d had caused,
had already so engulfed you, that you could not be suffi¬
ciently master of your vanity to renounce it, otherwise than
by leaving the place, which you knew would be suspicious.
This however was necessary, if you would escape the abyss
which was yawning to receive you, and which was enlarged
to an alarming extent. You were unaccustomed to such a
prospect. Fearing that all my former labours should prove
fruitless, I was obliged to devise a scheme which would not
only induce you to continue here, and gratify you in the
mean time in the most agreeable manner, but which I could
also employ in the execution of my plans.
" To answer this purpose, nothing appeared to me so
proper as love; and this so much the more, because I knew
perfectly well that this passion had never been roused
within you, and must naturally burst forth the stronger.
That I might proceed in the safest way, and not present to
you many ladies without effect, I was disposed previously to
try your taste. From several of the finest originals I had ac¬
curate copies taken, and commissioned a painter of Flo¬
rence to offer them to you for sale. You know how soon
you decided for the Madonna, and it was on that account un¬
necessary to make further trials with the other pieces. As
I was confirmed by innumerable instances in the opinion,
that fancy works the more powerfully if the object is taken
from it, wherewith it was occupied, I contrived it so that
you should not be able to buy the picture; for the painter
knew beforehand, that it must not be left with you for the
highest price, because it was already my own property;
and, in order to destroy your hopes of obtaining it, it was
told you, that a purchaser had already been found for it.
The copy had so powerfully wrought upon your mind,
that we naturally expected that you would be much im¬
pressed by the original, if we could exhibit her to you with
THE GHOST-SEER.
151
a proper combination of circumstances which really hap¬
pened afterwards."
" How !" exclaimed the Prince, " was this also your con¬
trivance?— That love,, which nothing else—"
" Do not put yourself out of temper, all shall be imme¬
diately explained to you. — Do you not remember that Ci-
vitella guided all your steps, and made you enter the
church, where you found your beloved goddess, who al¬
ready waited with impatience your arrival? Was any
thing more wanting than to leave to her the part she was
instructed to play, after you were already so much occupied
with her picture ? And to be certain that she had made the
wished impression upon you, Civitella was obliged, in the
concert he gave to you, to introduce the handsome lady who
sung, conceiving that a melodious air sung by an enchanting
voice, makes a sudden and sometimes deep impression.
You were the only one in the company, who remained im¬
movable and regardless. This gave us a sufficient ground
to presume, that the impression you received, had not yet
been effaced. In order, therefore, to make it deeper and
more permanent, Biondello was to give you only a distant
hint that she might be found again, and on that account
you did not see her on the wished Sunday evening in
church. Civitella at that period led you to the gaming¬
table, to plunge you still deeper in debt; and it must be
ascribed to some other cause than your absence of mind,
that you lost such large sums.
" This was the time to prejudice you against your
court. D was long before convinced of your bad con¬
duct, by several accounts which the President gave
of you; it therefore only remained to inspire you with
hatred against the court. The first attempt at this was by
Biondello, who told you, that they employed spies to watch
you. Your bad conscience (let me for once use this ex¬
pression) suggrested immediately that this could come from
no other place than from . There was nothing more
wanting than to confirm this proposed opinion within you,
and Biondello (if it were possible) gained by that means
upon your confidence. He was also instructed in giving
you a hint, to whom you might attribute it, if the letters
u 4
152
£
THE GHOST-SEER.
should not arrive, which really happened, because I inter¬
cepted the correspondence."
" On that account," replied the Prince, " I advised Bi-
or.dello not to imprison those negotiators. Oh ! I now
perceive more and more clearly, how shamefully I was de¬
ceived by those to whom I gave my confidence, which I
had withdrawn from my truly worthy friends !"
" I determined to give you back your Greek Lady, fear¬
ful that the letter, which I had prepared for you by the
President of your court, might attack you too severely,
and then you would have a consolation left; and partly
that you should not form a determination to leave Venice.
What 1 suspected happened. As a fortunate lover, and
under the idea of obtaining from your sister the accustomed
supplies, you answered in an angry style, and the true en¬
mity was vented ; especially as you received a fresh letter,
in which they laid much guilt to your charge, of which you
were totally ignorant at that time."
" And how was it possible that the could believe
such things of me ? "
" That was managed by the President, who, in hopes of
becoming a great man through me, adopted, out of grati¬
tude, every method to fulfil my wishes. And this was very
easy for him to do. I took care of the letters which he
obtained; and those which I contrived to get signed by
your bosom friend baron F (as they would believe
him, he always taking your part with great warmth) pro¬
duced the greatest effect."
" O God !" exclaimed the Prince, " had I but then only
defended myself in a letter !"
" And you believe, then, that a letter written in such a
style as that was, would have been sent away from hence ?
Before I had perused all your letters no one could be sent
away, and those that arrived I always saw, previous to their
being delivered to you. In every case I could without
difficulty forge one, as I knew so well how to imitate all
hand-writings, and you were always deceived; and if you
sent one of your people as messenger with a letter, there
were many means to shorten his journey. Your sister had
by an accident learnt from all that was written to
THE GHOST-SEER.
15S
him, and I laboured to make you also quarrel with her,
which happened of itself to my great satisfaction. Now
you had no affectionate tie that could bind yoti to your re¬
lations, and your situation was precisely what I wished it.
In order to drive your despair to the highest pitch, and
then to show myself as your saviour, I was obliged to de¬
prive you of all that which you could now rely upon, your
beloved lady and the Marquis.
u That you might have a high idea of me, and to pre¬
pare for what would follow, I contrived that apparition.
The facility with which you then ascribed it to natural
circumstances, made me with reason conclude how neces¬
sary it was that the impression of the following must be¬
come so much the stronger in proportion as you sought to
enfeeble it by an explanation of the former. I should my¬
self think it almost superfluous to explain to you the
apparition, did I not expect to have the pleasure of wit¬
nessing and enjoying your mortification, that you could not
once comprehend it, although blest with such deep dis¬
cernment, or see through the simplicity of such an expe¬
riment.
" Listen then attentively. Biondello, so heartily beloved
by you, to whom all your former friends gave way, per¬
formed this. That you might not suspect him, and to gain
time for the preparations, he pretended to be indisposed.
The book which they placed in your hands, kept you,
according to my expectation, longer awake than was cus¬
tomary, so that you should not think what appeared was
the effect of a dream. The candles were provided with a
kind of caps, that scarcely reached to half of the light,
which would necessarily be extinguished after a short in¬
terval. Biondello, without your knowledge, brought back
two others. The violent shock which the thunder made,
caused the doors and windows, which were not quite shut,
to fly open. The words that you heard were spoken by
Biondello through a trumpet, the opening of which was
hidden behind your writing-desk.
" And now recall to your mind that evening which you
spent in Saint Benedetto, so merrily at the beginning of the
ball, and the frightful scene which afterwards caused you
154-
THE GHOST-SEER.
so much uneasiness. It will not, I know, be very surpris¬
ing to you, if I say, that all you met with there was my
contrivance. You turned yourself in the dance round your
neighbour, which was myself. Suddenly, and in such a
way that nobody could observe it, I put a little hook in
your dress, and a great part of it was torn. You were
obliged to leave the ball, and Biondello conducted you to a
room, in which the Marquis had been long waiting for
your appearance."
" Terrible! And who was that lady conversing pri¬
vately with him ? I almost believe still that it was The¬
resa, for—"
"It was not Theresa, but a common woman that we had
engaged for the purpose."
" And the similarity ? "
Cf Was a deception by a mask and dress."
" Oh! Why did I not enquire into your infernal de¬
ceit : I could have so easily discovered it, and then I should
have been saved !"
" Not at all. Only a delay of a few days was all that
you could gain by it, and you would have fallen again into
another trap. But I knew how to estimate the degree of
your passion, which would arise at such a sight, with suf¬
ficient correctness to judge beforehand what would be your
conduct in such a situation. I was certain, that nothing
would prevent you from hastening towards the Marquis
with the dagger which lay upon the table, and thus was I
enabled, even the preceding night, to give you a warning
concerning the murder, without your being able to hinder
my premeditated intentions. And supposing I should have
been mistaken, if by chance you had remembered those
words, and had been collected, what should I have lost by
it? In that case it was not your beloved, and therefore
you would have been satisfied, and the warning would have
been a weight upon you, and Biondello would have made
you attentive to it, because you had found yourself in a
situation in which a murder is not a strange phenomenon."
" But how could you induce your creatures to under¬
take a thing at such great peril ? How, if I had murdered
the Marquis ? "
THE GHOST-SEER,
155
" Care was taken to prevent that. The dagger which
Biondello laid upon the table when he went behind you
into the room, was the only instrument at hand with which
you could have injured him. At the point a little button
was fixed, and when you were stabbing the Marquis, the
blade returned into its handle, and only came out again
when you let it loose: thus by the most violent blow it
could not wound, although it deceived the mind. And is
it not true that Civitella performed his character in a mas¬
terly manner ? The blood which came from his supposed
wound issued from a bladder filled with a red liquid which
he had hidden in his bosom; and you, O great hero, were
frightened so much by it, that though but a moment before
you were all rage and revenge, you were persuaded by Bi¬
ondello to run off with him, to which suggestion you yielded
without the smallest resistance. He accordingly con¬
ducted you first to the convent of Franciscans, and in¬
creased your fears by his descriptions of the pursuits of the
banditti, in order that he might convey you from that
place to the convent , in which there had been pre¬
viously made the necessary preparations. There you found
your beloved."
" Then it was herself?"
" She herself."
" And how can this be possible?—I saw her die, and F—
saw her dissected, and you restored her to me afterwards
alive again ! — Since I was induced to believe in your power
of miracles, I see in it many contradictions."
" You became yourself the cause of the contradiction.
You were an eye-witness of all, and yet you will not trust
your own experience !—Yes, it was your beloved, whom
you saw ill and dying, yet this was nothing but deception."
" Is it possible ? — Was that a deception ? "
" It was."
" I saw her pale lips, her fallen cheeks, her languid eyes.
—No, it must have been real."
" Prince, when shall I make you understand ? — Hark,
how my chains rattle ! — How could I raise her again, if
her death had not been a deception ? or if I were able to
do so, should I sit here ? At any other time such an error
156
THE GHOST-SEER.
would have given me pleasure; but now it is my intention
to destroy every blossom, which at a future period might
give you happiness, even at the hazard of my own destruc¬
tion. No, Prince, reconcile yourself to the fact, that the
goddess whom you so passionately adored, was assisting to de¬
ceive you; and never, even in your dreams, must she here¬
after-appear to you, otherwise than a detestable being, that
like a beautiful serpent would sting the person who caressed
it. She never loved you. Or do you think still that it was
another person, who really was ill and then died, and had
only borrowed the likeness of your beloved ? If you think
it is a fact, I would have you consider, that no person in
the last hours of his life ever had so much presence of mind
as to be able to play so visibly the character of another per¬
son ; and if it should have been so, what profit could have
ensued from it, when she had only applied the fatal hour of
dissolution to aid a deception ? Was not even the convers¬
ation, which you had with her, of such a nature that it was
almost impossible to mistake another person for her ? "
" Yes, it is but too true. — But why do you not unravel
my doubts rather than augment them ? "
" Ha ! — Could I but augment them — Her haggard
cheeks, her pale lips, her hollow eyes, were nothing but —
very strong painting, her feebleness nothing but disguise.,—
Do you not remember, that she pretended the light was
insupportable to her, and that she sought to keep it always
at a distance ? How easy was it then to deceive you, espe¬
cially as you were not a cool spectator, but felt every pain
which the sick person suffered. Consider, moreover, the
situation of your mind when you came to the convent."
" You oblige me to confess, that I am distressed I was
so deceived — so shamefully deceived."
" Is it so, Prince? O that your feelings may not already
be so blunted as to resist this attack ! O that I were able
to give a thousand-fold pangs that could pierce you to the
very heart! Her death was nothing but an artificial swoon,
at the beginning of which they contrived to have you absent,
that you might not discover the truth."
" But the dissection?"
" Took place on another person, whom I had, merely
THE GHOST-SEER,
157
for that purpose, suffered to be poisoned. And to deceive
your Baron F—, a mask of wax would have been suf¬
ficient, but her face remained covered for the greatest part
of the dissection.
" Now I thought it time to introduce you again to public
notice, to show myself to you as your friend. That could
not happen in a common manner: on that account the ap¬
parition * appeared to you, which was easily effected, he-
cause in your absence every thing had been prepared for it.
The top of your bed was fastened to the ceiling, and this
could be moved at pleasure. The genius which presented
himself before you was the image of a picture, which a
magic lantern threw upon the furniture of your bed, which
was also prepared for that purpose."
" He seemed to lean down upon me."
" It seemed to be so, because it showed itself first in
miniature, and then by a combination of mirrors, convex
glasses, and other optical instruments, it became larger and
larger. The words which you heard were spoken by a child
(who had learnt them by heart) through a tube, which
terminated in one of the bed-posts, and I myself let fall a
letter through an opening over you."
" And the music ? — I never before heard any thing
similar : it was divine, and the harmony so charming, that
I could not compare it with sounds produced from any
instrument."
" They were cylindrical glasses, which were turned be¬
tween wetted leathers-f-, and they were accompanied by a
little organ with silver pipes, and a lute. The object of
that was, in case you were asleep, to wake you, and to pre¬
pare you for the ensuing scene."
" And whv was I not to open the letter before day¬
break?"
" I was willing to try the strength of the belief which
you would have in the whole appearance. If you had
opened the letter sooner, you would have found nothing in
it but blank paper, for the writing in it was written with
* See vol. i. p. 117.
f I have wondered very much to find here a kind of harmonica; a proof that
the first invention is not so new as is by some persons imagined. — Editor.
158
THE GHOST-SEER.
sympathetic ink, which could only be visible at a certain
time, as you have observed by the direction. I also
should have punished you for that disobedience by an ap¬
parition, which in that case was already prepared."
" That all in the letter relative to the Marquis was merely
a deception, is now comprehensible; for it is easy to ima¬
gine, that he could immediately recover, as he was not in
reality wounded. — But how could the watchmen be de¬
ceived ? or were they creatures of yours ? "
" No; they were not. Do you think that I should have
disclosed such things to them. I appeared to the Marquis
in the described form, and the watch by my command had
taken a sleeping draught which affected them at the very
moment: — that I could do this without these people re¬
ceiving harm from it, I have already told you."
" But did the impression which your apparition made
upon the watch, become doubly strong when they awoke,
and could see all that happened ? "
" I shall prove the contrary, because their fancy pre¬
sented to them more than they could in reality have ob¬
served."
" But might not one of them have had the thought to
enquire into the business ? "
" If so, nothing would have been lost. When you had
formed the resolution to leave the convent, and had given
your command to Biondello, from which I concluded that
you still doubted the truth of the matter, I commanded
that these words " conquer your disbelief," should be once
more repeated to you, in order to confirm the idea that you
were always surrounded by invisible powers, that attended
to your words and actions. Of the conduct which Civitella
manifested towards you, I say nothing. You know the
issue of it, that in spite of the preceding event which
happened, he obtained the former place of friendship in
your heart."
" I must interrupt you here. I recollect a circumstance
which you have not explained to me. Who was it that
told me in the note, that I should go to a certain place, where
I was attacked, but defended and rescued by the courage
of a friend, who became afterwards my chamberlain ? Yet
THE GHOST-SEER. 159
I will not enquire further into the business ; it was probably
one of your plans."
" No, it was not: but both Biondello and myself sought
to make it subservient to our wishes, and by bringing it
forward as a scheme of your court to make you more inve¬
terate against it. It happened during my absence, and I
could not discover who had assisted me in so favourable a
manner. You see that I am sincere. That the multitude
of unpleasant incidents, united with the apparitions, must
have made a strong impression upon your mind was very
natural, but that it should induce you to harbour a disgust
for the world, was not what I expected, according to your
former manners of thinking. I supposed that you would
sing penitential psalms, to bewail your former disbelief, and
be thankful for the lash of correction, which had brought
you to the right path. I was much mistaken, for you were
occupied with nothing else thail the idea of lost happiness.
This induced you to think of committing suicide, as was
proved by your soliloquies, which Biondello overheard
through a crevice in your chamber-door, for no word could
escape us."
" You have then been in my palace ?"
" Very often."
" And did I never see you ? "
" You did not know me. The old man, who visited
Biondello as his cousin, was myself."
<f Wonderful ! However, proceed."
" Such ideas, I conceived, ought to be rooted from your
mind, and that you should imbibe those which I found
would be more necessary. The metamorphosis of the
riband was the beginning." *
" And how did that happen ? "
cc Nothing was easier. Biondello had a false key to your
bureau, and had coloured the riband before hand with a
sympathetic liquid, which became visible in open air only,
and disappeared again in a short space of time ; he had ob¬
served, that you frequently took it out of the bureau, and
this induced him to prepare it in that manner during your
* See vol. i. p. 158.
160
THE GHOST-SEEK.
absence. The close of the scene was conducted by Bion-
dello and the Marquis, of which I hope nothing will be
incomprehensible to you, as they only played their studied
performances, and the ring which confirmed your opinion,
I easily procured. You will still remember, that Civitella
conducted you into many societies merely for the purpose
of leading you into dissipation ; in consequence of which,
all those sentiments were discarded which had been for¬
merly your ambition. From perceiving that you had en¬
tirely abandoned them, I could easily draw a conclusion as
to the situation of your mind, and that no new doubts
might be thrown into your way, I contrived that the Bu-
centauro should be dispersed, because it would have appeared
suspicious if the members of it had suddenly altered their
opinions : and this was done in such a manner, that it
might not destroy all that I had so carefully constructed ;
for the character of your disposition was so doubtful, that
every object which offered itself could not fail to make a
strong impression upon it, and produce great changes, which
in a tranquil and reflecting mind would not have been pos¬
sible. That appeared to me the best time to make you a
proselyte. We could observe, by every occurrence, how
willingly you would submit to an opinion from which you
could assure yourself forgiveness of your sins, although the
priest often laughs in his sleeve at the idea; and yet does
not choose to expose its falsehood, because he would not
injure his trade, which is so lucrative, and so well fitted for
him, on account of the clandestine enjoyments which are
attached to it. I could not introduce to you for that pur¬
pose a common person : it must be one whose fame of sanc¬
tity was not merely bombast, the lustre of which disappears
in a clear light. I therefore chose the Bishop."
" Was he also in league with you?"
" No; his folly was increased to such a high pitch,
that he sacrificed himself for others with the greatest
pleasure."
" And you could persuade him to preach that ser¬
mon ? "
" Does that seem singular to you ? — Men, whose heads
are full of chimeras, are to be found almost every where;
the ghost-seer.
161
and such are easily persuaded to any undertaking, if it has
but the least appearance of encouraging their favourite idea.
And this was a clear case. I told him with great affliction
you were a lost sheep from the flock, and tears immediately
started from his eyes. I dared do nothing more than make
him believe that a sermon might perhaps bring you hack.
It would have been a great scruple of conscience with him
not to comply with my request."
" The Bishop told me afterwards, that you had acquainted
him with the incidents of my life, and that you had begged
of him to deliver that sermon. Was this also your desire ?"
" Undoubtedly, and for that very reason I appeared be¬
fore him in the same dress in which I had done to you, that
you might know my person by the description he gave you.
I was aware, that as soon as you learned this came from
me, it would make a strong impression upon your mind,
and augment my credit with you."
" But what if I had not gone to church ? "
" I beg your attention to the issue, that you may learn
how it happened. In that case I relied entirely on the
Marquis and your own situation. He, whose lips always
overflowed with taunts and scoffs against the admirers of
religion, was at the same time with you a penitent. It was
no wonder then that he should know that you had a desire
to visit the church. You seemed unwilling to take that
step alone : he offered you his hand, and you were then so
much the more ready, because you had known him before
to be the greatest freethinker, and now heard him praise
the Bishop; and if, against all our expectation, you should
have refused to go, you know me, that I never was at a loss
for methods to guide you."
" Did you imagine that I should perhaps encourage the
idea, that the Bishop was acquainted with you, when the
Marquis persuaded me to go to the church with him ? "
" Not only had I seen this beforehand, but I even reck¬
oned upon it; and if you had not fallen yourself upon that
thought, the Marquis knew how to guide you to it. Have
you already forgotten how much I won afterwards upon
you, when the death of the Marquis seemed to confirm the
truth of what he had told you of me, and "—
vol. ir. m
162
THE GHOST-SEER.
" And did all that happen by contrivance ? The fever of
the Marquis, his violent paroxysm, his death: — were
these mere deceptions ? "
" Nothing more. As far as I know, the Marquis is yet
alive."
"Oh God! — Proceed, that I may empty my cup ol
confusion to the dregs."
" That you shall, Prince, to the last drop. Do not fear
that I leave off in order to deprive myself by so doing of
the last happiness which I can be capable of enjoying. That
the idea of what the Marquis could tell you from me might
have still greater effect upon you (though his relation alone
must have already appeared to you incredible), I interrupted
him by my appearance. This procured me, in the mean time,
the advantage of giving you new proof of my power and
omnipresence. I came out from a thin tapestry; and that
you might not approach me, and obstruct the second part
of the miracle, the Marquis held you fast by your hand, till
I had locked the room-door behind me."
" But I followed you immediately, and could not dis¬
cover you. Where did you hide yourself so suddenly ? "
" I was the same monk who met you upon the stair¬
case. My dress was so contrived, that I could change it
immediately ; and a waxen mask, several of which I car¬
ried with me, rendered it impossible that you should know
me by my face. The Cardinal, who was present during
my metamorphosis, was in the plot, and came on that ac¬
count down the staircase to show you that I could have
nowhere escaped without being observed, and, therefore,
must necessarily have disappeared. You evinced by your
conduct, that you wished to know me more distinctly. And
I thought that the best opportunity to tell you by a speak¬
ing trumpet, which was applied as before, that your obe¬
dience only would make you worthy of that knowledge:
and to my satisfaction your countenance showed that I
might expect it from you. I thought it proper for me
to show myself once more as your saviour, before I came
forward with my demands. On that account I set all your
creditors upon you, in order to put you in the greatest
trouble; for I well knew that you had nobody at that time
THE GHOST-SEER.
163
who would interest himself for you, and endeavour to ap¬
pease the noisy claimants. On that account I appeared as
a paymaster, commanded to deliver you new sums of
money. The period when the bishop could be useful to
me was now over, and I found it necessary to put him out
of the way, that he might not be hurtful to me. He had
made you an admirer of religion. Others were now neces¬
sary to occupy his place, that a scheme might be raised
upon a new foundation, as it agreed with my previous
plans. On that account Sebastiano had sought to acquire
the confidence of the bishop, that he might be able to get
yours."
" You have not told me yet who the bishop was. That
he was not the person which the writing that Sebastiano
delivered to me after his death had represented him, I see
now but too clearly."
" But very little was known about him; his history re¬
mained a profound secret: the only thing discovered was,
that Germany was his birthplace, and this merely was
betrayed by his gr£at partiality to that nation. You once
told the marquis a family secret: this and other favourable
circumstances induced me to compose that history which
Sebastiano delivered to you. The character of the bishop
was too dear to you to entertain any doubt as to its being
a genuine story. My object was gained. Your hatred
against rose to the highest pitch, when you saw that
so many deeds of murder were upon that side. You thought
it was who had taken from you your beloved and the
Bishop, and even aimed at your own fife (as the sudden
appearance of your lost servant proved to you), and your
confidence increased towards Sebastiano."
" But why did you seek to make the innocent Baron
F so suspicious and detestable to me, that I consented
to his killing him ? Could you not obtain your aim other¬
wise than by laying this crime upon my soul ? " *
* I saw the letters which were fabricated in the name of Baron F and
myself, and which were delivered to the Prince to stimulate him to such a deed.
Never did I see handwritings so artfully and accurately imitated. I should
have acknowledged all the letters which were forged under my name to have
M 2
164
THE GHOST-SEER.
" F ■ was now a hinderance to me. Who could say
that, if an opportunity offered, he might not make his friend¬
ship again valuable ? And would not your new friends
stand upon the ruins of your old ones so much the surer ?
The future party which I premeditated for you would have
required many other assassinations; and could I not hope with
certainty, that the absolution for your sins (an easy task
for a person to perform in the popish church) must be so
much the more desirable to you, the greater burden you
had upon your conscience ? "
" You have not yet explained to me the event that hap¬
pened to my servant. —Was he also a creature of yours ? "
" No; he was too stupid."
" And yet how does that agree with what you told me ?
You said, you made him a prisoner, and at the same time
a officer was about to hire him to assassinate me."
" You ought to admire my foresight. I caused your
servant to be taken up, in order to extract some information
from him ; but principally to accommodate you with a new
servant. To prevent any suspicion of that proceeding fall¬
ing upon me, I examined him myself in an A n uni¬
form. The darkness and my art deceived him, and he very
easily mistook me for the colonel, and my companions for
officers: besides, we left it to his own choice, to think of
us as he pleased. I imprisoned him so long as I wanted
him. He was easily induced to believe that no banditti
could kill you, and I had entirely accomplished my end with
him. Your hatred towards your court, and the confidence
you placed in me, who could warn you of approaching
danger, increased very much."
" And you, who always panted after blood—I do not com¬
prehend why you did not make use of that opportunity to
your profit, but rather prevented me in that letter from
taking any revenge."
" It was not yet time. I stopped the current, that it
might burst forth with greater violence. And did I not give
been my own writing, had I not seen the whole of their contents. This may-
serve as a new request to my readers for their compassion towards the unhappy
Prince. — Note op Count O .
THE GHOST-SEER. 165
you by that a new proof of my whole manner of thinking ?
And could I well miss having disclosed to you afterwards
the whole business from a quarter where you even seemed
to lend your arm to assist the Deity in punishing the crimes
of others ?
" Sebastiano, and his brethren of the clergy, had already
, done so much, that I hoped you would be entirely ready
for an apostasy; and if this was not the case, then we
were ready to expect, that as I made you so eager to
obtain a near acquaintance with me, you would take that
step with pleasure, in order to become worthy of me, as
you were more firmly convinced that your whole fate de¬
pended upon my destination."
" Before you proceed farther, I would ask you, if it
happened also with your consent, that Biondello advised me
to flee, as my creditors talked of arresting me ?"
" As certainly as that he dared not undertake any thing
? against my will."
" And if I had followed his advice ? "
" I knew you better, and I only wanted to learn by the
contrivance, if you had still a private resource to relieve
you from your embarrassments, which I should have been
obliged to prevent, as I intended to save you exclusively.
In case you listened to Biondello's advice, I was prepared,
so that I had nothing to fear from a flight of that kind."
Narrative of the Count O concluded,
> Here we were interrupted.
From the beginning of the relation, the Armenian had
often made great pauses, and affected to feel so feeble,
that he was unable to speak long together. It was very
visible that he sought nothing else by that than merely to
gain time; we were notwithstanding induced to comply
with his request, because we wished very much to hear
from him the sequel of the history. We endeavoured to
gain permission that a physician might visit him, and that
he might be lightly fettered, though we perceived, in spite
of all his dissimulation, that this was quite unnecessary ; and
the rigorous inquisitors were the more easily persuaded to
si 3
166
THE GHOST-SEER.
do it, because they still hoped to discover by that means the
names of the other conspirators, as every other method to
effect such a confession had failed. This appeared to me
the proper place to mention this circumstance, and on that
account I said nothing of it beforehand. As those circum¬
stances made it absolutely necessary for us to visit the
Armenian in his own room, when we were there one even¬
ing, the jailor opened the door, and the physician came in.
He came often when we were present, but we did not
attend to him ; however, his timidity was frequently so
visible, that it did not escape us. After some enquiries
about his patient, he drew out a phial, and presented it to
him. His anxiety was very great; and the significant looks
which in the mean time he threw at the Armenian, made
us presume that it contained poison, to liberate him from
his deserved punishment, which one of his conspirators
had perhaps sent to him. Johnson dashed the glass from
his hands, before one of us could take that resolution. The
swoon of the bearer convinced us that we had not deceived
ourselves; and the savage countenance of the Armenian, as
he gnashed his teeth, showed that he had well understood
the hints of the physician.
The physician recovered very soon, and entreated us, in
the most humble manner, not to ruin him, and to keep the
matter a secret. We promised it, upon condition that he
should discover to us every thing. This he did; and we
perceived clearly by his sincerity and whole conduct that it
was the first time that they had made use of him for such a
business. We found that the phial really contained some
physic (and this we could have perceived ourselves, as all
was immediately strictly enquired into before it was brought
to the Armenian) ; but, instead of the label, which, accord¬
ing to the custom of apothecaries, is tied round the neck of
the bottle, we found a note to the Armenian. An unknown
person had promised the physician a great sum of money
for its delivery, half of which he had already obtained, and
the other half he was to receive afterwards, if every thing
succeeded well; and in case he should refuse, he had been
threatened with death. His confusion at his entrance arose
from seeing us; because he did not expect us there at such
the ghost-seer.
167
an unseasonable hour. I looked at the note very atten¬
tively ; but, except the common direction, I could not
make out one word of it. The doctor told us that the
writing would only become legible when we wetted it, and
that he was going to make that known to the Armenian.
We did so, and to our astonishment found the following
contents, written in a hand so small that it was scarcely
legible: —
"■ After a thousand fruitless trials to convey a letter to
your hands, this will, we think, succeed; although neces¬
sity forces us to make use of a man as bearer, who is not
fit for such a task. Know that you, and we all, have been
terribly deceived; the Polish Jew, to whom you trusted so
much, was count O himself, whom we have not yet
been able properly to reward for it. He has delivered your
letters to the Inquisition, and many others are imprisoned.
That we have still courage, although many of us are im¬
prisoned, and that we still hope to save you, this attempt
may be a proof. If we succeed, tben we shall likewise be
able to liberate the others, or at least revenge their death
under your direction. Despair braves every thing. A
life like ours, in which we are in perpetual anxiety lest one
of the prisoners should be a coward, and betray us also, is
become absolutely intolerable; our blood is also in a fer¬
mentation, that cannot be appeased till all means are ex¬
hausted. We leave it to your prudence to invent a pretext,
by which you may contrive, either this or to-morrow night,
to be conducted for examination to another place. Leave
the rest to us. Your guards may be as many as they
will, you are ours, and — free. If this should not succeed,
we shall revenge ourselves, in spite of all. They keep
secret our names, as they have done till now.
" The Conspirators."
I was so imprudent, as to read this very loud to the
Prince. The Armenian, who had lain, till now, in a kind
of stupor, which (as I could now perceive) was nothing
but attention, jumped up in a rage from his bed, dashed
himself, before we could prevent him, so violently against
the iron lock on the door, that the blood gushed from his
m 4
168
THE GHOST-SEER.
head, and he sank on the floor. He recovered again,
and vented such a profusion of curses and imprecations as
I never heard uttered by a mortal: his lips became blue
and covered by a yellow froth. It would disgrace this
paper to write down his expressions, and they would excite
in the reader's breast the most horrid sensations. It was
very evident that he must have still expected much from
the narration to the Prince, and from the letter delivered
to me, in order to procure his escape : and now all was
entirely lost to him, and every way for his flight barri-
cadoed.
Dreadful beyond all description was his end. By re¬
peatedly beating his head on the ground, his wound became
incurable. The physician gave up all hopes of delivering
him safe into the hands of justice for his well-deserved
punishment; and they resolved to leave him to himself, as
they saw that the torments he was suffering were more than
equal to the penalty which would be inflicted upon him by
the most rigorous justice. Large maggots engendered in
his wound, and devoured by piecemeal his brain, which
formerly was so full of malice. The consequences of his
condition now operated as if they had only waited for that
moment to begin their frightful tormentings. There were
holes in every part of his body ; and, to prolong his tor¬
ments, they gave him the most nourishing food. A pes¬
tilential smell spread itself through the whole house. His
eyes sunk and decayed in his head, his tongue became black,
and gradually dissolved in a putrid saliva, which was dis¬
charged from his distorted jaws. Piece by piece his flesh
fell from his rotten bones ; and he lived till all the joints
separated themselves, and his heart, which seemed design¬
edly to be preserved healthy, rotted in his breast.
I here drop the curtain over the most horrible scene which
the eyes of mortals ever beheld. This spectacle affected us
all very greatly, although we kept at a considerable distance
from him; but the Prince caught a violent fever, which
protracted our stay for eight days longer. Nothing more
was heard during that period of the conspiracy. They,
however, made an attempt to conduct some person, instead
of the Armenian, from the prison; in order, by that trick
THE GHOST-SEER.
169
to draw the authors of the letter into the trap; but they
perceived none of them : perhaps they might have heard
something of what had passed, and prudently had secreted
themselves. I pitied most the physician, who was the bearer
of the letter. By the noise which the Armenian's head made
against the lock of the door, the guard, accompanied by an
officer, came in. They must have heard something of his
entreaties to us, and the note unfortunately was still in my
hands: his anxiety discovered the rest; and this very in¬
nocent man, who was only weak enough to be seduced by
money, was punished as a traitor against the state.
Thus ended this conspiracy, whose only biographer I
am; because a dark veil covers every thing in the history of
Venice that could have any relation to it, and which only
can be comprehensible to those who are exactly acquainted
with it. The secret which the senate made of it was a
hinderance to all enquiries of every kind, and the unknown
criminals were never brought to light. That I intended to
write nothing but the truth, I promised at the beginning of
this narrative; and that I adhered to that intention in
the history of the Armenian, I need scarcely assert. How
far his confessions are true, I am not competent to decide;
but that the greater part, or at least the chief event, could
not be a tale, the letters in the history which I have com¬
municated to the reader verbatim, must bear testimony.
By a strict search in the habitation of the Armenian these
letters were found, besides several other writings, in a private
cupboard. Perhaps they might not have fallen into my
hands, if I had not been employed to decipher them, in
which business I was very dexterous; and hence I could
conveniently take copies of them. At first I had intended
to give them, and several other papers of consequence, in
an appendix; but I changed my design, and inserted them
in the places where the Armenian made mention of them,
and I hope the reader will not be displeased.
I suppressed all real names, for which I think nobody
will blame me. I wished not to cause any reproach to those
to whom reputation is as sacred as to myself. I made it a
maxim to give no offence to any family, by representing
decoyed villains (members of many families) publicly, if I
170
THE GHOST-SEER.
could possibly avoid it. I think it my duty to add what I
heard from the Prince, of that period where his friendship
with the Armenian became so very intimate, and from which
we knew nothing distinctly till now. He had employed
apparitions of ghosts, and other methods, for the purpose
of inspiring the Prince with revenge against the anew,
and to obtain the Prince's consent for his assassination. God
knows why he thought this necessary ! This, and the
desire of being seated on the throne, and to blow the mould¬
ering ashes into a great flame, was for him — (oh, that I
must say so !) —happily accomplished. But the Armenian,
desired still more: he desired that the Prince should for
ever bind himself to him by an oath as long as he lived,
and be entirely subject unconditionally to his will, without
ever asking him the reason of it. The good principles of
the Prince were not yet so entirely eradicated from his heart
as to consent to such a proposal; for his soul was still able
to draw the conclusion, in spite of all his prejudices, that
the Armenian would not make such a demand if he always
designed to display his good intentions. The villain, who
was prepared for all, had already seen the possibility of that
beforehand; and, for that purpose, had spared the resur¬
rection of the Prince's beloved. He, at the moment, be¬
held it as a miracle; and, intoxicated with love, consented
to every thing. Providence destroyed at that period the
complicated schemes which it had, apparently, so long con¬
tinued to regard with indifference.
We left Venice; and my bosom beat high with joy for
some time. I looked back, in order to survey that beau¬
tiful prospect, perhaps for the last time in my life. I beheld
Venice, full of magnificent palaces and churches, sur¬
rounded by the sea, reflecting the first beams of Aurora.
The upper part of the sun's bright orb richly illuminated
the eastern sky, whilst it seemed hesitating whether to
emerge from the serene ocean. My eye was unwearied in
beholding this delightful prospect; — but my sensations,
oh ! how far different were they from those which I felt at
the first sight of this enchanting city ! It now resembled a
beautiful prison, ornamented without; which, the more we
admire, the more we must feel for those who must perish
THE GHOST-SEER.
171
within its walls, helpless, and sometimes innocent: and my
sadness increased with the approaching day, which ren¬
dered the charms of the scene more beautiful, till at last I
proceeded so far, that it disappeared entirely from my eyes.
We travelled as expeditiously as the health of the Prince
would permit; for another letter from had once more
induced us to he as speedy as possible. About the middle
of the journey. Lord Seymour and Johnson left us, and we
could scarcely console ourselves for their departure; for the
necessary act of separation had torn from us two excellent
men, united to our destiny by so many bands of fate. They
relieved us from a sorrowful farewell, as they communicated
their separation by letters which they left for us, for which
they received mine and particularly the Prince's thanks.
" I commend myself to Him who rules above," said the
Prince, with a look towards heaven when he saw the fare¬
well letters; and a stream of tears suffocated his words. I
met my faithful Caspar in the same inn where I told him
to stay, and I took him with me. His joy was without
bounds; and I should have been ashamed if I did not ac¬
knowledge what a faithful companion I had again found in
him. We arrived at . The took the Prince
affectionately in his arms. " Oh ! it is too much ;" ex¬
claimed the Prince, as he sunk down before him; " it is
too much for a criminal."
I cannot venture to describe the scene, where so much
was expressed, although not a word was spoken. All pos¬
sible methods to recover the Prince were tried, but in vain.
Deep melancholy portrayed itself in marked furrows upon
his face, from which internal sorrow had long since stolen
every blush of health and contentment, formerly planted
upon it by tranquillity. His cheeks were haggard, and his
gloomy eyes appeared darker, from the shadow of his pro¬
jecting eyebrows. His head was constantly bowed towards
the earth, and in his eyelids were seen a perpetual tear.
The idea of a happy eternity, and of a merciful God, alone
tranquillised his mind.
In a deep wood there were the ruins of a castle upon a
romantic and almost impenetrable mass of rocks, covered
with moss. This castle formerly belonged to the rapacious
172
THE GHOST-SEER.
ancestors of the house. A whole century was unable
to destroy it; and lofty rocks and walls showed distinctly
enough the former impregnability of the Castle of the Rob¬
bers, which had excited terror in the breast of every tra¬
veller whose way led him by it. The father of the present
■ was a great admirer of hunting. Very often he pur¬
sued the game till night overtook him ; and he therefore
built for himself, upon that former site of his ancestors, a
small castle, where he frequently passed whole weeks in the
pursuit of his favourite amusement. Since that time it had
been scarcely ever visited; and we were obliged to penetrate
through thick bushes to come at a winding walk which led
to it. This the Prince chose for his future habitation; and
we may easily judge, by the description, how much it was
suited to the present temper of his mind; as it stood in a
romantic country, and the tranquillity of the solitude was
seldom interrupted. His desire was satisfied, and the
flattered himself with the hope, that retirement might per¬
haps work powerfully upon his mind, and that the attach¬
ment to society would one day awake within him the desire
of again revisiting the world. But he had mistaken himself
very much. He did not know, after all that had happened
to this unfortunate man, added to his general character, that
sorrow and melancholy had already so much gained the
ascendency, that happiness could no longer be enjoyed by
him;—like a blossom, raised by a nourishing shower upon a
barren soil, which immediately fades again, because the hot
reflected beams of the sun destroy all powers of vegetation.
Here he lived apart from all society, except an old and
faithful servant. He was not disturbed, because every one
honoured his sacred retreat; and sometimes paid him
a visit, to see how far his hopes might be fulfilled; but he
always returned more sorrowful. He entreated him several
times to return to his court, or visit him there, but he as
constantly refused his request. At the desire of the Prince,
and by my own wish, I remained there as long as possible ;
but business at my own court making my presence necessary,
I could not longer delay.
Persuaded that it would deprive me of all former con¬
nections, to spend the rest of my days there, I departed; but
THE GHOST-SEER.
173
the unpleasing reflection, that I should never again see the
Prince, which occupied my mind at my departure, was too
well founded. By the many sufferings and troubles which
had seized upon me of late so violently, the former stability
of my health became very feeble. Not till the lapse of six
months was I able to return, and I found, instead of the
Prince, the grave which enclosed his remains. I knew no¬
thing of his death; and my heart began fondly to anticipate
the feelings of our meeting, as I approached the wood, in
which stood his habitation. It was my custom to travel on
foot in fine weather, being more agreeable to me, and afford¬
ing a better opportunity of observing the surrounding ob¬
jects. I pursued it now. The tears rolled from my
cheeks, when I arrived at the foot of a mountain. Above
my head the branches of the trees formed a grove, through
which we scarcely could perceive the valley underneath,
which was ornamented by an opposite hill; upon which, oak
trees, the produce of centuries, raised their majestic heads.
I stood before a deep dale, and enjoyed the romantic pros¬
pect which presented itself to me. I was lost in the con¬
templation of it, and on each twig my eye dwelt with a
voluptuous pleasure. On surveying the spot attentively, a
building appeared through the thick brushwood which grew
upon one side of the valley. As I had not expected this,
my curiosity became stimulated to enquire what it was. I
marked the spot, and walked toward the bushes, through
which I passed with much trouble. As I bent back the last
bush, I found myself in small open space, ornamented with
trees and shrubs. Before me I perceived a small cottage,
and over against it a large oak tree. In its shade arose a
very simple monument, which buried its top in the close
covert of the boughs. I was stepping nearer, when I ob¬
served a grey-bearded old man, who was kneeling before it,
praying fervently. I stood in silence, and my feelings
pressed me to join his devotions. He rose. What a figure!
Without reflecting, my hand seized my hat to uncover my
head, that I might pay homage to this venerable old man.
In the deep furrows of his forehead and cheeks beamed con¬
tent : a smile upon his countenance was expressive of that
tranquillity of conscience which fears not to meet the
174
THE GHOST-SEER.
Eternal Judge, who is not unmindful of the weakness of
human nature. To all appearance he had suffered much
from misfortune.
He did not appear to observe me, and went into his cot¬
tage. I approached the monument with a sensation which I
cannot describe. A short inscription told me, that the Prince
slumbered there till the day of the resurrection. Whilst
I was rising from the hallowed spot, the old man stood
behind me. With emotion he pressed my hand. " You
have prayed :" said he, addressing himself to me. " I ob¬
served it with joy and ecstasy. Thus act the children of
happiness: be then welcome to me in this solitude, which
will neither be disturbed nor dishonoured by you." " You
are right, old man," I answered him ; " but I am no
child of happiness : he who slumbers here was my friend,
and —" " Are you, perhaps, the Count O , of whom
the deceased spoke so much to me ? — Then I understand
you before you finish your speech." I answered his ques¬
tion in the affirmative ; and with a sacred ecstasy he led me
towards a grass bench before the cottage, where we sat
down together.
" Your friend," he began, " journeyed very often quite
alone into this wood, and chose the deepest solitude for
meditation. Thus he discovered me after your departure in
my retirement. I loved him soon, and he was no less fond
of me. He frequently went away, but sometimes he tar¬
ried with me for days and nights together. Each day he
waited for your coming back : you came not. If he should
come (he said to me, a few days before his last), and I
should be no more, then deliver him in my name my fare¬
well, and say that I will thank him for his love in a better
world. You are as able to tell him so as I could be myself.
Daily I pray near his grave, and from this day I shall
thank God that he has given me an opportunity of dis¬
charging my commission."
We spoke of nothing but of the Prince. What the old
man told me with great prolixity of the last period of his
life, I will relate to the reader as briefly as possible. Every
trifling particular, although interesting to a friend, would,
perhaps, be insignificant to a third person, and on that ac-
THE GHOST-SEEB.
175
count the principal things only are related. He associated
with this old man, sacrificing the remainder of his life to
regain that repose of conscience which he formerly enjoyed;
and he succeeded, as far as his situation made it possible.
Firmly convinced of the love of God, death became a friend
to him, who would bring him still nearer to the knowledge
of this Eternal Being; and he looked forward to his dis¬
solution with a mild and patient satisfaction. A few weeks
before his death, he came to the old venerable hermit: he
was more lively than customary. " God has still procured
me a happiness which I do not deserve," he exclaimed,
and delivered to him a letter which he had just received.
It was from the Greek lady. The old man showed it to
me, and the following is a copy of it: —
" Beloved of my soul ! — Thus I call you, although the
greatest malice has induced me to deceive you. My con¬
science has cleared itself before the Almighty. I was
deceived like yourself. By birth I am a German lady.
Death deprived me at Venice of my mother, and with her
of every comfort. A young unexperienced girl, I was then
abandoned to the wide world. An accident brought to me
in my helpless situation that Armenian. My person was
allowed by all to possess an attractive beauty, and on that
account only could I explain to myself those looks which
he gave when he threw himself in my way as a benefactor.
The good principles which he found within me, seemed to
make it necessary to proceed carefully with me: he appeared
a saint. At length I received directions from him to play
the character in that church where you saw me first. He
had found way to play upon my vanity so much by the
pretence that you had already fallen in love with my pic¬
ture, that I not only earnestly followed his directions, but I
also gave myself all possible trouble to interest you, though
it was against my inclination. But too soon I became In
reality what I had only appeared to you; I loved you ten¬
derly. The fear of losing you again, and his tricks and
threats, prevented me always from discovering myself to
you : many times this confession trembled upon my tongue,
and ——
176
the ghost-seer.
" My weakness will not longer permit me to hold the
pen. I feel that the hours of my existence are few, and on
that account I must conclude. More than a hundred
times I was obliged to stop, in writing this letter. I dis¬
covered your abode, and was anxious to find you there, and
implore your forgiveness ; but my powers failed me. Instead
of me, this letter comes, and, alas! may it give you a happy
sensation. That you will not doubt this confession of my
innocence (as I make it at the brink of the grave), I am
convinced as firmly as of my forgiveness by God.
" How difficult is it for me to conclude this epistle to my
beloved! but I am compelled to do it; for I feel my weak¬
ness increase upon me, and you probably have observed it
in several parts of what I have written. After my death,
you will receive this letter; and, not to disturb you, I con¬
ceal the place where my remains will slumber until the
junction of our souls. In that abode, where the veil, which
before concealed from us the reason of our fate, shall be
removed, where a perpetual bliss shall unite our souls for
ever, I will tell you far more than I am now able to make
known to you ! Farewell! Purified by my God from all
sins and faults, and clothed in the garment of the blessed,
at the gates of eternity, I will hasten toward you.
" Your
" Theresa."
With this letter the Prince sat himself under an oak tree,
upon the same spot which he had selected for his perpetual
rest. He read it very often, whilst the Hermit, who was
placed by his side, celebrated her memory in conjunction
with the Prince, amidst loud peals of thunder which rolled
over them. " I shall soon be with thee, oh Theresa !" he ex¬
claimed, as he lifted his hands and eyes towards heaven.
At that instant, a flash of lightning, attracted by the tree
under which they were sitting, darted through the branches,
and struck him lifeless to the earth. — Peace be to his
ashes!
the end.
.London :
Printed by A. & R. Spottiswoode,
New-Street-Square.
EDGAR HUNTLY;
OR,
THE SLEEP WALKER.
BY CHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN.
LONDON:
HENRY COLBURN AND RICHARD BENTLEY,
NEW BURLINGTON STREET :
BELL AND BRADFUTE, EDINBURGH;
CUMMING, DUBLIN; AND
GALIGNANI, PARIS.
1831.
INTRODUCTION.
LIFE AND WRITINGS OF BROWN.
Charles Brockden Brown was one of the earliest
American novelists, and is inferior to none of his
countrymen who have succeeded him in the paths of
romance, either in originality, power, or the faculty of
conferring, during the perusal of his fictions, a deep
and sustained interest. Indeed, it might truly be said,
that in originality he has not been surpassed by any
inventor of story of whatever age or country; for,
though his style in composition is modelled on the
intense and terribil via of Godwin, he has sought,
in the hitherto unexplored phenomena of our nature,
for the subject matter of his fables; and, by the
agencies of these, he has produced effects equally new
and stupendous, without violating the eternal laws of
truth. To read, for the first time, one of Brown's best
romances, is a memorable circumstance in our intellec¬
tual life. Were his themes supernatural or magical, we
might forget them after perusal, or at any'rate, the
impression would not haunt our minds with unfailing
tenacity; but as the scenes he loves to depict (strange
though they are), arise out of those mysteries of our
nature, the effects of which we have all witnessed, or
may witness, and to which we are all more or less
subject, we cannot " bid his shadows depart" after he
has once raised them.
A writer, in a forgotten journal, comparing Brown
with Godwin, thus characterises the former : —
a 3
vi INTRODUCTION.
" He was a close and successful copyist of the
English sage's style; and they appear to have had
community of thought in their views, moral, religious,
and political. Here, however, the resemblance ceases,
and Brown becomes a gigantic original. His stories
are a succession of most romantic incidents. They
consist, in a great degree, of ordinary events, clothed
by circumstances with a ghostly horror, and of start¬
ling, uncommon situations, amid the wide-spread so¬
litudes, the lone savannas, the unthreaded thickets of
America — upon peaks inaccessible — in the ' hollow
mines of earth.' It would seem that he was a much
younger man than Godwin when he wrote : his ima¬
gination runs riot with him. He probably passed his
early youth in the house of a settler, where the sight
of a strange face furnished talk for a week, begetting
at length, in the succeeding loneliness, doubts as to
whether it was really of the earth or not. In such a
situation he has sat by the fire-side and heard the
plash of naked feet over-head in a deserted room ;
and fancied lights coming towards him on the stair¬
cases of unoccupied and locked-up houses ; and seen
faces not his own in the looking-glass ; and caught
a glimpse of eyes glaring over an enclosure upon
one burying the dead at night; and encountered a
man walking in his sleep about a solitary tree, miles
from any human habitation. The loss of a key, even,
becomes a terrific occurrence."
These are, for the most part, just remarks, and they
are expressed with striking eloquence ; but the writer,
we think, has failed to perceive the peculiar charac¬
teristics of Brown's works. His events are not " ordi¬
nary," though they are reconcilable to nature. He
INTRODUCTION.
Vli
has pried with bold and insatiable curiosity into the
morbidities of human life, moral and physical; and
the result of his investigations are a series of incidents
and characters which at once startle and arrest our
faculties, and extend our knowledge of ourselves and
of our fellow creatures. The state of his native
country at the time he lived — its imperfectly formed
society — its mixture of savage and social life — and
its infant settlements in the remote and solitary wil¬
dernesses, were favourable to the genius of the re¬
markable author of " Edgar Huntly."
Brown was born in the city of Philadelphia, on
the 17th of January, 1771. He evinced, even in
childhood, a fondness for intellectual enquiry; and
being of a sickly constitution, he did not addict him¬
self to the sports and recreations common to the
young. His tendency to bad health was thus unhap¬
pily fostered, though it may be supposed, that the
mind which was afterwards to shine so brightly in the
world's eye, was enriched in proportion to the injury
sustained by the body. On his leaving school, which
took place before he had attained his sixteenth year,
the young and eager student wrote several essays in
verse and prose, and sketched plans for three Epics,
one having for its subject, " The Discovery of Ame¬
rica;" another, " Pizarro's Conquest of Peru;" and a
third, " The Expedition to Mexico by Cortez." These
were lofty themes for the literary ambition of a boy;
but it is the province and the privilege of genius to
be daring; and, " for a time," says his biographer,
Mr.Dunlap, " he thought life only desirable as a mean
for the accomplishment of these high designs."
Amidst this mental labour, it was, however, necessary
a 4 .
viil INTRODUCTION.
that he should make choice of a profession; and he se¬
lected that of the law, in the study of which he distin¬
guished himself greatly. But this was not his destiny.
His heart had other yearnings, which would not be
repressed; and when he had fulfilled the stated period
with the gentleman to whom he was articled, and was
about to be called to practise on his own account, his
mind shrank from the responsibility; and, in spite of
the remonstrances of his family and friends, he aban¬
doned a profession which he had voluntarily adopted,
and betook himself to the more congenial pursuits of
literature.
" He had formed," says Mr. Dunlap, "a world of
his own, in which he delighted to dwell, and with
whose inhabitants he was habituated to commune,
to the exclusion of the dull or sordid beings of real
life. The conversation which he heard passing among
his fellow beings relative to those objects which con¬
stituted the sources of their joys and sorrows, ap¬
peared f frivolous chat,' or, as doubtless it often was,
the offspring of ' folly, ignorance, and cupidity.'
Society was to him solitude, and in solitude he found
delightful converse. It was this shrinking from
society, this solitude, this wrong estimate of the views,
motives, and characters of mankind, which wrought so
powerfully upon the mind of Brown, as to make him
turn aside from the obvious path which led to compe¬
tence, honour, and self-approbation.
" To support himself against the persuasions and ar¬
guments of his friends, and against the suggestions of
his own better judgment, he resorted to all the sophisms
and paradoxes with which ignorance and ingenious
prejudice had assailed the science or the practice of the
INTRODUCTION.
ix
law. He professed that he could not reconcile it with
his ideas of morality to become indiscriminately the
defender of right or wrong; thereby intimating, if not
asserting, that a man must, in the practice of the
law, not only deviate from morality, but become the
champion of injustice. He would demand,' What must
be the feelings of a lawyer if he had become an aux¬
iliary in the cause of wrong and rapine ? If the widow
and the orphan were thus by a legal robbery deprived
of their just and righteous claims, through the superior
artifice or eloquence of the advocate, was he not as
criminal as the man who committed such felony without
the sanction of a court of justice, and for which the
same court would pronounce the severest punishment?'
He endeavoured to persuade himself and his hearers,
that unless a lawyer could reconcile his mind to the
practice of all this iniquity, there was little prospect of
his succeeding in his profession, and of course that the
acquisition of fame and fortune were only to be con¬
sidered as proofs of the wrongs done, and the miseries
inflicted upon his fellow-men."
The disposition of Brown to investigate and turn to
account the infirmities incident to human nature, was
manifested in very early life. In a letter to one of his
youthful friends, he says he had discovered that he
was afflicted with myopism, by having accidentally put
on spectacles accommodated to such a vision. Subse¬
quent attention to this condition of sight enabled him
to ascertain that he had a vision which, though in some
respects imperfect, possessed rare privileges.
" He had only to apply to his eyes, what Dr. Rush
calls the aid of declining vision, and he is ushered into
a new and beautiful creation. He observes, that it is
X
INTRODUCTION.
in his power to make the sun, the stars, and all sur¬
rounding creation sparkle upon his view with renovated
lustre and beauty. Not satisfied with this, he goes on
to compare his situation with the situation of those
who had ever beheld the sun in all his majesty and
effulgence. To him he had been in all his glories, a
stranger; he had never been familiarly acquainted
with so glorious a personage.
" On the other hand, those who had always revelled
in the magnificence of nature, had become satiated
with its glory. Creation to them could unfold no
new beauty; a glance of the eye satisfied them, and it
was a glory that palled upon the sense. To him all
this was a territory unseen, and it seemed as if Nature
had veiled her radiance from his view, to the end that
he might, when he pleased, indulge himself in the en¬
joyment of her bounties. He was able to discern light
enough to guide his footsteps, and to answer all the
purposes of social intercourse; all beyond this was
novelty, was exquisite enjoyment. To those who were
surrounded with more expanse of vision, all these
blessings were denied. He, therefore, felicitated him¬
self on the thought that he had not the optics of ordinary
men." *
About the year 1797, Brown made his first attempt
in the composition of fiction. He commenced his
task without any definite conception of design; but his
imagination warmed, and his facility of writing in¬
creased as he went on: and, thus encouraged, he
brought his work, according to his own account, to
completion. What were the name and subject of this
romance does not appear; and indeed Mr. Dunlap,
* Dunlap's Life of Brown.
INTRODUCTION.
xi
notwithstanding the author's assertion, says it was
never finished. It is interesting, however, to regard
Brown's own views of his first, probably crude, effort
in novel-writing, and to trace in his high estimation
of Mr. Godwin's " Caleb Williams," the standard by
5* which he resolved to measure his own endeavours.
" I hardly know," says he, " how to regard this exploit.
Is it a respectable proof of perseverance or not ? Con¬
sidering my character in its former appearance, this
steadiness of application might not have oeen expected.
What is the nature or merit of my performance ?
This question is not for me to answer. My decision
is favourable or otherwise, according to the views
which I take of the subject. When a mental com¬
parison is made between this and the mass of novels,
I am inclined to be pleased with my own production.
But when the objects of comparison are changed, and
I revolve the transcendent merits of' Caleb Williams,'
my pleasure is diminished, and is preserved from a
total extinction only by the reflection that this per¬
formance is the first; that every new attempt will be
better than the last, and that, considered in the light of
a prelude or first link, it may merit that praise to
h which it may possess no claim, considered as a last
best creation."
During his residence in New-York, in the year
1798, Brown, who had already seen the plague of
Philadelphia, witnessed the appalling ravages of the
yellow fever. This city had been attacked several
years in succession by the pestilence ; but it was hoped
that its frightful malignity would be diminished in each
new visitation. Of the events brought about by this
awful infliction, our novelist gives many overwhelming
xii
INTRODUCTION.
particulars, in his letters to his brother James, written
in answer to the earnest entreaties of his family that
he would fly from New-York, as they had formerly
done from Philadelphia; but he was not only settled,
as he supposed, in a healthful part of the town, but
resolved that he would in no case leave the sufferers
to whom his assistance might be useful. Nothing
could be more honourable to his character than this
almost self-sacrifice for the good of others.
" In the present healthful state," says he, " of this
neighbourhood, it would be absurd to allow fear to drive
me away. When there is actual and indisputable danger,
it would be no less absurd to remain ; since, even if the
disease terminate favourably, or even were certain so
to terminate, we are sure of being infinitely trouble¬
some to others, and of undergoing much pain. E. H. S.
has extensive and successful practice in this disease.
Through fatigue and exposure to midnight airs, he is
at present somewhat indisposed, but will shortly do
well. If, when this fever attacks our neighbourhood,
I run away, I am not sure that I shall do right. E.H.S.
at least, probably Johnson, will remain, at all events;
and if I run the risk of requiring to be nursed, I must
not forget that others may require to be nursed by
me, in a disease where personal attentions are all
in all."
In the above year our author published his novel
entitled " Wieland." This extraordinary romance
brought him into universal notice; and it was shortly
followed by " Ormond, or the Secret Witness," which,
however, neither obtained nor deserved the same suc¬
cess. Brown, nevertheless, did not relax in his toil
for fame; but actually began and proceeded in the
INTRODUCTION.
xiii
composition of no less than five novels, of which two,
namely, " Arthur Mervyn," and " Edgar Huntly"
were finished and published in the year 1799. The
main subject of the former tale was derived from the
tragical circumstances consequent on the advent of
the plague in the author's native city of Philadelphia,
in the year 1793 ; and as he had been himself a witness
of many of the calamities of that trying time, he gave,
in "Arthur Mervyn," sketches of them, which have,
by universal opinion, been considered worthy of being
ranked with Thucydides's account of the plague of
Athens, Boccaccio's narrative of the plague of Flo¬
rence, and Defoe's History of the Plague of London.
In the novel now before the reader, and which, in
order of publication, is Brown's fourth work of fiction,
he has " chosen for a cause by which to produce ef¬
fects at once stupendous and mysterious, that disease
called Somnambulism. 1 Edgar Huntly' unites to
events founded on this, ' incidents of Indian hostility,
and the perils of the western wilderness.' " * This
romance is one of the very finest of the creations of
the great American novelist; and, independently of
the fixing interest of the plot, and the novelty to En¬
glish readers of the subject, we know not where could
be found such striking and grand descriptions of Ame¬
rican forests, wildernesses, and caverns, and such fear¬
ful pictures of savage life and desperate adventure, as
occur in the pages before us. But we will not forestall
the anxiety of the reader, by threading beforehand the
mazes of the story, nor weaken the effect of some of
its electrical touches. Brown's spell is irresistible:
* Dunlap's Life of Brown.
xiv
INTRODUCTION.
like the magic of Prospero, you can only be delivered
from its influence by abiding the fulness of time ; or, in
other words, by reading every page of the book.
Our author's last novel was entitled "Jane Talbot."
It was published in 1804. At the latter end of this
year he was married to Miss Elizabeth Linn, and from
that time settled himself permanently in his native city
of Philadelphia. He continued to be occupied in
literary pursuits, and speculations, particularly in the
annual publication of " The American Register," of
which five volumes were published before his death.
But his tendency to consumption began now to
make rapid advances on him, encouraged by his intense
study and sedentary habits. His friends were, not
without cause, seriously alarmed, and frequently urged
him to seek, in the salut ary effects of a sea voyage, and
in change of scene and climate, some relief from the
ravages of the insidious disease. But Brown did not,
until it was too late, determine on a tour in pursuit of
health. " It was resolved," says Mr. Dunlap, " that,
in the spring of 1810, he should visit his brother
James, who resided in England; but he lived not to
see that spring. On the 10th of November, 1809, he
was attacked by a violent pain in his side, for which
he was bled, and retired to his chamber to be nursed,
as he thought, for a few days. From this time to the
twenty-second of February, he was confined to his
room; his sufferings were then relieved by death.
During this long confinement, he scarcely ever enjoyed
ease, and sometimes suffered greatly; yet he never
uttered a murmur or impatient exclamation, and
scarcely a complaint.
" Such is the testimony of one who witnessed, with
Introduction.
xv
the tenderest anxiety, his protracted sufferings, — his
beloved companion, his nurse, his wife.
"From the same source the following particulars of
the illness and death of this lamented man are de¬
rived : —
" ' He always felt for others more than for himself;
and the evidences of sorrow in those around him,"
which could not at all times be suppressed, appeared
to affect him more than his own sufferings. Whenever
he spoke of the probability of a fatal termination to
his disease, it was in an indirect and covert manner, as
' You must do so and so when I am absent,' or ' when
I am asleep.' He surrendered not up one faculty of
his soul but with his last breath. He saw death in
every step of his approach, and viewed him as a mes¬
senger that brought with him no terrors. He fre¬
quently expressed his resignation, but his resignation
was not produced by apathy or pain; for while he
bowed with submission to the divine will, he felt, with
the keenest sensibility, his separation from those who
made this world but too dear to him. Towards the
last, he spoke of death without disguise, and appeared
to wish to prepare his friends for the event, which he
felt to be approaching. A few days previous to his
change, sitting up in the bed, he fixed his eyes on the
sky, and desired not to be spoken to until he first
spoke. In this position, and with a serene countenance,
he continued for some minutes, and then said to his
wife, ' When I desired you not to speak to me, I had
the most transporting and sublime feelings I ever ex¬
perienced. I wanted to enjoy them, and know how
long they would last;' concluding with requesting her
to remember the circumstance.
xvi
INTRODUCTION.
" ' On the morning of the 19th of February, 1810, it
was observed that a change for the worse had taken
place. He thought himself dying, and desired to see
all his family, and spoke to each in the tenderest and
most affectionate manner. He, however, remained in
this dying state until the 22d, frequently conversing
with his friends, in perfect possession of his faculties
to the last.'"
Such was the death of Charles Brockden Brown, at
the age of thirty-nine; but even in this short life, he
had achieved works whose merits will assuredly tend
to perpetuate his name as a distinguished writer of
romance.
O. C.
November, 1831.
It is the intention of the Proprietors of the<l Stand¬
ard Novels " to include in the series some of the other
tales of the present writer.
EDGAR HUNTLY.
CHAPTER I.
X 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 suspense and
from tremors. At length the drama is brought to an
imperfect close, and the series of events that absorbed my
faculties, that hurried away my attention, has terminated in
repose.
Till now, to hold a stedfast pen was impossible; — to
disengage my senses from the scene that was passing or
approaching — to forbear to grasp at futurity — to suffer
so much thought to wander from the purpose which en¬
grossed my fears and my hopes, could not be.
Yet am I sure that even now my perturbations are suf¬
ficiently stilled for an employment like this ? — that the
incidents I am going to relate can be recalled and arranged
without indistinctness and confusion ? — that emotions will
not be re-awakened by my narrative, incompatible with
order and coherence? — Yet when I shall be better quali¬
fied 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 proportion as I gain
power over words, shall I lose dominion over sentiments ;
in proportion as my tale is deliberate and slow, the inci¬
dents and motives which it is designed to exhibit, will be
imperfectly revived and obscurely portrayed.
2 EDGAR HUNTLY.
Oh! why art thou away at a time like this? H ert
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 impossible. 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
enormous 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 torment to thee
as to me. His bloody and mysterious catastrophe equally
awakened thy grief, thy revenge, and thy curiosity. Thou
■wilt catch from my story every horror and every sympathy
which it paints. Thou wilt shudder with my foreboding,
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 sunrise on that day.
To travel during the night was productive of no formidable
inconvenience. The air was likely to be frosty and sharp;
but these would not incommode one who walked with
speed. A nocturnal journey in districts so romantic and
wild as these, through which lay my road, was more con¬
genial to my temper than a noonday ramble.
By nightfall I was v, ithin ten miles of my uncle's house*
EDGAR HUNTLY.
3
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 stranger to remissness
or torpor. All who came within the sphere of his influ¬
ence experienced and acknowledged his benign activity.
His friends were few, because his habits were timid and
reserved ; but the existence of an enemy was impossible.
I recalled the incidents of our last interview — my im¬
portunities that he should postpone his ill-omened journey
till the morning — his inexplicable obstinacy — his reso¬
lution to set out on foot during a dark and tempestuous
night, and the horrible disaster that befell him.
The first intimation 1 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 reveries beneath the
shade of that fatal elm, were revived and reacted. 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 visible, 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 recognise his friend, or unfold the cause of his
destruction. I accompanied his remains to the grave — I
tended the sacred spot where he lay — I once more ex¬
ercised my penetration and my zeal in pursuit of his
assassin — once more my meditations and exertions were
doomed to be disappointed.
b 2
4
EDGAR HUNTLY.
I need not remind thee of what is past. Time and
reason seemed to have dissolved the spell which made me
deaf to the dictates of duty and discretion. Remembrances
had ceased to agonise, to urge me to headlong acts, and
foster sanguinary 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. Me-
tliought that to ascertain the hand who killed my friend,
was not impossible, and to punish the crime was just —
that to forbear enquiry, or withhold punishment, was to
violate 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 scrutinise
its trunk. What could I expect to find ? Had it not
been a hundred times examined ? Had I not extended my
search to the neighbouring groves and precipices ? Had I
not pored upon the brooks, and pried 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 appear¬
ance of conformity with prudence, and I felt myself irre¬
sistibly prompted to repeat my search. Some time had
elapsed since my departure from this district—time enough
for momentous changes to occur. Expedients that for¬
merly 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. Thought¬
less, or fearless of my return, it was possible that he might
at this moment be detected hovering near the scene of Iris
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 sufferings, the time
of night, the glimmering 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
EDGAR HUNTLY.
6
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 already ad¬
vanced, it was desirable not to reach home till the dawn.
I proceeded in this new direction with speed. Time, how¬
ever, 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 momentous to my happiness,
promised me a mournful satisfaction. I was familiar with
the way, though trackless and intricate; and I climbed the
steeps, crept through the brambles, leaped 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-
spead 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 ample circumfe¬
rence, made it conspicuous from afar. My pulse throbbed
as I approached it.
My eyes were eagerly bent to discover 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 dis¬
tinguishable by its motions, was likewise noted. I faltered,
and stopped.
To a casual observer, this appearance would have been
unnoticed ; to me, it could not but possess a powerful sig¬
nificance. All my surmises and suspicions instantly re¬
turned. This apparition was human; it was connected
E 3
6 EDGAR IIUNTLY.
with the fate of Waldegrave — it led to a disclosure of the
author of that fate. What was I to do ? To approach un¬
warily would alarm the person. Instant flight would set
him beyond discovery and reach.
I walked softly to the roadside. The ground was co¬
vered 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 accurate 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 em¬
ployed in digging the earth. Something like flannel was
wrapped round his waist, and covered his lower limbs. The
rest of his frame was naked. I did not recognise 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 extort 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 wrapped in meditation ; but the pause was
short, and succeeded by sobs, at first slow and at wide
intervals, but presently 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 suspended in astonishment.
Every sentiment at length yielded to my sympathy ; every
new accent of the mourner struck upon my heart with ad¬
ditional force; and tears found their way spontaneously to
my eyes. I left the spot where I stood, and advanced
EDGAR HUNTDY.
7
within the verge of the shade. My caution had forsaken
me; and, instead of one whom it was my duty to perse¬
cute, I beheld in this man nothing but an object of com¬
passion.
My pace was checked by his suddenly ceasing to lament.
He snatched the spade, and, rising on his feet, began to
cover up the pit with the utmost diligence. He seemed
aware of my presence, 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 he¬
sitated to advance, there was nothing to hinder me from
calling.
" What, ho !" said I; " who is there ? What are you
doing ? "
He stopped — 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 methought
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 himself to weeping and sighs with more vehe¬
mence 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 appearing 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 fea-
b 4
o edgar huntly.
tures. 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 ant
incongruous. It could not fail to terminate in one conjec¬
ture, that this person was asleep. Such instances were not
unknown to me, through the medium of conversation and
hooks. Never, indeed, had it fallen under my own observ¬
ation till now, and now it was conspicuous, and environed
with all that could give edge to suspicion, and vigour to
enquiry. To stand here was of no longer use, and I turned
my steps towards my uncle's habitation.
CHAPTER II.
I had food enough for the longest contemplation. My
steps partook, 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 re¬
flections should so speedily be interrupted. I there¬
fore passed the gate, and stopped not till I had reached a
neighbouring summit, crowned with chestnut-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 activity ? 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 incapacity of
sound sleep denotes a mind sorely wounded. It is thus that
atrocious criminals betray the possession of some dreadful
secret: the thoughts, which considerations of safety enable
them to suppress or disguise during wakefulness, operate
EDGAR HUNTLY.
9
without impediment, and exhibit their genuine effects,
when the notices of sense are partly excluded, and they are
shut out from a knowledge of their entire condition.
This is the perpetrator of some nefarious deed. What
but the murder of Waldegrave could direct his steps
hither ? His employment was part of some fantastic
drama, in which his mind was busy. To comprehend it,
demands penetration into the recesses of his sold. But one
thing is sure — an incoherent conception 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 bo¬
som 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 recognise his features; but this was owing to the
dusky atmosphere, and to the singularity of his garb. Ingle-
field has two servants, one of whom was a native of this
district, simple, guileless, and incapable of any act of vio¬
lence ; he was, moreover, devoutly attached to his sect: he
could not be the criminal. The other was a person of a
very different 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 natural endowments were strong, and
had enjoyed all the advantage of cultivation. His demean¬
our was grave, and thoughtful, 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 patriarchal one. Each farmer was
surrounded by his sons and kinsmen. This was an excep¬
tion to the rule. Clithero was a stranger, whose adven¬
tures and character, previously to his coming hither, were
unknown to us. The elm was surrounded by his master's
10
EDGAR HUNTLY.
domains. An actor there must be, and no one was equally
questionable.
The more I revolved the pensive and reserved deport¬
ment of this man — the ignorance in which we were placed
respecting his former situation — his possible motives for
abandoning his country, and choosing a station so much
below the standard of his intellectual attainments, the
stronger my suspicions became. Formerly, when occupied
with conjectures relative to the same topic, the image of
this man did not fail to occur; but the seeming harmless-
ness 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 appear¬
ance among us, and to the obscurity that hung over his ori¬
gin and past life ; but now these considerations appeared
so highly momentous, as almost to decide the question of
his guilt.
But how were these doubts to be changed into absolute
certainty ? Henceforth 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 perpe¬
tual witnesses of his actions, could impart. For this end I
was to make minute enquiries, and to put seasonable inter¬
rogatories. From this conduct I promised myself an ulti¬
mate solution of my doubts.
I acquiesced in this view of things with considerable
satisfaction. It seemed as if the maze was no longer in¬
scrutable. 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 myself when the cri¬
minal is detected ? "
I was not insensible at that moment to 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 impossible to arm
i
EDGAR HUNTLY. 11
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 shown 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 be¬
comes 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 undiciplined by reason and inconducive to benefit."
I was not, however, to be diverted from my purpose.
Curiosity, like virtue, is its own reward. Knowledge is of
value for its own sake, and pleasure is annexed to the ac¬
quisition, without regard to any thing beyond : it is pre¬
cious, even when disconnected with moral inducements and
heartfelt 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 without molesting
the repose of the family. You know that our doors are al¬
ways unfastened, and are' accessible at all hours of the night.
My slumbers were imperfect, and I rejoiced when the
morning light permitted 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 Chestnut-hill.
Concealed 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 myself 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.
I
12
EDGAR HUNTLY.
Shortly I began to feel insupportable disquiet at the
thoughts of postponing this discovery. Wiles and strata¬
gems 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 descending to artifices ?
There are two modes of drawing forth the secrets of
another; by open and direct means, and by circuitous 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 under this shade. I
may note his behaviour; I may ascertain his person, if not
by the features that belong to him, yet by tracing his foot¬
steps 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 palpitations 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 ad¬
vanced 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, beside 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 person 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, prevented me, as before, from
distinguishing any peculiarities in his figure or counte¬
nance.
I continued watchful and mute. The appearances
already described took place on this occasion, except the
EDGAR HUNTLY.
13
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 termination 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 proceeded 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 under¬
growth of bushes and briars.
I was, at first, fearful that the noise which I made be¬
hind him, in ti-ampling down the thicket, would alarm him;
but he regarded it not. The way that he had selected was
always difficult: sometimes 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
footing ; sometimes into fens, from which some exertions
were necessary to extricate 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
brakes 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 distance 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 bedewed Avith 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
14.
EDGAR HUNTLY.
atrocious 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 preci¬
pice. He kept along the edge. From this height a dreary
vale was discoverable, embarrassed with the leafless stocks
of bushes, and encumbered with rugged and pointed rocks.
This scene reminded me of my situation. The desert
tract called Norwalk, which I have often mentioned to
you, my curiosity 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 glimpse 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 singular career to
terminate ? "
Though occupied with these reflections, I did not slacken
my pursuit. The stranger kept along the verge of the cliff,
which gradually declined till it terminated 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 immediately 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, Avho had dared
to pursue him to these forlorn retreats ; or, was he a maniac,
or a 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 acceptable after
EDGAR HUNTLY.
15
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 the lofty and precipitous cliffs.
The gloom deepened as the moon declined, and the faint-
ness of starlight was all that preserved my senses from being
useless to my own guidance.
I drew nearer the cleft at which this mysterious person¬
age 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 neglecting 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 animal leaped
forth, of what kind I was unable to discover. Heart-
struck by this disappointment, but not discouraged, I con¬
tinued 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 suc¬
cess, but was unwilling to depart, until it was no longer
possible to hope for the return of this extraordinary per
16
edgar huntly.
sonage. Whether he had been swallowed up by some of the
abysses of this grotto, or lurked near the entrance, waiting
my departure, or had made his exit at another and distant
aperture, was unknown to me.
Exhausted and discouraged, I prepared, at length, to re¬
turn. It was easy to find my way out of this wilderness
by going forward in one direction, regardless of impedi¬
ments 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 unsatis¬
factorily terminated this night's adventures.
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 discovered, should I resolve to undertake a new
pursuit, which might terminate abortively, or in some signal
disaster ? Rut what proof had I that the same route 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 venture 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 eminently abounds in rifts and cavities.
These, by the gradual decay of their cementing parts, fre¬
quently 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 showed me that I trod upon
the roof of caverns. A mountain cave, and the rumbling of
an unseen torrent, are appendages of this scene, dear to my
EDGAE IIUNTLY.
17
youthful imagination. Many of romantic structure were
found within the precincts of Norwalk."
These I had industriously sought out; but this had
hitherto escaped my observation, and I formed the reso¬
lution of some time 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 some¬
thing 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
intention to dig was to be carried into effect on condition of
his absence, and was consequently frustrated.
Instead of rushing on him, aud breaking at once the
spell by which his senses were bound, I concluded, con¬
trary to my first design, to wait his departure, and allow
myself to be conducted whithersoever 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 bewilder 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 slippery 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 obstacles from which, in a
different state of mind, and with a different object of pur¬
suit, .1 should have recoiled with invincible timidity.
When the scene had passed, I could not review the perils
I had undergone without shuddering.
At length my or conduct struck into a path which, com¬
pared with the ruggedness 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 recognised to be that belonging to Ingle-
field. I now anticipated the fulfilment of my predictions,
c
18
EDGAR HUNTLY.
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 in¬
compatible with this conclusion. He and his fellow-servant
occupied an apartment in the barn as a lodging-room.
This arduous 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 further expedients.
Nothing now remained but to take Clithero to task; to
repeat to him the observations of the last two nights; to
unfold to him my conjectures and suspicions; to convince
him of the rectitude of my intentions ; and to extort from
him a disclosure of all the circumstances connected with the
death of Waldegrave, which it was in his power to com¬
municate.
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 opportunity
of entering into conversation with him.
A period of the deepest deliberation was necessary to
qualify myself for performing suitably my part in this
projected interview: I attended to the feelings that were sug¬
gested in this new state of my knowledge ; I found reason
to confide in my newly acquired equanimity. " 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 indig¬
nation."
It is common for pity to succeed the bitterest sugges¬
tions 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 cf the next day, I paid a visit to Ingle-
field. I wished to impart to him the discoveries that I
had made, and to listen to his reflections on the subject; I
EDGAR HUNTLY.
19
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
paternal 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 discussed, and I hastily proceeded to that
subject which was nearest my heart; I related the ad¬
ventures of the two preceding nights, and mentioned the
inference to which they irresistibly led.
He said that this inference coincided with suspicions he
had formed, since our last interview, in consequence of
certain communications from his housekeeper. 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 in¬
numerable expedients for obtaining a knowledge of his
past life, and particularly of his motives for coming to
America. These expedients, however profound and ad-
dressful, had failed: he took no pains to elude them ; he
contented 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 Sun¬
days he always rambled away, no one knew whither, and
without a companion. I have already observed that he
and his fellow-servant occupied the same apartment in the
barn. This circumstance was not unattended to by Miss
Inglefield. The name of Clithero's companion was Am¬
brose. This man was copiously interrogated by his mis¬
tress, and she found him by no means so refractory as the
other.
c 2
20
EDGAB HUNTLY.
Ambrose, in his tedious and confused way, related that,
soon after Clithero and he had become bedfellows, the
former was considerably disturbed by restlessness and talk¬
ing in his sleep. His discourse was incoherent; it was
generally in the tone of expostulation, and appeared to be
entreating to be saved from some great injury : such
phrases as these — " Have pity !" " Have mercy !" were
frequently 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, testified the utmost reluctance.
Ambrose had no curiosity on the subject. As this inter¬
ruption prevented 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 de¬
jection on discovering how he had been employed. He
would solicitously enquire what were the words that he had
uttered; but Ambrose'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
accustomed 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 slumber.
No one appeared more shocked than he at the death of
Waldegrave : after this event, his dejection suddenly in¬
creased. This symptom was observed by the family; but
none but the housekeeper took the trouble to notice it to
him, or build conjectures on the incident. During nights,
however, Ambrose experienced a renewal of his ancient
disturbances. He remarked that Clithero, ojie night, had
disappeared from his side. Ambrose's range of reflection
was extremely narrow: quickly falling asleep, and finding
his companion beside him when he awoke, he dismissed it
from his mind.
On several ensuing nights he awakened in like manner,
and always found his companion's place empty. The re¬
petition of so strange an incident at length incited him to
EDGAR HUNTLY.
21
mention it to Clithero. The latter was confounded at this
intelligence: he questioned Ambrose, with great anxiety as
to the particulars of this event; but he could gain no satis¬
faction from the stupid inattention of the other. From
this time there was a visible augmentation 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 im¬
portance, mentioned by the housekeeper. 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 Ingle-
field was employed in the kitchen, from a window of which
she perceived who it was that made the signal. 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 con¬
ference lasted above five minutes. The length of it ex¬
cited in her a faint degree of surprise, inducing her to
leave her employment, and pay an unremitted 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 were distorted and tremulous. He immediately
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 gestures, irresolute or mis¬
directed, betokened the deepest dismay. After some time he
recovered, in some degree, his self-possession ; but, while
the objectwas viewed through a new medium, and the change
existed only in the imagination of the observer, an alteration
was certainly discovered.
These circumstances were related to me by Inglefield,
and corroborated by his housekeeper. One consequence
inevitably flowed from them,—the sleep-walker, he who
had led me through so devious a tract, was no other than
Clithero: there was likewise a strong relation between this
person and him who stopped at the gate. What was the
c 3
22
EDGAR HUNTLY.
subject of discourse between them ? In answer to Miss
Inglefield's interrogatories, he merely said that the traveller
enquired 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 immediately 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
acquainted with the dexterity of his contrivances, and the
neatness of his workmanship. 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 oppor¬
tunity, 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
purpose, I went along with him.
He tacitly, and without apparent reluctance, consented
to my scheme; and accordingly we set off together.
This was an awful crisis ; the time had now come that
was to dissipate my uncertainty. By what means should
I introduce a topic so momentous and singular? I had
been qualified by no experience for rightly conducting my¬
self on so critical an emergency. My companion preserved
a mournful and inviolable silence ; he afforded me no open¬
ing by which I might reach the point in view; his de¬
meanour was sedate, while I was almost disabled by the
confusion of my thoughts to utter a word.
EDGAR IIUNTLY.
23
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 ungovernable curiosity ; yet, if I intended
not the conferring of a benefit, I did not, at least, purpose
the infliction of evil. I persuaded 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 introducing the topic by
which my mind was engaged. I passed rapidly from one
to another; none of them was sufficiently free from ob¬
jection, 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 appeared in sight. This object had
somewhat 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 reverie. The first
idea that occurred to him, when he had noticed my be¬
haviour, was, that I was assailed by some sudden indis¬
position.
" 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 surprise.
" Yes," said I: " let us turn down this path," pointing
at the same time to that along which I had followed him
the preceding 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,
c 4
24,
EDGAR HtTNTLY.
Go with me down this path—we shall be in less danger of
interruption.
He was irresolute and silent; but seeing 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 suspense :
there is a tale connected with it, which I am desirous 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 incident 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 concluding
circumstance, by which his person was identified, he heard
me without any new surprise.
To this narrative I subjoined the enquiries that I had
made at Inglefield's, and the result of those enquiries. I
then continued in these words : —
" You may ask why I subjected myself to all this
trouble ? The mysteriousness of these transactions would
have naturally 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 beneath 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 illuminated by the moon,
that had now risen, though all around was dark. Hence
his features and person were easily distinguished. His
EDGAR. HUNTLY.
25
hands hung at his side; his eyes were downcast, and he
was motionless as a statue ; my last words seemed scarcely
to have made any impression on his sense. I had no need
to provide against the possible suggestions of revenge—I
felt nothing but the tenderness 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 solemn, 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 ex¬
pression of affright; he shuddered and recoiled as from a
spectre. I began to repent of my experiment. I could
say nothing suitable 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 ex¬
planation 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 punishment 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 sufficiently expiated. I
am no stranger to your gnawing cares — to the deep and
incurable despair that haunts you, to which your waking
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 con¬
sequences 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 in¬
exhaustible ? Why should we be debarred from a com-
26
EDGAR HUNTLY.
forter ? "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 attending 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 a hollow
and tremulous voice.
" You demand of me a confession of crimes: you shall
have it—sometime you shall have it; when it will be I
cannot tell: something must be done, and shortly."
He hurried from me into the house ; and after a pause,
I turned my steps homewards. My reflections as I pro¬
ceeded perpetually revolved round a single point: these
were scarcely more than a repetition, with slight variations
of a single idea.
When I awoke in the morning, I hied in fancy to the
wilderness; I saw nothing but the figure of the wanderer
before 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, portentous 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 sublime : the suggestions of sorrow and malice had for
a time taken their flight, and yielded place to a generous
sympathy, which filled my eyes with tears, but had more
in it of pleasure than of pain. That Clithero was instru¬
mental to the death of Waldegrave—that he could furnish
the clue explanatory of every bloody and mysterious event
that had hitherto occurred, there was no longer the pos¬
sibility of doubting. " He, indeed," said I, " is the
murderer of excellence; and yet it shall be my province
! Ir' 1. ■ *
EDGAR HUNTLY. 27
to emulate a father's clemency, and restore this unhappy
man to purity and to peace."
Day after day passed without hearing any thing of
Clithero; I began to grow uneasy and impatient: I had
gained so much, and by means so unexpected, that I could
more easily endure uncertainty with respect to what re-
1 mained to be known : but my patience had its limits. I
should doubtless have made use of new means to accelerate
this discovery, had not his timely appearance made them
superfluous.
Sunday being at length arrived, I resolved to go to
Inglefield's, seek an interview with his servant, and urge
him by new importunities to confide to me the secret. On
my way thither, Clithero appeared 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 appearance. At a small distance I mistook
f him for a stranger; as soon as I perceived 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
interruption.
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 surround¬
ing scenery informed us that we were in the heart of Nor-
walk. We lighted on a recess to which my companion
appeared to be familiar, and which had all the advantages
of solitude, and was suitable to rest: here we stopped. Hi¬
therto my companion had displayed a certain degree of
composure ; now his countenance betokened a violent in¬
ternal struggle. It was a considerable time before he could
command his speech; when he had so far effected the con¬
quest of his feelings, he began.
<28
EDGAR HUKTLY.
CHAPTER IV.
" You call upon me for a confession of my offences.—
What a strange fortune is mine ! That a human beings in
the present circumstances, should make this demand, and
that I should be driven by an irresistible necessity to com¬
ply with it! — that here should terminate 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 en¬
dured their consequences!
" You believe me to be an assassin — you require me to
explain the motives that induced me to murder the inno¬
cent ! 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 inci¬
dents 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 otherwise 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 destructive errors. You,
like others, are blind to the most momentous consequences
of your own actions ; you talk of imparting consolation —
you boast the beneficence of your intentions — you set
yourself to do me a benefit.—What are the effects of your
misguided zeal and random 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 perdi¬
tion.
" My misery has been greater than has fallen to the lot
EDGAR HUNTLT.
29
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 pilgrimage
had been longer, I might at some future day have lighted
upon hope; in consequence of your interference, I am for
ever debarred from it: my existence is henceforward to be
invariable; the woes that are reserved for me are incapable
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 understanding, which teaches
me that my punishment is just. Why should I procras¬
tinate my doom, and strive to render my burden 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 retribution: a change of being cannot aggra¬
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 demon that controlled 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 atrocious. 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 consider 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
management 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 husband, 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 misery to the lady, she was indebted for her
tranquillity to the force of her mind : she was, indeed, go¬
verned in every action of her life by the precepts of duty ;
while her husband listened to 110 calls but those of pernicious
dissipation : he was immersed 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
attachment 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 thenceforward con¬
formable to her notions of right — to preserve and improve,
by schemes of economy, the remains of her fortune, and
to employ it in the diffusion of good. Her plans made it
necessary 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,
EDGAR HUNTLY.
EDGAR HUNTLY.
31
when we should attain to manhood, one of his most faithful
and intelligent dependants. I enjoyed, equally with him,
all the essential benefits of education : there were certain
accomplishments from which I was excluded, from the
belief that they were unsuitable to my rank and station ; I
was permitted to acquire others, which, had she been act¬
uated by true discernment, she would perhaps have dis¬
covered to be far more incompatible with a servile station.
In proportion as my views were refined and enlarged by
history and science, I was likely to contract a thirst of in¬
dependence, and an impatience of subjection and poverty.
" When the period of childhood and youth was past, it
was thought proper to send her son to improve his know¬
ledge and manners by a residence on the Continent. This
young man was endowed with splendid abilities; his errors
were the growth of his condition : all the expedients that
maternal solicitude and wisdom could suggest were em¬
ployed to render him an useful citizen. Perhaps this
wisdom was attested by the large share of excellence which
he really possessed; and that his character was not un¬
blemished, proved only that no exertions could preserve
him from the vices that are inherent in wealth and rank,
and which flow from the spectacle of universal depravity.
" As to me,y it would be folly to deny that I had bene¬
fited by my opportunities of improvement. I fulfilled the
expectation 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 par¬
ticulars, without reflecting any credit on the directors of
it; those might merit the name of defects which were
regarded by them as accomplishments: my unfavourable
qualities, like those of my master, were imputed to my
condition; though, perhaps, the difference was advan¬
tageous to me, since the vices of servitude are less hateful
than those of tyranny.
" It was resolved that I should accompany my master
in his travels, in quality of favourite domestic. My prin¬
ciples, 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 con-
32
EDGAR HUNTLY.
ducive 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 be¬
haviour 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 acknowledge 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 master's constant
attendant. I corresponded with his mother, and made the
conduct of her son the principal theme of my letters. I
deemed it my privilege, as well as duty, to sit in judgment
on his actions, to form my opinions without regard to
selfish considerations, and to avow them whenever the
avowal tended to benefit. Every letter which I wrote,
particularly those in which his behaviour was freely cri¬
ticised, 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 com.
trol than that which resulted from the avoiding of deceit,
and the open expression of my sentiments. The youth
was of a noble spirit, but his firmness was wavering: he
yielded to temptations which a censor less rigorous than I
would have regarded 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 supportable it became. My company grew
every day less agreeable, till at length there appeared a
necessity of parting. A separation took place, but not as
enemies; 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 inflexible consistency of my principles.
c< 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
EDGAR HUNTLY.
33
character of this lady, and had nothing to fear from in¬
justice 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 pay¬
ment, and in some degree the selection and government, of
her servants. My station was a servile one; yet most of
the evils of servitude were unknown to me: my personal
ease and independence were less infringed than that of
those who are accounted the freest 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 lenity that they depended for their
treatment. 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 circumstances 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 relation 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 immeasurable
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: 1 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 excellen¬
cies. A casual spectator might admire her beauty, and the
dignity of her demeanour: from the contemplation of those,
he might gather motives for loving or revering her. Age
was far from having withered her complexion, or destroyed
34
EDGAR HtNTLY.
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 medi¬
tating scenes of happiness, 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
depraved 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 rectitude 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 cheerful¬
ness, and her benevolence; it was only for one who wit¬
nessed her behaviour 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 merits.
" 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
manner in some degree adapted to the difference of rank,
and the inferiority of my station, and yet widely dissimilar
from that which a different person would have adopted in
the same circumstances : the treatment was not that of an
equal and a friend, but still more remote was it from that
of a mistress : it was merely characterised by affability and
condescension ; but as such it had no limits.
" She made no scruple to ask my counsel in every pecu¬
niary affair, to listen to my arguments, and decide conform¬
ably to what, after sufficient canvassings 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 con¬
versation. There was none who could, with more safety
to herself, have made the world her confessor; but the
EDGAR HUNTLY.
35
state of society in which she lived., imposed certain limit¬
ations on her candour. In her intercourse with me, there
were fewer restraints than on any other occasion : my situ¬
ation had made me more intimately acquainted with do¬
mestic transactions, with her views respecting 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 maternal regard for me, and to the artless
and unsuspecting generosity of her character.
" 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
conversations 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 without ostentation, and her gravity unmingled with
haughtiness.
" From these my station excluded me ; but I was com¬
pensated by the freedom of her communications in the in¬
tervals. She found pleasure in detailing to me the incidents
that passed on these occasions, in rehearsing conversations,
and depicting characters. There was an uncommon por¬
tion of dramatic merit in her recitals, besides valuable and
curious information.
" One uniform effect was produced in me by this beha¬
viour : each day I thought it impossible for my attachment
to receive any new accessions; yet the morrow was sure to
produce some new emotion of respect or of gratitude, and
to set the unrivalled accomplishments of this lady in a new
and more favourable point of view. I contemplated no
change in my condition : the necessity of change, whatever
were the alternative, would have been a subject 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.
D 2
36
edgar huntly.
" It was no difficult task faithfully to execute the func¬
tions assigned to me. No merit could accrue to me from
this source : I was exposed to no temptation ; I had passed
the feverish period of youth : no contagious example had
contaminated my principles ; I had resisted the allurements
of sensuality and dissipation incident to my age. My
dwelling was in pomp and splendour: I had amassed suf¬
ficient 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 gratifi¬
cation were boundless. I enjoyed an unsullied 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 perform
personal services to others."
CHAPTER V.
" Mrs. Lorimer had a twin brother. Nature had im¬
pressed the same image upon them, and had modelled 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 ex¬
amination appeared to distinguish them but the sexual
characteristics. A sagacious observer would, doubtless,
have noted the most essential differences: in all those
modifications of the features which are produced by habits
and sentiments, no two persons were less alike. Nature
seemed to have intended them as examples of the futility
of those theories which ascribe every thing to conformation
and instinct, and nothing to external circumstances; in
what different modes the same materials may be fashioned,
and to what different purposes the same materials may be
applied. Perhaps the rudiments of their intellectual cha¬
racter, as well as of their form, were the same; but the.
powers that in one case were exerted in the cause of virtue,
EDGAR TIUNTLY.
37
were in the other misapplied to sordid and flagitious pur¬
poses.
ce 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 exceeded
in depravity all that has been imputed to the arch-foe of
mankind. His wickedness was without any of those re¬
morseful 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, experienced its worst effects: she was the sub¬
ject on which, by being acquainted with the means of
influencing her happiness, he could try his malignant ex¬
periments 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. t There is
no event on which our felicity and usefulness more mate¬
rially depend, and with regard to which, therefore, the
freedom of choice, and the exercise of our own understand¬
ing, ought to be less infringed : but this maxim is com¬
monly disregarded in proportion to the elevation of our
rank and the extent of our property.
" The lady made her own election ; but she was one of
those who acted on a comprehensive plan, and would not
admit her private inclination to dictate her decision: the
happiness of others, though founded on mistaken views,
she did not consider as unworthy of her regard. 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
D 3
38
EDGAR HUNTLY.
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 miserable. For this
end he set himself to thwart her wishes. In the imbeci¬
lity 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 pa¬
trimony, to render 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 bro¬
ther'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
circumstance 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
upon 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
liberty, and even his life, into hazard.
" All these iniquities produced no considerable effect on
the mind of the lady : the machinations to which her love
was exposed 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 conscious¬
ness of the evils they inflicted; but they experienced a
EDGAR HUNTLY.
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 consumed in gaming
and riot: from splendid, he descended to meaner vices.
The efforts of his sister to recall him to virtue were unin-
termitted and fruitless: her affection for him he converted
into a means of prolonging his selfish gratifications. She
decided for the best; it was no argument of weakness 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 for ever deceived: her
tenderness was subservient to justice; and when his vices
had led him from the gaming-table to the highway — when
seized at length by the ministers of law — when convicted
and sentenced to transportation, her intercession was soli¬
cited ; when all the world knew that pardon would readily
be granted to a supplicant of her rank, fortune, and charac¬
ter — when the criminal himself, his kindred, his friends,
and even indifferent persons, implored her interference, 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 entreaties unavailing, the wretch delivered
himself to the suggestions 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 sufficiently showed that our fears on this head were
well grounded: this event, however, was at a great distance.
It was reported that the felons, of whom he was one, mu¬
tinied on board the ship in which they had been embarked :
in the affray that succeeded, it was said that he was
killed.
p 4
40
EDGAR HUNTLY.
" 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 des¬
tiny : she was consigned to the care of a hireling, who, hap¬
pily for the innocent victim, performed the maternal offices
for her own sake, and did not allow the want of a stipu¬
lated 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 tie 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 brother, was completely real¬
ised in his offspring : Nature seemed to have precluded
every difference between them but that of age. This darling
object excited in her bosom more than maternal sympathies :
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 separation 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 contemplating the possibility of an 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 contingencies 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 pro¬
pensities would not select for themselves a differerit object:
it was equally dubious whether the young lady would not
think proper otherwise to dispose of her affections. 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
egregious errors. In addition to this, it was manifest that
the young people were disposed to regard each other in
EDGAR HUNTLY.
41
no other light than that of brother and sister. I was not
unapprised of her views: I saw that their union was im¬
possible. I was near enough to judge of the character of
Clarice. My youth and intellectual constitution made me
peculiarly susceptible to female charms. I was her play¬
fellow in childhood., and her associate in studies and amuse¬
ments at a maturer age. This situation might have been
suspected of a dangerous tendency; this tendency, however,
was obviated by motives of which I was for a long time
scarcely conscious.
" I was habituated to consider the distinctions of rank as
indelible : the obstructions that existed to any wish that I
might form, were like those of time and space, and as, in
their own nature, insuperable.
" Such was the state of things previous 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 exposed 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: observers could discover in it nothing
not corresponding to that difference of fortune which sub¬
sisted 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 sensations. 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 dis¬
covery ; but my courage did not suddenly desert me. My
hopes seemed to be extinguished the moment that I dis¬
tinctly perceived the point to which they led. My mind
42
EDGAR HUNTLY.
had undergone a change; the ideas with which it was
fraught were varied: the sight or recollection of Clarice
was sure to occasion it to advert to the recent discovery,
and to revolve the considerations naturally connected with
it. Some latent glows and secret trepidations were likewise
experienced, when, by some accident, our meetings were
abrupt, or our interviews unwitnessed ; yet my usual tran¬
quillity 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
additions: 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 themselves with invading
my wakeful hours, but likewise encroached upon my sleep :
I could no longer resign myself to slumber 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 situ¬
ation : I knew what it was that duty exacted from me : to
remain in my present situation was a chimerical project.
That time and reflection would suffice to restore me to my¬
self, was a notion equally fallacious: yet I felt an insup¬
portable 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 modelled on the belief
of my remaining in my present situation during my life ;
my wildest anticipations had never fashioned an event like
this: any misfortune was light in comparison with that
EDGAR HUNTLY.
43
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 recompence which it was in
my power to make for the benefits that I had received.
Would not this procedure bear the appearance of the basest
ingratitude ? The shadow 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 he equivalent to sup¬
plicating for a new benefit: it would more become me to
lessen than increase my obligations. Among all my ima¬
ginations on this subject, the possibility of a mutual passion
never occurred to me. I could not be blind to the essen¬
tial distinctions that subsist among men : I could expatiate,
like others, on the futility of ribands and titles, and on the
dignity that was annexed to skill and virtue; but these,
for the most part, were the incoherences of speculation, and
in no degree influenced the stream of my actions and prac¬
tical sentiments. The barrier that existed in the present
case I deemed insurmountable : this was not even the sub¬
ject of doubt. In disclosing the truth I should be con¬
ceived to be soliciting my lady's mercy and intercession;
but this would be the madness of presumption. 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 per¬
suasion would infallibly produce.
" I could form no stable resolutions : I seemed unalter¬
ably 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 power¬
less : 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 enquired with the most affec-
44
EDGAR HUNTLY.
tionate solicitude into the cause: it could not be explained.
I could safely make light of it, and represent it as something
which would probably disappear of itself, as it originated
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 dangers of delay, and that procras¬
tination, without rendering the task less' necessary, aug¬
mented its difficulties. At length, summoning my resolution,
I demanded an audience. She received me with her usual
affability. Common topics were started; hut she saw the
confusion and trepidation of my thoughts, and quickly
relinquished them. She then noticed to me what she had
observed, and mentioned the anxiety which these appear¬
ances had given her. She reminded me of the maternal
regard which she had always manifested towards 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 : — f 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; still I was jesting;
I could not possibly mean what my words imported.
" I assured her, in terms still more explicit, that my
resolution was taken, and was unalterable; and again en¬
treated her to spare me the task of assigning my motives.
" 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
EDGAR HUNTLY.
45
thought it hard that I should abandon ner at tnis time,
when she stood in particular need of my assistance and ad¬
vice : 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 emoluments 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 a hard task,' answered I, f 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 impelled will no longer be with¬
stood. I am determined to go; but to say why is impos¬
sible. I hope I shall not bring upon myself the imputation
of ingratitude; but this imputation, more intolerable than
any other, must be borne, if it cannot be avoided but by
this disclosure.'
" ' Keep your motives to yourself,' said she : f I have too
good an opinion of you to suppose that you would practise
concealment 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 im¬
possible there should be any advantage in it. I will not
hear of it, I tell you; therefore submit to my decree with
a good grace.'
" Notwithstanding this prohibition, I persisted in de¬
claring that my determination was fixed, and that the mo¬
tives which 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 burdensome by cheerfully acqui¬
escing in its dictates.'
" ' I would,' replied my lady,f I could find somebody that
46
EDGAR HUNTLY.
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 entreaties,
surely no other can hope to succeed.'
" c I am not sure of that,' said my friend, archly:
f 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 : uidess 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 resolution.'
" ' That's a fib !' she rejoined, with increased archness ;
£ you know it is : if a certain person entreat 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
explained to me the purpose of this meeting, if I had be¬
lieved that purpose to be possible. I felt the necessity of
new fortitude, and struggled to recollect the motives that
had hitherto sustained me.
" f 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
show his reasons to be groundless. I have merely remon¬
strated with him on the folly of his scheme j 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 a hand of each, and joining them together —
« f I very well know what ^it was that suggested this
EDGAR HUNTLY.
47
scheme : it is strange that you should suppose me so care¬
less an observer 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 adventurousness 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; hut I have
long since discovered 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 my¬
self the worst of beings if I did not contribute all in my
power to your happiness. There is not the shadow of ob¬
jection to your union : I know your scruples, Clithero, and
am sorry to 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 tenderness
of her attachment. What need is there of tedious preli¬
minaries ? 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 entitles 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 torments 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
**° EDGAR HTJNTLY.
able to deliver a coherent narrative : let the last words that
I shall speak afford some glimmering of my better days -
let me execute without faltering the only task that remains
for me!"
CHAPTER VI.
<c How propitious, how incredible, 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 ob¬
stacles which I had deemed insurmountable — 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 extorted from Clarice
a confirmation of her mother's declaration. An unrestrained
intercourse was thenceforth established between us : de¬
jection and languor gave place, in my bosom, to the irra¬
diations 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 solemnised without
delay, had not a melancholy duty interfered. 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 entreated
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 willingly 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 impos¬
sible for me to murmur; and the affectionate Clarice would
suffer nothing to interfere with the duty which she owed
to her dying friend.
_
EDGAR HXJNTLY. 49
<c I accompanied her on this journey, remained with her
a few days, and then parted from her to return to the me¬
tropolis. 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 destruction, the agent had so skil¬
fully 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 com¬
pelled, by the machinations of her brother, to discard.
More than twenty years had passed since their separation.
His birth was mean, and he was without fortune : his pro¬
fession was that of a surgeon. My lady not only prevailed
upon him to abandon his country, but enabled him to do
this by supplying 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 motives, did not disdain to accept her gifts,
and projected means for maintaining an epistolary inter¬
course during their separation.
" Her interest procured him a post in the service of the
East India Company. She was, from time to time, in¬
formed of his motions. A war broke out between the Com¬
pany and some of the native powers : he was present at a
great battle, in which the English were defeated: she could
trace him by his letters and by other circumstances thus
E
50
EDGAR HUNTLY.
far; but here the thread was discontinued, and no means
"which she employed could procure any tidings of Mm .
whether he was captive or dead, continued for several years
to be merely matter of conjecture.
" On my return to Dublin, I found my patroness en¬
gaged 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
ingenuous ; but his sun-burnt and rugged features be¬
spoke a various and boisterous pilgrimage : the furrows
of his brow were the products of vicissitude and hard¬
ship rather than of age : his accents were fiery and ener¬
getic ; 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 extraordinary in his
character.
" As soon as he left us, my lady explained who he was :
— he was no other than the object of her youthful attach¬
ment, who had, a few days before, dropped among us as
from the skies. He had a long and various story to tell :
he had accounted for his silence by enumerating the in¬
cidents of his life.—He had escaped from the prisons of
Hyder; had wandered on foot, and under various dis¬
guises, through the northern district of Hindostan: he
was sometimes a scholar of Benares, and sometimes a dis¬
ciple of the Mosque; according to the exigencies of the
times, he was a pilgrim 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,
deriving a precarious subsistence from the profession of a
surgeon. He was obliged to desert this post, in conse¬
quence of a duel between two Scotchmen. One of them
had embraced the Greek religion, and was betrothed to the
daughter of a wealthy trader of that nation : he perished 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 connected with Mm, in
the same ruin.
edgar huntly.
51
" His life being thus endangered, it became necessary
for him to seek a new residence. He fled from Constan¬
tinople 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 country of Philip and Philo-
poemen: he passed safely through multiplied perils; and
finally, embarking at Saionichi, he reached Venice: he
descended through the passes of the Apennines into Tus¬
cany. In this journey he suffered a long detention 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 im¬
mured in caverns and carousing with robbers: his details
were eminently singular and curious, and evinced the acute-
ness of his penetration, as well as the steadfastness of his
courage.
" After emerging from these wilds, he found his way
along the banks of the Arno to Leghorn: thence he pro¬
cured a passage to America; whence he had just returned,
with many additions to his experience, but none to his
fortune.
(< This was a remarkable event: it did not at first ap¬
pear how far its consequences would extend: the lady was,
at present, disengaged and independent: though the pas¬
sion which clouded her early prosperity was extinct, time
had not diminished the worth of her friend; and they were
far from having reached that age when love becomes chi¬
merical and marriage folly. A confidential intercourse was
immediately established between them. The bounty of Mrs.
Lorimer soon divested her friend of all fear of poverty. —
' At any rate,' said she, f he shall wander no farther, 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 solicit¬
ations.
e 2
52
n EDGAR HUNTIiY.
" A cordial intimacy grew between me and the newly
arrived: our interviews were frequent, and our commu¬
nications without reserve. He detailed to me the result
oif his experience, and expatiated without end on the his¬
tory of his actions and opinions: he related the adven¬
tures of his youth, and dwelt upon all the circumstances of
his attachment to my patroness. On this subject I had
heard only general details: I continually found cause, in
the course of his narrative, to revere the illustrious qua¬
lities of my lady, and to weep at the calamities to which
the infernal malice of her brother had subjected her.
c< The tale of that man's misdeeds, amplified and drama¬
tised 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 passions 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 expa¬
tiating on this theme, an enquiry as to how far subsequent
events had obliterated the impressions that wTere then made,
and as to the plausibility of reviving, at this most auspi¬
cious period, his claims on the heart of his friend. When
he thought proper to notice these hints, he gave me to un¬
derstand that time had made no essential alterations in his
sentiments in this respect—that he still fostered a hope, to
which every day added new vigour, that whatever was the
ultimate event, he trusted in his fortitude to sustain it, if
adverse, and in his wisdom to extract from it the most
valuable consequences, if it should prove prosperous,
" The progress of things was not unfavourable 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 Iris wishes."
edgar huntly.
53
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 almost immediately to my
chamber.
" On hearing of my arrival, Sarsefield hastened to see
me. He came to my bedside; and such, in his opinion,
was the importance of the tidings which he had to com¬
municate, 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: lie
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 bedside: his countenance exhibited various tokens
of alarm. As soon as I perceived who it was, I started,
exclaiming—' What is the matter?'
" He sighed.
"' Pardon,' said he, ' this unseasonable intrusion: a light
matter would not have occasioned it. I have waited £or
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 counsel and aid.'
"'Heaven defend!' cried I; 'this is a terrible pre¬
lude. 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 lifting my hand to the bell, when my eye was caught
by a person standing close to the wall, at the distance of
E 3
54 EDGAR HUNTLY.
ten paces: his attitude was that of one employed in watch¬
ing 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
recognised 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 discon¬
certed by the eagerness of my scrutiny ; he seemed per¬
fectly indifferent 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 uneasiness.'
" ' You do not then suspect who this person is ?'
"' No.'
'f ' 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 mutiny 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
recognise 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 sufficiently
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.
\
EDGAR HUNTLY.
55
How to obviate the danger I know not: I thought, how¬
ever, of one expedient; it might serve a present purpose,
and something 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 knocked 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 appear¬
ance 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 peremptory 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 reluctance; but said he should return
to-morrow, when he should insist upon admission to the
presence of the lady. I have enquired, and find that he
has not repeated his visit. What is to be done ? '
" I was equally at a loss with my friend, this accident
was so unlooked for. What might not be dreaded from
the monstrous depravity of Wiatte ? His menaces of ven¬
geance 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,
therefore, he had committed no crime: his person could
not be lawfully molested ; we were justified merely in
repelling an attack. But suppose we should appeal to law ;
could this be done without the knowledge and concurrence
of his sister ? She would never permit it; her heart was
e 4
EDGAR HDNTLY.
incapable of fear from this quarter: she would spurn at
the mention 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 discovered ? This was
easy : he had intimated the design of applying again for
admission to his sister. Let a person be stationed at hand,
who, being furnished with an adequate description of his
person and dress, shall mark him when he comes, and follow
him when he retires, and forthwith impart to us the in¬
formation on that head which he shall be able to collect.
" My friend concurred in this scheme : no better could,
for the present, be suggested. Here ended our conference.
" I was thus supplied with a new subject of reflection;
it was calculated to fill my mind with dreary forebodings:
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 por¬
tentous ; 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 started anew into existence, with¬
out any previous 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 uncover. 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 enjoy¬
ment of untarnished honour, and consigned to infamy and
an untimely grave — he by whom herself was abandoned
in the helplessness of infancy, and left to be the prey of
obdurate avarice, and the victim of wretches who traffic in
EDGAR HUNTLY.
57
virgin innocence, 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 prerogatives ?
" 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 a 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 perfectly serene ; but when he rumi¬
nated on impending or possible calamities, his tongue did
not cleave to his mouth, his throat was not parched with
unquenchable thirst, he was not incessantly stimulated 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 mis¬
creant, had he not equal reason to fear for her whom he
also loved, and who, as the sister of this ruffian, was encom¬
passed 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 de¬
struction — 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 frenzy. 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 insti¬
gations !
" I could procure no sleep that night; after Sarsefield's
departure I did not evon 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
58
EDGAR HUNTLY.
scheme which had been adopted by us on the preceding
evening, a person was selected and commissioned to watch
the appearance of Wiatte. The day passed as usual with
Tespect to the lady : in the evening she was surrounded 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
monopolised 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. Sarsefield and I
went out together : we took that opportunity of examining
our agent; and, receiving no satisfaction from him, we dis¬
missed him for that night, enjoining 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, and was
lodged here for the purpose of being paid on demand of her
or her agents. It was my present business to receive this
money: I had deferred the performance of this engagement
to so late an hour, on account of certain preliminaries which
were necessary to be adjusted.
" Having received this money, I prepared to return home.
The inquietude which had been occasioned by Sarsefield's
intelligence had not incapacitated me from performing
my usual daily occupations : it was a theme to which, at
every interval of leisure from business or discourse, I did
not fail to return. At those times I employed myself in
examining 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.
EDGAB HUNTLY.
59
My deductions were not, on this occasion, peculiarly dis¬
tressful. 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 pre¬
cautions : in revolving these precautions, nothing occurred
that was new; the danger appeared without unusual aggra¬
vations, 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 continued "my walk.
The distance was considerable between my own habitation
and that which I had left: my way lay chiefly through
populous and well-frequented streets : in one part of the
way, however, it was at the option of the passenger 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 deeming it advisable to take the shortest and obscurest
road, I turned into the alley; I proceeded without interrup¬
tion to the next turning: one night officer, distinguished
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 a hoarse voice exclaimed —' D—n ye, villain —
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 senses: I stag¬
gered 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 —e This shall do your busi¬
ness !'—At the same time he drew a knife forth from his
bosom.
ce 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,
60
EDGAR HUNTLY.
my will might be said to be passive, and it was only by
retrospect, and a contemplation of consequences, that 1 be¬
came fully informed of the nature of the scene.
" If my assailant had disappeared as soon as he had dis¬
charged 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 spontaneous 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.
c' The noise of this encounter soon attracted spectators:
lights were brought, and my antagonist discovered bleeding
at my feet. I explained, as briefly as I was able, the scene
which they witnessed. The prostrate person was raised by
two men, and carried into a public house at hand.
ee I had not lost my presence of mind — I at once
perceived the propriety of administering assistance to the
wounded man; I despatched, therefore, one of the by¬
standers for a surgeon of considerable eminence, who lived
at a small distance, and to whom I was well known. The
man was carried into an inner apartment, 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 summoned attended; but
immediately perceived 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 landlord, 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 corpse till the morning, and I was allowed to return
home without further impediment.
'♦
\
edgar huntly.
61
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 moment I was at leisure to re¬
ceive them. Without foresight of a previous moment, an
entire change had been wrought in my condition.
(C I had been oppressed with a sense of the dangeT that
flowed from the existence 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 success, de¬
manded, as I conceived, the most powerful sagacity and the
firmest courage. Now the danger was no more; the in¬
telligence, in which plans of mischief might be generated,
was extinguished or flown ; lifeless were the hands ready
to execute the dictates of that intelligence; the contriver of
enormous evil was, in one moment, bereft of the power and
the will to injure. Our past tranquillity 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 impla¬
cable adversary : — thus, in a moment, had terminated his
long and flagitious career; his restless indignation, his ma¬
lignant 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 occurred, and it bore the appearance of a
desirable event; yet it was little qualified to tranquillise
my fears. In the long catalogue of contingencies, this, in¬
deed, was to be found ; but it was as little likely to happen
as any other; it could not happen without a series of an¬
terior events paving the way(for it; if his death came from
us, it must be the result 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
62
EDGAR HUNTLT.
unconscious necessity: liad the assailant been my father,
the consequence would have been the same; my understand¬
ing had been neutral. Could it be ? In a space so short,
was it possible that so tremendous a deed had been exe¬
cuted ? Was I not deceived by some portentous vision ?
I had witnessed the convulsions and last agonies of Wiatte:
he was no more, and I was his destroyer !
" Such was the state of my mind for some time after
this dreadful event. Previously to it, I was calm, con¬
siderate, and self-collected; I marked the way that I was
going; passing objects were observed; 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 contemplation 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 cheeked
myself, and once more turned my steps homeward.
" This seemed to be a hint for entering into new re¬
flections c The deed,' said I, f is irretrievable—I have
killed the brother of my patroness, the father of my
love !'
" This suggestion was new: it instantly involved me
in terror and perplexity.—c How shall I communicate
the tidings ? What effect will they produce ? My lady's
sagacity is obscured by the benevolence of her temper :
her brother was sordidly wicked, a hoary ruffian, to whom
the language of pity was as unintelligible 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
convert to rancour and reproach the fair fame of fidelity.
" He was her brother still. As a human being, his
depravity was never beyond the health-restoring power of
repentance; his heart, so long as it beat, was accessible to
EDGAR HUNTLY.
63
remorse. The singularity of his birth had made her re¬
gard this being as more intimately her brother than would
have happened in different circumstances; it was her
obstinate 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 motives in refusing her interference.
The manuscript, though unpublished, was widely circu¬
lated ; 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 him¬
self among the eulogists of her justice 11 and her fortitude.
This was the only monument, 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 oblivion ! 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 sacrifice of his; whereas
I should have died. Wretched and precipitate coward !
What had become of my boasted gratitude ? 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 regard 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 lightly ; my vows of
eternal devotion she had rejected with lofty disinterested-
64
EDGAR HUNTLY.
ness; she had arraigned my impatience of obligation as
criminal, and condemned every scheme I had projected for
freeing myself from the burden which her beneficence had
laid upon me. The impassioned and vehement anxiety
with which in former days she had deprecated the ven¬
geance of her lover against Wiatte rung in hay ears : my
senses were shocked anew by the dreadful sounds—
' Touch not my brother : wherever you meet with him,
of whatever 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 deprives 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 wickedness I was
perhaps incapable. Alas ! I have immersed myself suffi¬
ciently deep in crimes—I have trampled under foot every
motive dear to the heart of honour—I have shown myself
unworthy the society 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 infallible source ? How
cam the latter supposition be confuted ? Has she not pre¬
dicted the event ? The period of terrible fulfilment has ar¬
rived : the same blow that bereaved him of life, has like¬
wise 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
EDGAR HUNTLY.
65
of these tidings will be the messenger 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 saidst —f Nothing is wanting but his
death to restore us to confidence and safety.' Lo ! the pur¬
chase is made ! Havoc 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 irretrievable
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 unconsciously
exerted to bear me to my chamber. 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
vengeance, 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 intermission; all within me
was tempestuous and dark; my ears were accessible to no
sounds but those of shrieks and lamentations. It was deep¬
est 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 fu¬
neral pageantry : I seemed to have passed forward to a
distant era of my life; the effects which were to come were
already realised — the foresight of misery created it, and
set me in the midsFof that hell which I feared.
" From a paroxysm like this the worst might reasonably
66
EDGAR HUNTLY.
be dreaded; yet the next step to destruction was not sud¬
denly taken: I paused on the brink of the precipice, as if
to survey the depth of that frenzy 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 harassed by the repetition of one idea ; conjecture
deepened into certainty : 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 tem¬
pest of my fears, began to trace and analyse 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 pro¬
duced ? Were they linked together by a sympathy 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 extraor¬
dinary copartnerships in being and modes of instantaneous
intercourse among beings locally distant. Was this a new
instance of the subtilty 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 in¬
troduce, 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 corpse ? Whatever were
her situation, it could not be ascertained, except by extra¬
ordinary means, till the morning. Was it wise to defer
the scrutiny till then ? Why not instantly investigate the
truth ?
" These ideas passed rapidly through my mind : a con¬
siderable portion of time and amplification of phrase are
necessary to exhibit verbally, ideas contemplated in a space
of incalculable brevity. With the same rapidity I conceived
\
EDGAR HUNTLY.
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 suite of rooms occupied by the
lady of the mansion. The first was an antechamber/in which
a female servant usually lay; the second was the lady's own
bed-chamber : this was a sacred recess, with whose situ¬
ation, 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 de¬
terred by the sanctity of the place and hour ; I was insen¬
sible to all consequences but the removal of my doubts: —
not that my hopes were balanced 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 reluct¬
ance with which we admit a detestable truth,
r " 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 a robber, I am not
sure that I should have noticed liim; my attention was too
perfectly engrossed to allow me to spare any to a casual
object. I cannot affirm that no one observed me ; this,
however, was probable, 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
extremity of which my apartment was placed, comprehended
a library, and rooms for formal and social and literary con¬
ferences : 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 principal parlour was be¬
neath her chamber ; in the confusion of my thoughts I
mistook one for the other; I rectified as soon as I detected
my mistake. I ascended, with a beating heart, the stair¬
case. The door of the antechamber was unfastened; I
f 2
68
EDGAR HUNTLY.
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 exa¬
mine : 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 not that the momentousness of the question I
was about to decide rushed with its genuine force upon my
apprehension. Appalled 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 spectacle 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 Avas the
abhorred contriver.—Was it right to proceed ? There were
still the remnants of doubt: my forebodings might possibly
be groundless ; all within might be safety and serenity ; a
respite might be gained from the execution 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 advanced to the middle of
the room. Not a sound like that of the dying saluted my
ear. At length, shaking off the fetters of hopelessness, 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 inviolate, 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 bedside. How should I account for
an intrusion so unexampled and audacious ? I could not
communicate my fears ; I could not tell her that the blood
EDGAR HUNTLY.
69
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 modify 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 ap¬
proached the bed : I slowly drew aside the curtain, and
beheld her tranquilly slumbering. I listened, but so pro¬
found was her sleep, that not even her breathings could be
overheard. I dropped the curtain and retired.
" How blissful and mild were the illuminations of my
bosom at this discovery ! A joy that surpassed all utter¬
ance succeeded the fierceness of desperation: I stood for
some moments wrapt in delightful contemplation. Alas !
it was .a luminous, but transient interval! The madness, to
whose black suggestions it bore so strong a contrast, began
now to make sensible approaches on my understanding.
" ' True,' said I, f 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 phantom 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 — scowling 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 ingratitude — she will awake only to the
consciousness 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 hardship, but
whom her unsolicited beneficence snatched from those evils,
and endowed with the highest good known to intelligent
beings — the consolations of science and the blandishments
of affluence; to whom the darling of her life, the offspring
in whom are faithfully preserved the lineaments of its
p 3
70
EDGAR HUNTLY.
1
angelic mother, she has not denied !—what is the recom-
pence 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 infernal emissary,
whose efforts are concentred in a single purpose, and that
purpose a malignant one ? I am the author of thy cala¬
mities — 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 con¬
sciousness which, till it ceases to exist, will not cease to be
rent and mangled ?
<e' Yes; it is in my power to screen thee from the coming
storm — to accelerate thy journey to rest: — I will do it!'
" The impulse was not to be resisted: I moved with
the suddenness of lightning ; armed with a pointed imple¬
ment 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 enquire. 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 imagination of so frightful a cata¬
strophe ? 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
demon 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 decreed, why was the
image of Clarice so long excluded ? Yet why do I say
long ? The fatal resolution was conceived, and I hastened
EDGAR HUNTLY.
71
to the execution in a period too brief for more than itself
to be viewed by the intellect.
" What then? Were my hands imbrued in this pre¬
cious 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 widely from its aim: it descended, but without
inflicting a wound — its force was spent upon the bed.
" Oh for words to paint that stormy transition ! E
loosed my hold of the dagger — 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, without
tokens of his purpose, or his coming being previously im¬
parted, could not, methought, be less than divinity.
" The first glance that I darted on this being corrobor¬
ated my conjecture — it was the figure and the lineaments
of Mrs. Lorimer. Negligently habited in flowing and bril¬
liant white, with features 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 recognise
Clarice herself !
" Three days before, I had left her beside the bed of a
f 4>
72
EDGAR HUNTLY.
dying friend, at a solitary mansion in the mountains of
Donegal: here it had been her resolution to remain till her
friend should breathe her last. Fraught with this persua¬
sion, knowing this to be the place and hour of repose of my
lady, hurried forward by the impetuosity of my own con¬
ceptions, deceived by the faint gleam which penetrated
through the curtain and imperfectly irradiated the 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: instead 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 sentiment which I had
not leisure to distribute into parts : my understanding was
no doubt bewildered in the maze of consequences 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 terminate in the
present scene ? What penalty had not m£ infatuntion and
cruelty deserved ? What could I less than turn the dag¬
ger's point against my own bosom ?
" A second time the blow was thwarted and diverted;
once more this beneficent interposer held my arm from the
perpetration of a new iniquity — once more frustrated the
instigations of that demon, 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 ingra¬
titude was flagrant in proportion to the benefits of which
EDGAR HUNTLY.
73
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
subside, 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. Clarice,
governed by the instinct of modesty, wrapped her bosom
and face in the bedclothes, and testified her horror by vehe¬
ment but scarcely articulate exclamations.
" I moved forward, but my steps were random and tot¬
tering : my thoughts were fettered by reverie, and my
gesticulations destitute of meaning; my tongue faltered
without speaking, and I felt as if life and death were strug¬
gling 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" exist¬
ence, is a lot which the system of Nature has denied to
man. By escaping from life, I should be delivered 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 for ever from their scru¬
tiny and their upbraiding, to snatch from their minds all
traces of the existence of Clithero, was the scope of un¬
utterable 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 for
ever.
" At length Mrs. Lorimer, clasping her hands and lifting
them, exclaimed, in a tone melting into pity and grief—
f 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 commission of this deed, I have hastened hither to per¬
petrate the same crime upon you S'
" ' My brother !' replied Mrs. Lorimer, with new vehe-
74
EDGAR HUNTLY.
mence: f Oh, say not so ! I have just heard of his return
from Sarsefield, and that he lives.'
" f He is dead,' repeated I, with fierceness : c I know it—
it was I that killed him !'
" ' Dead !' she faintly articulated—' and by thee, Cli-
thero! Oh, cursed chance, that hindered thee from killing me
also! Dead ! — then is the omen fulfilled ! — then am I un¬
done ! lost for ever!'
" Her eyes now wandered from me, and her countenance
sunk into a wild and rueful expression; hope was utterly
extinguished in her heart, and life forsook her at the same
momept: 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
concealment, and, in the interval that passed between our
separation and my encounter with Wiatte, bad returned,
and informed her of the re-appearance 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 fulfilled — thus was the enmity of
Wiatte rendered efficacious, and the instrument of his
destruction changed into the executioner of his revenge.
" Such is the tale of my crimes. It is not for me to
hope that the curtain of oblivion will ever shut out the
dismal spectacle — it will haunt me for ever : the torments
that grow out of it can terminate 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, and to the wricked an accumulation of woe. The self-
destroyer is his own enemy: this has ever been my opinion;
hitherto it has influenced my actions: 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 matter; change is precious for its own
sake.
"^Well, I was still to live : my ahode must be some¬
where fixed: my conduct was henceforth the result of a
perverse and rebellious principle; I banished myself for
EDGAR HUNTLY.
75
ever 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
made no part of my contemplations; I was not embarrassed
by the choice of expedients for trammelling up the visible
consequences, and for eluding suspicion. The idea of ab¬
juring my country, and flying for ever from the hateful
scene, partook, to my apprehension, of the vast, the bound¬
less, and the strange : of plunging from the height of for¬
tune to obscurity and indigence, corresponded with my
present state of mind : it was of a piece with the tre¬
mendous 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 possessed one set of keys,
and hurried by the shortest way beyond the precincts of the
city. I had laid no plan ; my conceptions with regard to
the future were shapeless and confused: successive inci¬
dents 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 farther ; 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 Inglefield.
" I have no friends. Why should I trust my story to
another ? I have no solicitude about concealment: but
who is there will derive pleasure or benefit from my re¬
hearsal ?— and why should I expatiate on so hateful a
theme? Yet now have I consented to this. I have con-
76
EDGAR HUN TRY.
filled to you the history of my disasters: I am not fearful
of the use that you may be disposed to make of it; I shall
quickly set myself beyond the reach of human tribunals—
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 likewise determined me to
make this disclosure.
" 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 wakefulness and slum¬
ber. Yet I was anew distressed at the discovery that my
thoughts found their way to my lips without my being
conscious of it, and that my steps wandered forth unknow¬
ingly, 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 this 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 time were able to
weaken the impression which was produced by my crime,
this similitude was adapted to revive and enforce it.
" 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 moun¬
tainous asperities supply me with images of desolation and
seclusion, and its headlong streams lull me into temporary
forgetfulness of mankind. *
" 1 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."
edgar huntey. 77
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 de¬
tention : 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 re¬
verse 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 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 dis¬
tance 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 mis¬
taken benevolence ?
But I did not consider this tale merely in relation to
myself: my life had been limited and uniform; I had
/Communed with romances and historians; hut the impres¬
sion 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
78
EDGAR HUNTLY.
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 he 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 con¬
sequences 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 Ave 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 be¬
neficence can compensate for this crime; the scale, loaded
with the recriminations of his conscience, is immovable by
any counterweight.
But what are the conclusions to be drawn by dispas-
EDGAR. HUNTLY.
79
sionate 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 facul¬
ties : 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 infal¬
lible means were the prediction of Mrs. Lorimer and the
vengeance of her 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 con¬
siderate 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 abhor¬
rence, and in the act of self-defence, was the slayer of the
menacer !
As the obstructor of his designs, Wiatte waylaid 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 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
T7
80
EDGAR HTJNTLY.
to be accommodated at my uncle's house. The conversation
turning on the objects of his journey, 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 occupa¬
tion 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 commu¬
nicated 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 irreproach¬
able. When he left us, he manifested the most poignant
regret; but this originated chiefly in his regard for me. He
promised to maintain with me an epistolary intercourse:
since his departure, however, I had heard nothing respect¬
ing him. It was with unspeakable regret that I now
learned the disappointment of his hopes ; and was inquisi¬
tive 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,
enquiring 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 apprised them of any in¬
tention 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
condition.
EDGAR HVNTLY.
81
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 un-
visited 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 in¬
cumbent on me, aud of which the performance was con¬
nected 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
111 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 up¬
braiding 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 pro¬
duced, and these were inadequate to sustain human life. If
G.
82
EDGAR HUNTLY.
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 soli¬
tude, of a lonely abode in the midst of mountainous and
rugged nature; but this could not be uninterruptedly en¬
joyed : 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 the 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 Solebury, 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 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 midsummer.
The streams that burst forth from every crevice are thrown,
by the irregularities of the surface, into numberless cascades,
often disappear in mists or in chasms, and emerge from sub¬
terranean 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
edgae huntly.
83
scarcely passable by enormous and fallen trunks, accumu¬
lated by the storms of ages, and forming, by their slow
decay, a moss-covered soil, the haunt of rabbits and lizards.
These spots are obscured by the melancholy umbrage of
pines, whose eternal murmurs are in unison with va¬
cancy 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 de¬
clivity, and requires from the passenger a cautious and
sure foot. Openings and ascents occasionally present them¬
selves on each side, which seem to promise you access to
the interior region; but always terminate, sooner or later,
in insuperable difficulties, at the verge of a precipice, or
the bottom of a steep.
Perhaps no one was more acquainted with this wilder¬
ness 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
became his favourite scholar and the companion of all his
pedestrian excursions : he was fond of penetrating into these
recesses, partly from the love of picturesque 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 moralising narratives or synthetical reasonings.
These excursions had familiarised me with its outlines and
most accessible parts; but there was much which, perhaps,
oould never be reached without wings, and much the only
paths to which I might for ever overlook.
Every new excursion, indeed, added somewhat to my
knowledge; new tracks were pursued, new prospects de¬
tected, and new summits were gained: my rambles were
productive of incessant novelty, though they always ter¬
minated in the prospect of limits that could not be over¬
leaped. But none of these had led me wider from my
g 2
84
EDGAR HUNTLY.
customary paths than that which had taken place when in
pursuit of Clithero: I had faint remembrance of the valley
into which I had descended after him; but till then I had
viewed it at a distance, and supposed it impossible to reach
the bottom but by leaping from a precipice some hundred
feet in height. The opposite steep seemed no less in¬
accessible ; and the cavern at the bottom was impervious to
any views which my former positions had enabled me to
take of it.
My intention to re-examine this cave, and ascertain
whither it led, had for a time been suspended by different
considerations: it was now revived with more energy than
ever. I reflected that this had formerly been haunted by
Clithero, 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 footsteps, but soon lighted on the beaten
track which I have 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 purpose.
As I descended the rugged stairs, I could not but wonder
at the temerity and precipitation with which this descent
had formerly been made: it seemed as if the noon-day light
and the tardiest circumspection 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 for¬
gotten that a lamp or a torch might be necessary to direct
my subterranean footsteps. I was unwilling to defer the
attempt. Light might possibly be requisite, if the cave
edgar huntly.
85
had no other outlet; somewhat might present itself within
to the eyes which might for ever elude the hands: but I
was more inclined to consider it merely as an avenue,,
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.
CHAPTER X.
With these determinations, I proceeded. The entrance
was low, and compelled me to resort to hands as well as
feet. At a few yards from the mouth the light disappeared,
) and I found myself immersed in the dunnest obscurity:
had I not been persuaded that another had gone before me,
I should have relinquished the attempt. I proceeded with
the utmost caution, always ascertaining, 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 disabled 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 oppor¬
tunity 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 bottom¬
less' pit. To the brink of such a one I seemed now to
i have arrived; I stooped, and stretched my hand forward
and downward, but all was vacuity.
g 3
86
EDGAR HUNTLY.
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 propriety of being fur¬
nished with a light. The first suggestion was to return
upon my footsteps, and resume my undertaking on the
morrow : yet, having advanced thus far, I felt reluctance
to recede without accomplishing my purposes : I reflected
likewise that Clithero had boldly entered this recess, and
had certainly come 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 forsake.
Intense dark is always the parent of fears : impending
injuries cannot in this state be descried, nor shunned, nor
repelled. I began to feel some faltering of my courage,
and seated myself for a few minutes on a stony 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 spa¬
cious, into which twilight was at least admitted ; but here
it seemed as if I was surrounded by barriers that would for
ever 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 ter¬
minate. In a short time the space on the left hand was
again occupied, 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:
EDGAR I1UNTLY.
87
I endeavoured to preserve a vivid conception 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 rugged and steep. Chilling damps, the secret
trepidation which attended me, the length and difficulties
of my way, enhanced by the ceaseless caution and the nu¬
merous expedients which the utter darkness obliged me to
employ, began to overpower my strength; I was frequently
compelled to stop and recruit myself by rest. These re¬
spites from toil were of use, but they could not enable me
to prosecute an endless journey ; and to return was scarcely
a less arduous task than to proceed.
I looked anxiously forward in the hope of being com¬
forted 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 checkered sky. This spectacle never
before excited such exquisite sensations in my bosom : the
air, likewise, breathed into the cavern was unspeakably
delicious.
I now found myself on the projecture of a rock : above
and below, the hill-side was nearly perpendicular. Oppo¬
site, 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 conducted 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 subjected 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
g 4
88
EDGAR 1IUNTLY.
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
enquire by what means I should return. I traversed 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 1
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 cylindrical mass, with a cavity dug in the
centre, whose edge conforms to the exterior 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 a 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 summit 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 conspicuous.
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 showed 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 resemblance 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,
occasioned by a torrent that dashed along the rugged pave¬
ment below.
EDGAR HUNTLY.
89
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 circum¬
stances 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 absolute and utter loneliness. It was pro¬
bable 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 fantastic shapes and endless irregularities: passing
from one to the other of these, my attention lighted, at
length, as if by some magical transition, on—a human
countenance !
My surprise was so abrupt, and my sensations so tumul¬
tuous, 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 a 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
imaginable by which others could be prompted to explore
this road: but he whom I now beheld, was seated where it
seemed impossible for human efforts to have placed him.
90
EDGAR HUNTLY.
However 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 melan¬
choly wildness, I speedily recognised 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
overgrown and half concealed by hair: there was some¬
what in his attitude and looks denoting more than anarchy
of thoughts and passions; his rueful, ghastly, and immov¬
able 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 shuddering invaded me as I stood gazing upon
him, and for a time I was without the power of deliberating
on the measures 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 mollify his direful passions, I knew not; though
so near, the gulf by which we were separated was impass¬
able : — 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 reverberated 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 expectation 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
EDGAR HUNTIY.
91
anxiously around when I again spoke: — " Look hither — it
is I who called !"
He looked. Astonishment was now mingled with every
other dreadful meaning 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 broken 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 over¬
hanging : 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 : this fall must have instantly destroyed him ; and
that he had fallen, was the only conclusion I could draw.
My sensations on this incident cannot be easily de¬
scribed : the image of this man's despair, and of the sud¬
den catastrophe to which my inauspicious interference had
led, filled me with compunction 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 aper¬
ture or pit into which he had descended, or in which he
might be concealed.
I derived consolation from this conjecture. Not only
the evil which I dreaded might not have happened, but
some alleviation of his misery was possible: could I arrest
his footsteps and win his attention, I might be able to insi-
92
EDGAR IIUNTI.Y.
nuate the lessons of fortitude ; but if words were impotent
and arguments were nugatory, yet to sit by him in silence,
to moisten his hand with tears, to sigh in unison, to
offer him the spectacle of sympathy, the solace of believing
that his demerits were not estimated by so rigid a standard
by others as by himself, that one at least among his fellow
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. 1
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 nowhere
so narrow as at this spot: I therefore returned hither,
and once more pondered on the means of passing this tre¬
mendous 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 ap¬
peared very suitable for a bridge. Happily it grew ob¬
liquely, 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 with¬
out danger or delay.
A more careful examination of the spot, the site of the
tree, its dimensions, and the direction of its growth, con¬
vinced me fully of the practicability of this expedient; and
I determined to carry it into immediate execution. For this
end I must hasten home, procure an axe, and return with
all expedition here. 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 Cli¬
thero could place himself upon it. Unless he occasionally
edgab huntly.
93
returned to the habitable grounds, it was impossible for
him to escape perishing by famine. He might intend to
destroy himself by this means; and my first efforts were
to be employed to overcome this fatal resolution. To per¬
suade him to leave his desolate haunts might be a laborious
and tedious task; meanwhile all my benevolent intentions
would be frustrated 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 entreaties, might prevail on him to eat,
though no expostulation might suffice to make him seek
food at a distance.
CHAPTER XI.
Next morning I stored a small bag with meat and bread,
and throwing an axe on my shoulder, set out, without in¬
forming any one of my intentions, for the hill. My pas¬
sage was rendered more difficult by these incumbrances;
but my perseverance surmounted every impediment, and I
gained, in a few hours, the foot of the tree whose trunk
was to serve me for a bridge. In this journey I saw no
traces of the fugitive.
A new survey of the tree confirmed my former conclu¬
sions, and I began my work with diligence. My strokes
were repeated by a thousand echoes ; and I paused at first,
somewhat startled by reverberations, which made it appear
as if not one, but a score of axes were employed at tire
same time on both sides of the gulf.
Quickly the tree fell, and exactly in the manner which I
expected and desired. The wide-spread limbs occupied
and choked up the channel of the torrent, and compelled it
to seek a new outlet, and multiplied its murmurs. I dared
not trust myself to cross it in an upright position, but clung
with hands and feet to its rugged bark. Having reached
the opposite cliff, I proceeded to examine the spot where
JJithero had disappeared. My fondest hopes were realised;
94.
EDGAR HUNTLY.
for a considerable cavity appeared, which, on a former day,
had been concealed from my distant view by the rock.
It was obvious to conclude that this was his present
habitation, or that an avenue conducting hither and ter¬
minating in the unexplored sides of this pit, was that by
which he had come hither, and by which he had retired. I
could not hesitate to slide into the pit: I found an entrance,
through which I fearlessly penetrated. I was prepared to
encounter obstacles and perils similar to those which I have
already described ; but was rescued from them by ascend¬
ing, in a few minutes, into a kind of passage open above,
but walled by a continued rock on both side. The sides of
this passage conformed with the utmost exactness to each
other: Nature, at some former period, had occasioned the
solid mass to dispart at this place ; and had thus afforded
access to the summit of the hill. Loose stones and ragged
points formed the flooring of this passage, which rapidly
and circuitously ascended.
I was now within a few yards of the surface of the rock.
The passage opened into a kind of chamber or pit, the
sides of which were not difficult to climb : I rejoiced at the
prospect of this termination of my journey. Here I paused,
and throwing my weary limbs on the ground, began to
examine the objects around me, and to meditate on the
steps that were next to be taken.
My first glance lighted on the very being of whom I was
in search. Stretched upon a bed of moss, at the distance of
a few feet from my station, I beheld Clithero. He had not
been roused by my approach, though my footsteps were
perpetually stumbling and sliding: this reflection gave
birth to the fear that he was dead. A nearer inspection
dispelled my apprehensions, and showed me that he was
merely buried in profound slumber. Those vigils must,
indeed, have been long, which were at last succeeded by a
sleep so oblivious.
This meeting was in the highest degree propitious; it
not only assured me of his existence, but proved that his
miseries were capable of being suspended. His slumber
enabled me to pause, to ruminate on the manner by which
his understanding might be most successfully addressed, to
EDGAR HUNTLY.
95
collect and arrange the topics fitted to rectify his gloomy
and disastrous perceptions.
Thou knowest that I am qualified for such tasks neither
by my education nor my genius : the headlong and ferocious
energies of this man could not be repelled or diverted into
better paths by efforts so undisciplined as mine; a despair
so stormy and impetuous would drown my feeble accents.
How should I attempt to reason with him ? How should I
outroot prepossessions so inveterate—the fruits of his earliest
education, fostered and matured by the observation and ex¬
perience of his whole life? How should I convince him
that, since the death of Wiatte was not intended, the deed
was without crime — that, if it had been deliberately con¬
certed, it was still a virtue, since his own life could by no
other means be preserved — that when he pointed a dagger
at the bosom of his mistress, he was actuated not by avarice,
or ambition, or revenge, or malice; he desired to confer on
her the highest and the only benefit of which he believed
her capable; he sought to rescue her from tormenting re¬
grets and lingering agonies ?
These positions were sufficiently just to my own view;
but I was not called upon to reduce them to practice: I
had not to struggle with the consciousness of having been
rescued by some miraculous contingency from imbruing my
hands in the blood of her whom I adored ; of having drawn
upon myself suspicions of ingratitude and murder too deep
to be ever effaced; of having bereft myself of love, and
honour, and friends, and spotless reputation; of having
doomed myself to infamy and detestation, to hopeless exile,
penury, and servile toil. These were the evils which his
malignant destiny had made the unalterable portion of
Clithero; and how should my imperfect eloquence annihi¬
late their influence ? Every man, not himself the victim of
irretrievable disasters, perceives the folly of ruminating on
the past, and of fostering a grief which cannot reverse or
recall the decrees of an immutable necessity; but every
man who suffers is unavoidably shackled by the errors which
he censures in his neighbour, and his efforts to relieve him¬
self are as fruitless as those with which he attempted the
relief of others.
96 EDGAR HUNTLY.
No topic, therefore, could be properly employed by me
on the present occasion : all that I could do was to offer
him food, and, by pathetic supplications, to prevail on him
to eat; famine, however obstinate, would scarcely refrain
when bread was placed within sight and reach. When
made to swerve from his resolution in one instance, it would
be less difficult to conquer it a second time : the magic of
sympathy, the perseverance of benevolence, though silent,
might work a gradual and secret revolution, and better
thoughts might insensibly displace those desperate sugges¬
tions which now governed him.
Having revolved these ideas, I placed the food which I
had brought at his right hand, and seating myself at his
feet, attentively surveyed his countenance. The emotions
which were visible during wakefulness had vanished during
this cessation of remembrance and remorse, or were faintly
discernible : they served to dignify and solemnise his fea¬
tures, and to embellish those immutable lines which beto¬
kened the spirit of his better days : lineaments were now
observed which could never co-exist with folly, or associate
with obdurate guilt.
I had no inclination to awaken him ; this respite was
too sweet to be needlessly abridged: I determined to await
the operation of nature, and to prolong, by silence, and by
keeping interruption at a distance, this salutary period of
forgetfulness. This interval permitted new ideas to succeed
in my mind.
Clithero believed his solitude to be unapproachable:
what new expedients to escape enquiry and enstruction might
not my presence suggest! Might he not vanish, as he had
done on the former day, and afford me no time to assail his
constancy, and tempt his hunger ? If, however, I with¬
drew during his sleep, he would awake without disturbance,
and be unconscious, for a time, that his secrecy had been
violated ; he would quickly perceive the victuals, and would
need no foreign inducements to eat: a provision so unex¬
pected and extraordinary might suggest new thoughts, and
be construed into a kind of heavenly condemnation of his
purpose. He would not readily suspect the motives or per¬
son of his visitant — would take no precaution against the
EDGAR HtTNTLY.
97
repetition of my visit; and; at the same time, our interview
would not be attended with so much surprise. The more
I revolved these reflections; the greater force they acquired.
At length I determined to withdraw j and leaving the food
where it could scarcely fail of attracting his notice; I re¬
turned by the way that I had come. I had scarcely reached
home when a messenger from Inglefield arrived; requesting
me to spend the succeeding night at his house; as some
engagement had occurred to draw him to the city.
I readily complied with this request. It was not neces¬
sary; however; to be early in my visit; I deferred going till
the evening was far advanced. My way led under the
branches of the elm which recent events had rendered so
memorable : hence my reflections reverted to the circum¬
stances which had lately occurred in connection with this
tree.
I paused for some time under its shade; I marked the
spot where Clithero had been discovered digging : it showed
marks of being unsettled; but the sod which had formerly
covered it, and which had lately been removed, was now
carefully replaced. This had not been done by him on that
occasion in which I was a witness of his behaviour ; the
earth was then hastily removed, and as hastily thrown again
into the hole from which it had been taken.
Some curiosity was naturally excited by this appearance :
either some other person, or Clithero, on a subsequent
occasion, had been here. 1 was now likewise led to reflect
on the possible motives that prompted the maniac to turn
up this earth: there is always some significance in the
actions of a sleeper: somewhat was, perhaps, buried in this
spot connected with the history of Mrs. Lorimer, or of
Clarice. Was it not possible to ascertain the truth in
this respect ?
There was but one method : by carefully uncovering this
hole, and digging as deep as Clithero had already dug, it
would quickly appear whether any thing was hidden. To
do this publicly by daylight was evidently indiscreet: besides,
a moment's delay was superfluous ; the night had now fallen,
and before it was past this new undertaking might be
finished: an interview was, if possible, to be gained with
H
98
EDGAR HUNTLY.
Clithero on the morrow; and for this interview the dis¬
coveries made on this spot might eminently qualify me.
Influenced by these considerations, I resolved to dig: I was
first, however, to converse an hour with the housekeeper,
and then to withdraw to my chamber; when the family
were all retired, and there was no fear of observation or
interruption, I proposed to rise and hasten, with a proper
implement, hither.
One chamber in Inglefield's house was usually reserved
for visitants : in this chamber thy unfortunate brother died,
and here it was that I was to sleep. The image of its last
inhabitant could not fail of being called up, and of banish¬
ing repose; but the scheme which I had meditated was an
additional incitement to watchfulness. Hither I repaired,
at the due season, having previously furnished myself with
candles, since I knew not what might occur to make a light
necessary.
I did not go to bed, but either sat musing by a table,
or walked across the room. The bed before me was that
on which my friend breathed his last; to rest my head
upon the same pillow, to lie on that pallet which sustained
his cold and motionless limbs, were provocations to remem¬
brance and grief that I desired to shun: I endeavoured
to fill my mind with more recent incidents — with the
disasters of Clithero, my subterranean adventures, and
the probable issue of the schemes which I now contem¬
plated.
I recalled the conversation which had just ended with
the housekeeper: Clithero had been our theme; but she
had dealt chiefly in repetitions of what had formerly been
related by her or by Inglefield. I enquired what this man
had left behind; and found that it consisted of a square
box, put together by himself with uncommon strength, but
of rugged workmanship : she proceeded to mention that she
had advised her brother, Mr. Inglefield, to break open this
box, and ascertain its contents; but this he did not think
himself justified in doing: Clithero was guilty of no
known crime, was responsible to no one for his actions, and
might some time return to claim his property: this box con¬
tained nothing with which others had a right to meddle;
edgar i1untly.
99
somewhat might be found in it throwing light upon his past
or present situation, but curiosity was not to be gratified
by these means; what Clithero thought proper to conceal,
it was criminal for us to extort from him.
The housekeeper was by no means convinced by these
arguments, and at length obtained her brother's permission
to try whether any of her own keys would unlock this
chest. The keys were produced, but no lock nor key-hole
was discoverable; the lid was fast, but by what means
it was fastened, the most accurate inspection could not
detect: hence she was compelled to lay aside her project.
This chest had always stood in the chamber which I now
occupied.
These incidents were now remembered, and I felt dis¬
posed to profit by this opportunity of examining this box.
It stood in a corner, and was easily distinguished by its
form: I lifted it, and found its weight by no means extra¬
ordinary.
Its structure was remarkable: it consisted of six sides,
square, and of similar dimensions: these were joined, not
by mortise and tenon, not by nails, not by hinges, but the
junction was accurate: the means by which they were
made to cohere were invisible. Appearances on every side
were uniform ; nor were there any marks by which the lid
was distinguishable from its other surfaces.
During his residence with Inglefield, many specimens of
mechanical ingenuity were given by his servant: this was
the workmanship of his own hands. I looked at it for
some time, till the desire insensibly arose of opening and
examining its contents.
I had no more right to do this than the Inglefields:
perhaps, indeed, this curiosity was more absurd, and the
gratification was more culpable in me than in them; I was
acquainted with the history of Clithero's past life, and
with his present condition : respecting these, I had no new
intelligence to gain, and no doubts to solve: what excuse
could I make to the proprietor, should he ever reappear to
claim his own ; or to Inglefield, for breaking open a recep¬
tacle which all the maxims of society combine to render
sacred ?
h 2
100
EDGAR HUNTLY.
But could not my end be gained without violence ? The
means of opening might present themselves on a patient
scrutiny; the lid might be raised and shut down again,
without any tokens of my act; its contents might be ex¬
amined, and all things restored to their former condition
in a few minutes.
I intended not a theft; I intended to benefit myself
without inflicting injury on others : nay, might not the
discoveries I should make, throw light upon the conduct of
this extraordinary man, which his own narrative had with¬
held? Was there reason to confide implicitly on the tale
which I had heard ?
In spite of the testimony of my own feelings, the
miseries of Clithero appeared in some degree fantastic
and groundless: a thousand conceivable motives might
induce himself to pervert or conceal the truth: if he were
thoroughly known, his character might assume a new ap¬
pearance, and what is now so difficult to reconcile to com¬
mon maxims, might prove perfectly consistent with them.
I desire to restore him to peace; but a thorough knowledge
of his actions is necessary, both to show that he is worthy
of compassion, and to suggest the best means of extirpating
his errors: it was possible that this box contained the
means of this knowledge.
There were likewise other motives, which, as they pos¬
sessed some influence, however small, deserve to be men¬
tioned. Thou knowest that I also am a mechanist: I had
constructed a writing-desk and cabinet, in which I had
endeavoured to combine the properties of secrecy, security,
and strength in the highest possible degree : I looked upon
this therefore with the eye of an artist, and was solicitous
to know the principles on which it was formed : I deter¬
mined to examine, and if possible to open it.
edgar huntly
101
CHAPTER XII.
I surveyed it with the utmost attention; all its parts ap¬
peared equally solid and smooth. It could not be doubted
that one of its sides served the purpose of a lid, and was
possible to be raised; mere strength could not be applied
to raise it, because there was no projecture which might be
firmly held by the hand, and by which force could be
exerted ; some spring, therefore, secretly existed, which
might for ever elude the senses, but on which the hand, by
being moved over it in all directions, might accidentally
light.
This process was effectual: a touch, casually applied at
an angle, drove back a bolt; and a spring at the same time
was set in action, by which the lid was raised above half an
inch. No event could be supposed more fortuitous than
this: a hundred hands might have sought in vain for this
spring; the spot in which a certain degree of pressure was
sufficient to produce this effect, was of all the last likely to
attract notice or awaken suspicion.
I opened the trunk with eagerness: the space within
was divided into numerous compartments, none of which
contained any thing of moment. Tools of different and
curious constructions, and remnants of minute machinery,
were all that offered themselves to my notice.
My expectations being thus frustrated, I proceeded to
restore things to their former state. I attempted to close
the lid; but the spring which had raised it refused to bend.
No measure that I could adopt, enabled me to place the lid
in the same situation in which I had found it: in my efforts
to press down the lid, which were augmented in proportion
to the resistance that I met with, the spring was broken.
This obstacle being removed, the lid resumed its proper
place ; but no means within the reach of my ingenuity to
discover, enabled me to push forward the bolt, and thus
restore the fastening.
I now perceived that Clithero had provided not only
against the opening of his cabinet, but likewise against the
h 3
102
EDGAR HUNTLY.
possibility of concealing that it had been opened. This
discovery threw me into some confusion: I had been
tempted thus far by the belief that my action was without
witnesses, and might be for ever concealed; this opinion
was now confuted; if Clithero should ever reclaim his
property, he would not fail to detect the violence of which
I had been guilty; Inglefield would disapprove in another
what he had not permitted to himself, and the unau¬
thorised and clandestine manner in which I had behaved,
would aggravate in his eyes the lieinousness of my offence.
But now there was no remedy ; all that remained was to
hinder suspicion from lighting on the innocent, and to
confess to my friend the offence which I had committed.
Meanwhile, my first project was resumed, and the family
being now wrapt in profound sleep, I left my chamber, and
proceeded to the elm. The moon was extremely brilliant;
but I hoped that this unfrequented road and unseasonable
hour would hinder me from being observed. My chamber
was above the kitchen, with which it communicated by a
small staircase, and the building to which it belonged was
connected with the dwelling by a gallery. I extinguished
the light, and left it in the kitchen, intending to relight it
by the embers that still glowed on the hearth, on my
return.
I began to remove the sod, and cast out the earth, with
little confidence in the success of my project; the issue of
my examination of the box humbled and disheartened me:
for some time 1 found nothing that tended to invigorate
my hopes : I determined, however, to descend, as long as the
unsettled condition of the earth showed me that some one
had preceded me. Small masses of stone were occasionally
met with, which served only to perplex me with groundless
expectations: at length my spade struck upon something
which emitted a very different sound; I quickly drew it
forth, and found it to be wood. Its regular form, and the
crevices which were faintly discernible, persuaded me that
it was human workmanship, and that there was a cavity
within. The place in which it was found easily suggested
some connection between this and the destiny of Clithero.
Covering up the hole with speed, I hastened with my prize
edgar huntly.
103
to the house. The door by which the kitchen was entered
was not to be seen from the road ; it opened on a field, the
farther limit of which was a ledge of rocks, which formed
on this side the boundary of Inglefield's estate, and the
westernmost barrier of Norwalk.
As I turned the angle of the house, and came in view of
this door, methought I saw a figure issue from it: I was
startled at this incident, and stopping, crouched close to the
wall, that I might not be discovered. As soon as the figure
passed beyond the verge of the shade, it was easily distin¬
guished to be that of Clithero: he crossed the field with a
rapid pace, and quickly passed beyond the reach of my eye.
This appearance was mysterious; for what end he should
visit this habitation could not be guessed. Was the contin¬
gency to be lamented, in consequence of which an interview
had been avoided ? Would it have compelled me to explain
the broken condition of his trunk ? I knew not whether to
rejoice at having avoided this interview, or to deplore it.
These thoughts did not divert me from examining the
nature of the prize which I had gained: I relighted my
candle, and hied once more to the chamber. The first ob¬
ject which, on entering it, attracted my attention, was the
cabinet broken into twenty fragments on the hearth. I had
left it on a low table at a distant corner of the room.
No conclusion could be formed but that Clithero had been
here, had discovered the violence which had been committed
on his property, and, in the first transport of his indignation,
had shattered it to pieces: I shuddered on reflecting how
near I had been to being detected by him in the very act,
and by how small an interval I had escaped that resent¬
ment, which, in that case, would have probably been wreaked
upon me.
My attention was withdrawn at length from this object,
and fixed upon the contents of the box which I had dug
up. This was equally inaccessible with the other: I had
not the same motives for caution and forbearance; I was
somewhat desperate, as the consequences of my indiscretion
could not be aggravated, and my curiosity was more impe¬
tuous with regard to the smaller than to the larger cabinet:
h 4
104
EDGAR HUNTLY.
I placed it on the ground, and crushed it to pieces with my
heel.
Something was within: I brought it to the light, and
after loosing numerous folds, at length drew forth a volume:
no object in the circle of nature was more adapted than this
to rouse up all my faculties : my feelings were anew excited
on observing that it was a manuscript. I bolted the door,
and drawing near the light, opened and began to read.
A few pages were sufficient to explain the nature of the
work: Clithero had mentioned that his lady had composed
a vindication of her conduct towards her brother when her
intercession in his favour was solicited and refused; this
performance had never been published, but had been read
by many, and was preserved by her friends as a precious
monument of her genius and her virtue: this manuscript
was now before me.
That Clithero should preserve this manuscript amidst the
wreck of his hopes and fortunes, was apparently conform¬
able to his temper; that having formed the resolution to
die, he should seek to hide this volume from the profane
curiosity of survivors, was a natural proceeding : to bury it,
rather than to burn or disperse it into fragments, would be
suggested by the wish to conceal, without committing what
his heated fancy would regard as sacrilege: to bury it be¬
neath the elm was dictated by no fortuitous or inexplicable
caprice : this event could scarcely fail of exercising some in¬
fluence on the perturbations of his sleep j and thus, in ad¬
dition to other causes, might his hovering near this trunk,
and throwing up this earth, in the intervals of slumber, be
accounted for. Clithero, indeed, had not mentioned this
proceeding in the course of his narrative; but that would
have contravened the end for which he had provided a grave
for this book.
I read this copious tale with unspeakable eagerness: it
essentially agreed with that which had been told by Clithero :
by drawing forth events into all their circumstances, more
distinct impressions were produced on the mind, and proofs
of fortitude and equanimity were here given, to which I had
hitherto known no parallel. No wonder that a soul like
EDGAR HUNTLY.
105
Clithero's, pervaded by these proofs of inimitable excellence,
and thrillingly alive to the passion of virtuous fame, and
the value of that existence which he had destroyed, should
be overborne by horror at the view of the past.
The instability of life and happiness was forcibly illus¬
trated, as well as the perniciousness of error: exempt as
this lady was from almost every defect, she was indebted
for her ruin to absurd opinions of the sacredness of con¬
sanguinity, to her anxiety for the preservation of a ruffian,
because that ruffian was her brother. The spirit of Clithero
was enlightened and erect, but he weakly suffered the dic¬
tates of eternal justice to be swallowed up by gratitude: the
dread of unjust upbraiding hurried him to murder and to
suicide, and the imputation of imaginary guilt impelled him
to the perpetration of genuine and enormous crimes.
The perusal of this volume ended not but with the night.
Contrary to my hopes, the next day was stormy and wet:
this did not deter me from visiting the mountain; slippery
paths and muddy torrents were no obstacles to the purposes
which I had adopted. I wrapped myself and a bag of
provisions in a cloak of painted canvass, and speeded to the
dwelling of Clithero.
I passed through the cave, and reached the bridge which
my own ingenuity had formed. At that moment torrents
of rain poured from above, and stronger blasts thundered
amidst these desolate recesses and profound chasms : instead
of lamenting the prevalence of this tempest, I now began
to regard it with pleasure: it conferred new forms of sub¬
limity and grandeur on this scene.
As I crept with hands and feet along my imperfect bridge,
a sudden gust had nearly whirled me into the frightful abyss
below. To preserve myself, I was obliged to loose my hold
of my burden, and it fell into the gulf: this incident dis¬
concerted and distressed me. As soon as I had effected my
dangerous passage, I screened myself behind a cliff, and
gave myself up to reflection.
The purpose of this arduous journey was defeated by the
loss of the provisions I had brought: I despaired of win¬
ning the attention of the fugitive to supplications, or argu¬
ments tending to smother remorse, or revive his fortitude:
106
EDGAR HUNTLY.
the scope of my efforts was to consist in vanquishing his
aversion to food; but these efforts would now be useless,
since I had no power to supply his cravings.
This deficiency, however, was easily supplied; I had
only to return home, and supply myself anew. No time
was to be lost in doing this; but I was willing to remain
under this shelter till the fury of the tempest had subsided:
besides, I was not certain that Clithero had again retreated
hither; it was requisite to explore the summit of this hill,
and ascertain whether it had any inhabitant: I might like¬
wise discover what had been the success of my former ex¬
periment, and whether the food which had been left here
on the foregoing day, was consumed or neglected.
While occupied with these reflections, my eyes were fixed
upon the opposite steeps: the tops of the trees, waving to
and fro in the wildest commotion, and their 'trunks occa¬
sionally bending to the blast, which in these lofty regions
blew with a violence unknown in the tracts below, exhibited
an awful spectacle. At length my attention was attracted
by the trunk which lay across the gulf, and which I had
converted into a bridge: I perceived that it had already
somewhat swerved from its original position, that every
blast broke or loosened some of the fibres by which its root
was connected with the opposite bank, and that, if the storm
did not speedily abate, there was imminent danger of its
being torn from the rock, and precipitated into the chasm;
thus my retreat would be cut off, and the evils from which
I was endeavouring to rescue another would be experienced
by myself.
I did not just then reflect that Clithero had found access
to this hill by other means, and that the avenue by which
he came would be equally commodious to me; I believed
my destiny to hang upon the expedition with which I should
recross this gulf. The moments that were spent in these
deliberations were critical, and I shuddered to observe that
the trunk was held in its place by one or two fibres which
were already stretched almost to breaking.
To pass along the trunk, rendered slippery by the wet,
and unsteadfast by the wind, was eminently dangerous.
To maintain my hold in passing, in defiance of the whirl-
Iedgar huntly.
107
wind, required the most vigorous exertions: for this end it
was necessary to discommode myself of my cloak, and of
my volume, which I carried in the pocket of my cloak: I
believed there was no reason to dread their being destroyed
or purloined, if left for a few hours or a day in this recess ;
if laid beside a stone, under shelter of this cliff, they would
no doubt remain unmolested till the disappearance of the
storm should permit me to revisit this spot in the afternoon
or on the morrow.
Just as I had disposed of these encumbrances, and had
risen from my seat, my attention was again called to the op¬
posite steep by the most unwelcome object that, at this time,
could possibly occur: something was perceived moving among
the bushes and rocks, which, for a time, I hoped was no
more than a racoon or opossum; but which presently ap¬
peared to be a panther. His grey coat, extended claws,
fiery eyes, and a cry which he at that moment uttered, and
which, by its resemblance to the human voice, is peculiarly
terrific, denoted him to be the most ferocious and untameable
of that detested race.*
The industry of our hunters has nearly banished animals
of prey from these precincts: the fastnesses of Norwalk,
however, could not but afford refuge to some of them. Of
late I had met them so rarely, that my fears were seldom
alive, and I trod without caution the most rugged and soli¬
tary haunts : still, however, I had seldom been unfurnished
in my rambles with the means of defence.
My temper never delighted in carnage and blood; I
found no pleasure in plunging into bogs, wading through
rivulets, and penetrating thickets, for the sake of des¬
patching woodcocks and squirrels: to watch their gambols
and Sittings, and invite them to my hand, was my darling
amusement when loitering among the woods and the rocks.
It was much otherwise, however, with regard to rattle¬
snakes and panthers; these I thought it no breach of duty
to exterminate wherever they could be found: these insi¬
dious and sanguinary spoilers were equally the enemies of
* The erev cougar. This animal has all the essential characteristics of a
tiger : though somewhat inferior in size and strength, these are such as to make
him equally formidable to man.
108
EDGAR HUNTLY.
man and of the harmless race that sported in the trees ; and
many of their skins are still preserved by me as trophies
of my juvenile prowess.
As hunting was never my trade or my sport, I never
loaded myself with fowling-piece or rifle: assiduous ex¬
ercise had made me master of a weapon of much .easier
carriage, and, within a moderate distance, more destructive
and unerring. This was the tomahawk; with this I have
often severed an oak branch, and cut the sinews of a cat
o'mountain, at the distance of sixty feet.
The unfrequency with which I had lately encountered
this foe, and the encumbrance of provision, made me neg¬
lect on this occasion to bring with me my usual arms.
The beast that was now before me, when stimulated by
hunger, was accustomed "to assail whatever could provide
him with a banquet of blood; he would set upon the man
and the deer with equal and irresistible ferocity : his sa¬
gacity was equal to his strength, and he seemed able to
discover when his antagonist was armed, and prepared for
defence.
My past experience enabled me to estimate the full
extent of my danger. He sat on the brow of the steep,
eyeing the bridge, and apparently deliberating whether he
should cross it: it was probable that he had scented my
footsteps thus far, and should he pass over, his vigilance
could scarcely fail of detecting my asylum. The pit into
which Clithero had sunk from my view was at some dis¬
tance : to reach it was the first impulse of my fear; but
this could not be done without exciting the observation and
pursuit of this enemy. I deeply regretted the untoward
chance that had led me, when I first came over, to a dif¬
ferent shelter.
Should he retain his present station, my danger was
scarcely lessened : to pass over in the face of a famished
tiger was only to rush upon my fate. The falling of the
trunk, which had lately been so anxiously deprecated, was
now, with no less solicitude, desired; every new gust, I
hoped, would tear asunder its remaining bands, and, by
cutting off all communication between the opposite steeps,
place me in security.
EDGAR HUNTI/Y.
109
My hopes, however, were destined to be frustrated: the
fibres of the prostrate tree were obstinately tenacious of
their hold; and presently the animal scrambled down the
rock, and proceeded to cross it.
Of all kinds of death, that which now menaced me was
the most abhorred. To die by disease, or by the hand of
a fellow creature, was propitious and lenient in comparison
with being rent to pieces by the fangs of this savage: to
perish in this obscure retreat by means so impervious to the
anxious curiosity of my friends, to lose my portion of ex¬
istence by so untoward and ignoble a destiny, was insup¬
portable. I bitterly deplored my rashness in coming hither
unprovided for an encounter like this.
The evil of my present circumstances consisted chiefly
in suspense : my death was unavoidable, but my imagination
had leisure to torment itself by anticipations. One foot of
the savage was slowly and cautiously moved after the other :
he struck his claws so deeply into the bark, that they were
with difficulty withdrawn : at length he leaped upon the
ground. We were now separated by an interval of scarcely
eight feet. To leave the spot were I crouched was impos¬
sible ; behind and beside me the cliff rose perpendicularly,
and before me was this grim and terrific savage : I shrunk
still closer to the ground, and closed my eyes.
From this pause of horror I was roused by the noise
occasioned by a second spring of the animal: he leaped into
the pit, in which I had so deeply regretted that I had not
taken refuge, and disappeared. My rescue was so sudden,
and so much beyond my belief or my hope, that I doubted
for a moment whether my senses did not deceive me. This
opportunity of escape was not to be neglected; I left my place,
and scrambled over the trunk with a precipitation which
had like to have proved fatal: the tree groaned and shook
under me, the wind blew with unexampled violence, and I
had scarcely reached the opposite steep, when the roots were
severed from the rock, and the whole fell thundering to the
bottom of the chasm.
My trepidations were not speedily quieted : I looked back
with wonder on my hair-breadth escape, and on that singu¬
lar concurrence of events which had placed me, in so short
110
EDGAR HUNTLY.
a period, in absolute security. Had the trunk fallen a
moment earlier, I should have been imprisoned on the hill,
or thrown headlong: had its fall been delayed another mo¬
ment, I should have been pursued ; for the beast now issued
from his den, and testified his surprise and disappointment
by tokens, the sight of which made my blood run cold.
He saw me, and hastened to the verge of the chasm : he
squatted on his hind legs, and assumed the attitude of one
preparing to leap. My consternation was excited afresh
by these appearances: it seemed at first as if the rift was
too wide for any power of muscles to carry him in safety
over ; but I knew the unparalleled agility of this animal,
and that his experience had made him a better judge of the
practicability of this exploit than I was.
Still there was hope that he would relinquish this design
as desperate. This hope was quickly at an end : he sprung,
and his fore legs touched the verge of the rock on which I
stood : in spite of vehement exertions, however, the surface
was too smooth and too hard to allow him to make good his
hold—he fell, and a piercing cry uttered below, showed
that nothing had obstructed his descent to the bottom.
Thus was I again rescued from death. Nothing but the
pressure of famine could have prompted this savage to so
audacious and hazardous an effort; but by yielding to this
impulse, he had made my future visits to this spot exempt
from peril. Clithero was, likewise, relieved from a danger
that was imminent and unforeseen; prowling over these
grounds, the panther could scarcely have failed to meet with
this solitary fugitive.
Had the animal lived, my first duty would have been to
have sought him out and assailed him with my toma¬
hawk ; but no undertaking would have been more hazard¬
ous : lurking in the grass, or in the branches of a tree, his
eye might have descried my approach, he might leap upon
me unperceived, and my weapon would be useless.
With a heart beating with unwonted rapidity, I once
more descended the cliff, entered the cavern, and arrived
at Huntly Farm, drenched with rain, and exhausted by
fatigue.
By night the storm was dispelled; but my exhausted
EDGAR HUNTLY.
Ill
strength would not allow me to return to the mountain.
At the customary hour I retired to my chamber. I in¬
cessantly ruminated on the adventures of the last day, and
enquired into the conduct which I was next to pursue.
The bridge being destroyed, my customary access was
cut off: there was no possibility of restoring this bridge ;
my strength would not suffice to drag a fallen tree from a
distance, and there was none whose position would abridge
or supersede that labour; some other expedient must
therefore be discovered to pass this chasm.
I reviewed the circumstances of my subterranean jour¬
ney. The cavern was imperfectly explored; its branches
might be numerous: that which I had hitherto pursued,
terminated in an opening at a considerable distance from
the bottom: other branches might exist, some of which
might lead to the foot of the precipice, and thence a com¬
munication might be found with the summit of the interior
hill.
The danger of wandering into dark and untried paths,
and the commodiousness of that road which had at first been
taken, were sufficient reasons for having hitherto suspended
my examination of the different branches of this labyrinth.
Now my customary road was no longer practicable, and
another was to be carefully explored: for this end, on my
next journey to the mountain, I determined to take with
me a lamp, and unravel this darksome maze; this project I
resolved to execute the next day.
I now recollected what, if it had more seasonably oc¬
curred, would have taught me caution. Some months be¬
fore this, a farmer living in the skirts of Norwalk discovered
two marauders in his field, whom he imagined to be a male
and female panther. They had destroyed some sheep, and
had been hunted by the farmer with long and fruitless di¬
ligence: sheep had likewise been destroyed in different
quarters; but the owners had fixed the imputation of the
crime upon dogs, many of whom had atoned for their sup¬
posed offences by their death. He who had mentioned his
discovery of panthers received little credit from his neigh¬
bours ; because a long time had elapsed since these animals
were supposed to have been exiled from this district, and
7—
112
edgar huntly.
because no other person had seen them. The truth of this
seemed now to be confirmed by the testimony of my own
senses; hut, if the rumour were true, there still existed
another of these animals, who might harbour in the obscu¬
rities of this desert, and against whom it was necessary to
employ some precaution : henceforth I resolved never to
traverse the wilderness unfurnished with my tomahawk.
These images, mingled with those which the contem¬
plation of futurity suggested, floated for a time in my brain ;
but at length gave place to sleep.
CHAPTER XIII.
Since my return home, my mind had been fully occupied
by schemes and reflections relative to Clithero. The pro¬
ject suggested by thee, and to which I had determined to
devote my leisure, was forgotten, or remembered for a mo¬
ment, and at wide intervals. What, however, was nearly
banished from my waking thoughts, occurred in an incon¬
gruous and half-seen form to my dreams. During my sleep,
the image of Waldegrave flitted before me. Methought the
sentiment that impelled him to visit me was not affection
or complacency, but inquietude and anger: some service or
duty remained to be performed by me, which I had cul¬
pably neglected ; to inspirit my zeal, to awaken my remem¬
brance, and incite me to the performance of this duty, did
this glimmering messenger, this half-indignant apparition,
come.
I commonly awake soon enough to mark the youngest
dawn of the morning; now, in consequence perhaps of my
perturbed sleep, I opened my eyes before the stars had lost
any of their lustre : this circumstance produced some sur¬
prise, until the images that lately hovered in my fancy were
recalled, and furnished somewhat like a solution of the
problem. Connected with the image of my dead friend, was
that of his sister: the discourse that took place at our last
interview—the scheme of transcribing, for thy use, all the
EDGAR HTJNTLY.
113
letters which, during his short but busy life, I received from
him — the nature of this correspondence, and the oppor¬
tunity which this employment would afford me of contem¬
plating these ample and precious monuments of the intel¬
lectual existence and moral pre-eminence of my friend,
occurred to my thoughts.
The resolution to prosecute the task] was revived : the
obligation of benevolence, with regard to Clithero, was not
discharged; these neither duty nor curiosity would permit
to be overlooked or delayed. But why should my whole
attention and activity be devoted to this man ? The hours
which were spent at home and in my chamber could not be
more usefully employed than in making my intended copy.
In a few hours after sunrise I purposed to resume my
way to the mountain. Could this interval be appropriated
to a better purpose than in counting over my friend's letters,
setting them apart from my own, and preparing them for
that transcription from which I expected so high and yet
so mournful a gratification ?
This purpose, by no violent union, was blended with the
recollection of my dream : this recollection infused some
degree of wavering and dejection into my mind. In tran¬
scribing these letters, I should violate pathetic and solemn
injunctions frequently repeated by the writer. Was there
some connection between this purpose and the incidents of
my vision? Was the latter sent to enforce the interdic¬
tions which had been formerly imposed ?
Thou art not fully acquainted with the intellectual his¬
tory of thy brother: some information on that head will be
necessary to explain the nature of that reluctance which I
now feel to comply with thy request, and which had for¬
merly so much excited thy surprise.
Waldegrave, like other men, early devoted to meditation
and books, had adopted at different periods different systems
of opinion on topics connected with religion and morals.
His earliest creeds tended to efface the impressions of his
education — to deify necessity and universalise matter — to
destroy the popular distinctions between soul and body, and
to dissolve the supposed connection between the moral con¬
dition of man anterior and subsequent to death.
i
314
EDGAR HUNTLY.
This creed he adopted with all the fulness of conviction,
and propagated with the utmost zeal. Soon after our friend¬
ship commenced, fortune placed us at a distance from each
other, and no intercourse was allowed but by the pen. Our
letters, however, were punctual and copious : those of AV"al-
degrave were too frequently diverted to the defence of his
favourite tenets.
Thou art acquainted with the revolution that afterwards
took place in his mind. Placed within the sphere of reli¬
gious influence, and listening daily to the reasonings and
exhortations of Mr. S , whose benign temper and blame¬
less deportment was a visible and constant lesson, he in¬
sensibly resumed the faith which he had relinquished, and
became the vehement opponent of all that he had formerly
defended. The chief object of his labours, in this new state
of his mind, was to counteract the effect of his former rea¬
sonings on my opinions.
At this time other changes took place in his situation,
in consequence of which we were once more permitted to
reside under the same roof. The intercourse now ceased to
be by letter ; and the subtle and laborious argumentations
which he had formerly produced against religion, and which
were contained in a permanent form, were combated in
transient conversation. He was not only eager to subvert
those opinions which he had contributed to instil into me,
but was anxious that the letters and manuscripts which had
been employed in their support, should be destroyed. He
did not fear wholly or chiefly on my own account: he be¬
lieved that the influence of former reasonings on my faith
would be sufficiently eradicated by the new; but he dreaded
lest these manuscripts might fall into other hands, and thus
produce mischiefs which it would not be in his power to
repair. With regard to me, the poison had been followed
by its antidote ; but with respect to others, these letters
would communicate the poison when the antidote could not
be administered.
I would not consent to this sacrifice; I did not entirely
abjure the creed which had with great copiousness and elo¬
quence been defended in these letters : besides, mixed up
with abstract reasonings, were numberless passages which
EDGAR HUNTLY.
115
elucidated the character and history of my friend; these
were too precious to be consigned to oblivion; and to take
them out of their present connection and arrangement, would
he to mutilate and deform them.
His entreaties and remonstrances were earnest and fre¬
quent, but always ineffectual: he had too much purity of
motives to be angry at my stubbornness; but his sense of
the mischievous tendency of these letters was so great, that
my intractability cost him many a pang.
He was now gone, and 1 had not only determined to
preserve these monuments, but had consented to copy them
for the use of another — for the use of one whose present
and eternal welfare had been the chief object of his cares
and efforts. Thou, like others of thy sex, art unaccustomed
to metaphysical refinements ; thy religion is the growth of
sensibility, and not of argument; thou art not fortified and
prepossessed against the subtilties with which the being and
attributes of the Deity have been assailed. Would it be just
to expose thee to pollution and depravity from this source ?
— to make thy brother the instrument of thy apostasy, the
author of thy fall — that brother whose latter days were so
ardently devoted to cherishing the spirit of devotion in thy
heart ?
These ideas now occurred with more force than formerly.
I had promised, not without reluctance, to give thee the
entire copy of his letters ; but I now receded from this pro¬
mise : I resolved merely to select for thy perusal such as
were narrative or descriptive. This could not be done with
too much expedition: it was still dark, but my sleep was at
an end, and by a common apparatus that lay beside my bed,
I could instantly produce a light.
The light was produced, and I proceeded to the cabinet
where all my papers and books were deposited. This was
my own contrivance and workmanship, undertaken by the
advice of Sarsefield, who took infinite pains to foster that
mechanical genius which displayed itself so early and so
forcibly in thy friend. The key belonging to this was, like
the cabinet itself, of singular structure ; for greater safety, it
was constantly placed in a closet, which was likewise locked.
The key was found as usual, and the cabinet opened,
i 2
116
EDGAR HUNTLY.
The letters were bound together in a compact form, lodged
in a parchment case, and placed in a secret drawer. '1 his
drawer would not have been detected by common eyes, and
it opened by the motion of a spring, of whose existence
none but the maker was consciousi: this drawer I had opened
before I went to sleep, and the letters were then safe.
Thou canst not imagine my confusion and astonishment
when, on opening the drawer, I perceived that the packet
was gone: I looked with more attention, and put my hand
within it, but the space was empty. Whither had it gone,
and by whom was it purloined ? I was not conscious of
having taken it away; yet no hands but mine could have
done it. On the last evening I had doubtless removed it
to some other corner, but had forgotten it: I tasked pay un¬
derstanding and my memory; I could not conceive the
possibility of any motives inducing me to alter my arrange¬
ments in this respect, and was unable to recollect that I had
made this change.
What remained ? This invaluable relic had disappeared;
every thought and every effort must be devoted to the single
purpose of regaining it: as yet I did not despair; until I
had opened and ransacked every part of the cabinet in vain,
I did not admit the belief that I had lost it: even then
this persuasion was tumultuous and fluctuating; it had
vanished to my senses, but these senses were abused and
depraved. To have passed, of its own accord, through the
pores of this wood was impossible ; but if it were gone, thus
did it escape.
I was lost in horror and amazement. I explored every
nook a second and a third time, but still it eluded my eye and
my touch; I opened my closets and cases — I pried every
where, unfolded every article of clothing, turned and scru¬
tinised every instrument and tool, but nothing availed.
My thoughts were not speedily collected or calmed : I
threw myself on the bed, and resigned myself to musing.
That my loss was irretrievable, was a sup/position not to be
endured : yet ominous terrors haunted me; a whispering
intimation that a relique which I valued more than life,
was torn for ever away by some malignant and inscrutable
destiny; the same power that had taken it from this recep-
EDGAR HUNTILY.
117
tacle was able to waft it over the ocean or the mountains,
and condemn me to a fruitless and eternal search.
But what was he that committed the theft ? Thou only
of the beings who live wast acquainted with the existence of
these manuscripts: thou art many miles distant, and art
utterly a stranger to the mode or place of their concealment.
Not only access to the cabinet, but access to the room,
without my knowledge and permission, was impossible:
both were locked during this night. Not five hours had
elapsed since the cabinet and drawer had been opened, and
since the letters had been seen and touched, being in their
ordinary position. During this interval the thief had en¬
tered, and despoiled me of my treasure.
This event, so inexplicable and so dreadful, threw my
soul into a kind of stupor or distraction, from which I was
suddenly roused by a footstep softly moving in the entry
near my door. I started from my bed, as if I had gained
a glimpse of the robber : before I could reach the door,
some one knocked: I did not think upon [the propriety of
answering the signal, but hastened with tremulous fingers
and throbbing heart to open the door. My uncle, in his
night dress, and apparently just risen from his bed, stood
before me !
He marked the eagerness and perturbation of my looks,
and enquired into the cause. I did not answer his en¬
quiries. His appearance in my chamber, and in this guise,
added to my surprise; my mind was full of the late dis¬
covery, and instantly conceived some connection between
this unseasonable visit and my lost manuscript. I interro¬
gated him in my turn as to the cause of his coming.
" Why," said he, " I came to ascertain whether it were
you or not who amused himself so strangely at this time of
night. What is the matter with you ? Why are you up
so early ? "
I told him that I had been roused by my dreams, and
finding no inclination to court my slumber back again, I
had risen, though earlier by some hours than the usual
period of my rising.
" But why did you go up stairs ? You might easily
imagine that the sound of your steps would alarm those
i 3
118
EDGAR HUNTLY.
below, who would be puzzled to guess who it was that had
thought proper to amuse himself in this manner."
" Up stairs ! I have not left my room this night: it is
not ten minutes since I awoke, and my door has not since
been opened."
" Indeed ! that is strange — nay, it is impossible ! It
was your feet surely that I heard pacing so solemnly and
indefatigably across the long-room for near an hour. I
could not for my life conjecture for a time who it was, but
finally concluded that it was you : there was still, however,
some doubt, and I came hither to satisfy myself."
These tidings were adapted to raise all my emotions to
a still higher pitch. I questioned him with eagerness as
to the circumstance he had noticed. He said he had been
roused by a sound, whose power of disturbing him arose
not from its loudness but from its uncommonness. He
distinctly heard some one pacing to and fro with bare feet
in the long room: this sound continued, with little inter¬
mission, for an hour. He then noticed a cessation of the
walking, and a sound as if some one were lifting the lid
of the large cedar chest that stood in the corner of this
room. The walking was not resumed, and all was silent.
He listened for a quarter of an hour, and busied himself in
conjecturing the cause of this disturbance. The most pro¬
bable conclusion was, that the walker was his nephew, and
his curiosity had led him to my chamber to ascertain the truth.
This dwelling has three stories : the two lower stories
are divided into numerous apartments : the upper story
constitutes a single room, whose sides are the four walls of
the house, and whose ceiling is the roof. This room is
unoccupied, except by lumber, and imperfectly lighted by
a small casement at one end. In this room were foot¬
steps heard by my uncle.
The staircase leading to it terminated in a passage near
my door: I snatched the candle, and desiring him to fol¬
low me, added, that I would ascertain the truth in a mo¬
ment : he followed, but observed that the walking had
ceased long enough for the person to escape.
I ascended to the room, and looked behind and among
the tables and chairs and casks, which were confusedly
EDGAR HTJNTIiY.
119
scattered through it, but found nothing in the shape of
man. The cedar chest spoken of by Mr. Huntly, con¬
tained old books, and remnants of maps and charts, whose
worthlessness unfitted them for accommodation elsewhere:
the lid was without hinges or lock. I examined this re¬
pository ; but there was nothing which attracted my at¬
tention.
The way between the kitchen-door and the door of the
long-room had no impediments; both were usually unfas¬
tened : but the motives by which any stranger to the
dwelling, or indeed any one within it, could be prompted
to choose this place and hour, for an employment of this
kind, were wholly incomprehensible.
When the family rose, enquiries were made, but no
satisfaction was obtained: the family consisted only of four
persons, my uncle, my two sisters, and myself; I men¬
tioned to them the loss I had sustained, but their conjec¬
tures were no less unsatisfactory on this than on the former
incident.
There was no end to my restless meditations. Walde-
grave was the only being, besides myself, acquainted with
the secrets of my cabinet. During his life these manu¬
scripts had been the objects of perpetual solicitude ; to gain
possession, to destroy or secrete them, was the strongest of
his wishes. Had he retained his sensibility on the ap¬
proach of death, no doubt he would have renewed, with
irresistible solemnity, his injunctions to destroy them.
Now, however, they had vanished: there were no mate¬
rials of conjecture — no probabilities to be weighed, or sus¬
picions to revolve: human artifice or power was unequal
to this exploit—means less than preternatural would not
furnish a conveyance for this treasure.
It was otherwise with regard to this unseasonable walker:
his inducements, indeed, were beyond my power to con¬
ceive ; but to enter these doors and ascend these stairs
demanded not the faculties of any being more than human.
This intrusion and the pillage of my cabinet were con¬
temporary events. Was there no more connection between
them than that which results from time? Was not the
purloiner of my treasure and the wanderer the same per-
x 4
120
edgar htjntly.
son ? I could not reconcile the former incident with the
attributes of man ; and yet a secret faith, not to be out-
rooted or suspended, swayed me, and compelled me to imagine
that the detection of this visitant would unveil the thief.
These thoughts were pregnant with dejection and reverie.
Clithero, during the day, was forgotten: on the succeeding
night my intentions with regard to this man returned. I
derived some slender consolation from reflecting that time,
in its long lapse and ceaseless revolutions, might dissipate
the gloom that environed me. Meanwhile I struggled to
dismiss the images connected with my loss, and to think
only of Clithero.
My impatience was as strong as ever to obtain another
interview with this man : I longed with vehemence for the
return of day ; I believed that every moment added to
his sufferings, intellectual and physical, and confided in the
efficacy of my presence to alleviate or suspend them. The
provisions I had left would be speedily consumed, and the
abstinence of three days was sufficient to undermine the
Yital energies. I sometimes hesitated whether I ought not
instantly to depart; it was night, indeed, but the late
storm had purified the air, and the radiance of a full moon
was universal and dazzling.
From this attempt I was deterred by reflecting that my
own frame needed the repairs of sleep: toil and watchful¬
ness, if prolonged another day, would deeply injure a con¬
stitution by no means distinguished for its force ; I must
therefore compel, if it were possible, some hours of repose.
I prepared to retire to bed, when a new incident occurred
to divert my attention for a time from these designs.
CHAPTER XIV.
While sitting alone by the parlour fire marking the effects
of moonlight, I noted one on horseback coming towards the
gate : at first sight methought his shape and guise were not
wholly new to me; but all that I could discern was merely
a resemblance to some one whom I had before seen. Pre¬
sently he stopped, and, looking towards the house, made
enquiries of a passenger who chanced to be near. Being
apparently satisfied with the answers he received, he rode
with a quick pace into the court, and alighted at the door.
I started from my seat, and going forth, waited with some
impatience to hear his purpose explained.
He accosted me with the formality of a stranger, and
asked if a young man, by name Edgar Huntly, resided here:
being answered in the affirmative, and being requested to
come in, he entered, and seated himself without hesitation
by the fire. Some doubt and anxiety were visible in his
looks: he seemed desirous of information upon some topic;
and yet betrayed terror lest the answers he might receive
should subvert some hope, or confirm some foreboding,
Meanwhile I scrutinised his features with much soli¬
citude : a nearer and more deliberate view convinced me that
the first impression was just; but still I was unable to call
up his name, or the circumstances of our former meeting.
The pause was at length ended, by his saying, in a faltering
voice — " My name is Weymouth : I came hither to obtain
information on a subject in which my happiness is deeply
concerned."
At the mention of his name I started : it was a name too
closely connected with the image of thy brother, not to call
up affecting and vivid recollections. Weymouth, thou
knowest, was thy brother's friend. It is three years since
this man left America; during which time no tidings had
been heard of him, at least by thy brother. He had now
returned, and was probably unacquainted with the fate of
his friend.
After an anxious pause, he continued: — '■ Since my
arrival I have heard of an event which has, on many
accounts, given me the deepest sorrow : I loved Waldegrave,
and know not any person in the world whose life was dearer
to me than his : there were considerations, however, which
made it more precious to me than the life of one whose
merits might be greater : — with his life, my own existence
and property were, I have reason to think, inseparably
united.
EDGAR HUNTLY
122
EDGAR HUNTLY.
" On my return to my country, after a long absence, I
made immediate enquiries after him : I was informed of his
untimely death. I had questions of infinite moment to my
happiness to decide with regard to the state and disposition
of his property : I sought out those of his friends who had
maintained with them the most frequent and confidential
intercourse; but they could not afford me any satisfaction:
at Jength I was informed that a young man of your name,
and living in this district, had enjoyed more of his affection
and society than any other — had regulated the property
which he left behind, and was best qualified to afford the
intelligence which I sought. You, it seems, are this person,
and of you I must make enquiries, to which I conjure you
to return sincere and explicit answers."
" That," said I, " I shall find no difficulty in doing:
whatever questions you shall think proper to ask, I will
answer with readiness and truth."
" What kind of property, and to what amount, was your
friend possessed of at his death ? "
" It was money ; and consisted of deposits in the bank
of North America. The amount was little short of eight
thousand dollars."
" On whom has this property devolved ? "
" His sister was his only relation; and she is now in
possession of it."
" Did he leave any will by which he directed the dis¬
position of his property ? "
While thus speaking, Weymouth fixed his eyes upon
my countenance, and seemed anxious to pierce into my
inmost soul. I was somewhat surprised at his questions,
but much more at the manner in which they were put. I
answered him, however, without delay — " He left no will;
nor was any paper discovered by which we could guess at
his intentions: no doubt, indeed, had he made a will, his
sister would have been placed precisely in the same condi¬
tion in which she now is : he was not only bound to her by
the strongest ties of kindred, hut by affection and gra¬
titude."
Weymouth now withdrew his eyes from my face, and
sunk into a mournful reverie : he sighed often and deeply.
EDGAR HUNTLY.
123
This deportment^ and the strain of his enquiries; excited
much surprise. His interest in the fate of Waldegrave
ought to have made the information he had received; a
source of satisfaction rather than of regret. The property
which Waldegrave left was much greater than his mode of
life and his own professions had given us reason to expect;
but it was no more than sufficient to ensure to thee an ad¬
equate subsistence: it ascertained the happiness of those who
were dearest to Waldegrave; and placed them for ever
beyond the reach of that poverty which had hitherto beset
them. I made no attempt to interrupt the silence, but
prepared to answer any new interrogatory. At length
Weymouth resumed,
" Waldegrave was a fortunate man to amass so consi¬
derable a sum in so short a time; I remember when we
parted he was poor. He used to lament that his scrupulous
integrity precluded him from all the common roads to
wealth: he did not contemn riches, but he set the highest
value upon competence; and imagined that he was doomed
for ever to poverty. His religious duty compelled him to
seek his livelihood by teaching a school of blacks. The labour
was disproportioned to his feeble constitution, and the profit
was greatly disproportioned to the labour; it scarcely sup¬
plied the necessities of nature, and was reduced sometimes
even below that standard by his frequent indisposition. I
rejoice to find that his scruples had somewhat relaxed their
force, and that he had betaken himself to some more pro¬
fitable occupation. Pray, what was his new way of busi¬
ness ? "
" Nay," said I, " his scruples continued as rigid in this
respect as ever; he was teacher of the negro free-school when
he died."
" Indeed ! how then came he to amass so much money ?
Could he blend any more lucrative pursuit with his duty
as a schoolmaster ? "
" So it seems."
" What was his pursuit ? "
" That question, I believe, none of his friends are qua¬
lified to answer. I thought myself acquainted with the most
secret transactions of his life, but this had been carefully
124
EDGAR HUNTLY.
concealed from me; I was not only unapprised of any other
employment of his time, but had not the slightest suspicion
of his possessing any property besides his clothes and books.
Ransacking his papers, with a different view, I lighted on
his bank book, in which was a regular receipt for 7500
dollars. By what means he acquired this money, and even
the acquisition of it, till his death put us in possession of his
papers, was wholly unknown to us."
" Possibly he might have held it in trust for another; in
this case some memorandums or letters would be found
explaining this affair."
" True: this supposition could not fail to occur, in con¬
sequence of which, the most diligent search was made among
his papers; but no shred or scrap was to be found which
countenanced our conjecture."
" You may reasonably be surprised, and perhaps of¬
fended," said Weymouth, " at these enquiries ; but it is
time to explain my motives for making them. Three years
ago, I was, like Waldegrave, indigent, and earned my bread
by daily labour. During seven years' service in a public
office, I saved from the expenses of subsistence a few hun¬
dred dollars : I determined to strike into a new path, and
with this sum to lay the foundation of better fortune. I
turned it into a bulky commodity, freighted and loaded a
small vessel, and went with it to Barcelona in Spain. I was
not unsuccessful in my projects; and changing my abode
to England, France, and Germany, according as my inter¬
est required, I became finally possessed of sufficient for the
supply of all my wants. I then resolved to return to my
native country, and laying out my money in land, to spend
the rest of my days in the luxury and quiet of an opulent
farmer. For this end I invested the greatest part of my
property in a cargo of wine from Madeira; the remainder
I turned into a bill of exchange for 7500 dollars. I had
maintained a friendly correspondence with Waldegrave during
my absence; there was no one with whom I had lived on
terms of so much intimacy, and had boundless confidence
in his integrity : to him therefore I determined to transmit
this bill, requesting him to take the money into safe keeping
until my return. In this manner I endeavoured to provide
EDGAR HUNTLY.
125
against the accidents that tnight befall my person or my
cargo in crossing the ocean.
" It was my fate to encounter the worst of these disasters.
We were overtaken by a storm; my vessel was driven ashore
on the coast of Portugal; my cargo was utterly lost; and the
greater part of the crew and passengers were drowned : I
was rescued from the same fate by some fishermen. In
consequence of the hardships to which I had been exposed,
having laboured for several days at the pumps, and spent
the greater part of a winter night hanging from the rigging
of the ship, and perpetually beaten by the waves, I con¬
tracted a severe disease, which bereaved me of the use of
my limbs. The fishermen who rescued me, carried me to
their huts; and there I remained three weeks helpless and
miserable.
" That part of the coast on which I was thrown, was in
the highest degree sterile and rude; its few inhabitants sub¬
sisted precariously on the produce of the ocean. Their
dwellings were of mud, low, filthy, dark, and comfortless ;
their fuel was the stalks of shrubs, sparingly scattered over
a sandy desert; their poverty scarcely allowed them salt and
black bread with their fish, which was obtained in unequal
and sometimes insufficient quantities, and which they eat
with all its impurities and half cooked.
" My former habits as well as my present indisposition,
required very different treatment from what the ignorance
and penury of these people obliged them to bestow. I lay
upon the moist earth, imperfectly sheltered from the sky,
and with neither raiment nor fire to keep me warm. My
hosts had little attention or compassion to spare to the wants
of others. They could not remove me to a more hospitable
district; and here, without doubt, I should have perished,
had not a monk chanced to visit their hovels. Pie belonged
to a convent of St. Jago, some leagues farther from the
shore, who used to send one of its members annually to
inspect the religious concerns of these outcasts. Happily
this was the period of their visitations.
" My abode in Spain had made me somewhat conversant
with its language : the dialect of this monk did not so much
differ from Castilian but that, with the assistance of Latin,
126
EDGAR HUNTLY.
we were able to converse. The jargon of the fishermen
was unintelligible, and they had vainly endeavoured to keep
up my spirits by informing me of this expected visit.
" This monk was touched with compassion at my ca¬
lamity, and speedily provided the means of my removal to
his convent. Here I was charitably entertained, and the
aid of a physician was procured for me. He was but
poorly skilled in his profession, and rather confirmed than
alleviated my disease. The Portuguese of his trade, espe¬
cially in remoter districts, are little more than dealers in
talismans and nostrums. For a long time I was unable to
leave my pallet, and had no prospect before me but that
of consuming my days in the gloom of this cloister.
" All the members of this convent, but he who had
been my first benefactor, and whose name was ChalecLro,
were bigoted and sordid. Their chief motive for treating
me with kindness was the hope of obtaining a convert from
heresy: they spared no pains to subdue my errors, and
were willing to prolong my imprisonment, in the hope of
finally gaining their end. Had my fate been governed by
these, I should have been immured in this convent, and
compelled either to adopt their fanatical creed, or to put an
end to my own life, in order to escape their well-meant per¬
secutions. Chaledro, however, though no less sincere in his
faith and urgent in his entreaties, yet finding me invincible,
exerted his influence to obtain my liberty.
" After many delays and strenuous exertions of my
friend, they consented to remove me to Oporto. The
journey was to be performed in an open cart over a moun¬
tainous country, in the heats of summer. The monks en¬
deavoured to dissuade me from the enterprise for my own
sake, it being scarcely possible that one in my feeble state
should survive a journey like this; but I despaired of im¬
proving my condition by other means: I preferred death
to the imprisonment of a Portuguese monastery, and knew
that I could hope for no alleviation of my disease but from
the skill of Scottish or French physicians, whom I expected
to meet with in that city. I adhered to my purpose with so
much vehemence and obstinacy, that they finally yielded to
my wishes.
EDGAR HUNTLY.
127
" My road lay through the wildest and most rugged dis¬
tricts ; it did not exceed ninety miles, but seven days were
consumed on the way. The motion of the vehicle racked
me with the keenest pangs, and my attendants concluded
that every stage would be my last. They had been selected
without due regard to their characters: they were knavish
and inhuman, and omitted nothing, but actual violence, to
hasten my death : they purposely retarded the journey, and
protracted to seven what might have been readily performed
in four days: they neglected to execute the orders which
hey had received respecting my lodging and provisions;
xnd from them, as well as from the peasants, who were
sure to be informed that I was a heretic, I suffered every
species of insult and injury. My constitution as well as
my frame possessed a fund of strength of which I had nd
previous conception. In spite of hardship and exposure and
abstinence, I at last arrived at Oporto.
" Instead of being carried, agreeably to Chaledro's di¬
rection, to a convent of St. Jago, I was left, late in the
evening, in the porch of a common hospital. My attend¬
ants, having laid me on the pavement, and loaded me with
imprecations, left me to obtain admission by my own efforts.
I passed the livelong night on this spot, and in the morn¬
ing was received into the house, in a state which left it
uncertain whether I was alive or dead.
" After recovering my sensibility, I made various efforts
to procure a visit from some English merchant: this was
no easy undertaking for one in my deplorable condition; I
was too weak to articulate my words distinctly, and these
words were rendered by my foreign accent scarcely intelli¬
gible : the likelihood of my speedy death made the people
about me more indifferent to my wants and petitions.
" I will not dwell upon my repeated disappointments,
but content myself with mentioning that I gained the at¬
tention of a French gentleman, whose curiosity brought him
to view the hospital; through him I obtained a visit from
an English merchant; and finally gained the notice of a
person, who formerly resided in America, and of whom I
had imperfect knowledge : by their kindness I was removed
from the hospital to a private house; a Scottish surgeon was
128
EDGAR IIUNTLY.
summoned to my assistance, and in seven months I was
restored to my present state of health.
" At Oporto I embarked in an American ship for New
York. I was destitute of all property, and relied for the
payment of the debts which 1 was obliged to contract, as
well as for my future subsistence, on my remittance to
Waldegrave. I hastened to Philadelphia, and was soon
informed that my friend was dead. His death had taken
place a long time since my remittance to him ; hence this
disaster was a subject of regret chiefly on his own account:
I entertained no doubt but that my property had been se¬
cured, and that either some testamentary directions or some
papers had been left behind respecting this affair.
" I sought cut those who were formerly our mutual
acquaintance : I found that they were wholly strangers to
his affairs ; they could merely relate some particulars of his
singular death, and point out the lodgings which he for¬
merly occupied : hither I forthwith repaired, and discovered
that he lived in this house with his sister, disconnected with
its other inhabitants. They described his mode of life in
terms that showed them to be very imperfectly acquainted
with it: it was easy indeed to infer from their aspect and
manners, that little sympathy or union could have sub¬
sisted between them and their co-tenants; and this infer¬
ence was confirmed by their insinuations, the growth of
prejudice and envy. They told me that Waldegrave's
sister had gone to live in the country; but whither, or for
how long, she had not condescended to inform them, and
they did not care to ask: she was a topping dame, whose
notions were much too high for her station ; who was more
nice than wise, and yet was one who could stoop when it
most became her to stand upright. It was no business of
theirs, but they could not but mention their suspicions
that she had good reasons for leaving the city, and for
concealing the place of her retreat: some things were hard
to be disguised; they spoke for themselves, and the only
way to hinder disagreeable discoveries, was to keep out of
sight.
" I was wholly a stranger to Waldegrave's sister—I
knew merely that he had such a relation : there was nothing
EDGAR HUNTLY.
129
therefore to outbalance this unfavourable report, but the ap¬
parent malignity and grossness of those who gave it. It.
was not, however, her character about which I was solicit¬
ous, but merely the place where she might be found, and
the suitable enquiries respecting her deceased brother, be
answered : on this head these people professed utter ignor¬
ance, and were either unable or unwilling to direct me to
any person in the city who knew more than themselves.
After much discourse they at length let fall an intimation
that if any one knew her place of retreat, it was probably
a country lad, by name Huntly, who lived near the Forks
of Delaware. After Waldegrave's death, this lad had paid
his sister a visit, and seemed to be admitted on a very con¬
fidential footing: she left the house, for the last time, in
his company; and he therefore was most likely to knciv
what had become of her.
" The name of Huntly was not totally unknown to me;
I myself was born and brought up in the neighbouring
township of Chetasco: I had some knowledge of your
family; and your name used often to be mentioned by
Waldegrave, as that of one who, at a maturer age, would
prove himself useful to his country : I determined there¬
fore to apply to you for what information you could give.
I designed to visit my father, who lives in Chetasco, and
relieve him from that disquiet which his ignorance of my
fate could not fail to have inspired: and both these ends
could be thus at the same time accomplished.
" Before I left the city I thought it proper to apply to
the merchant on whom my bill had been drawn : if this
bill had been presented and paid, he had doubtless preserved
some record of it; and hence a clue might be afforded,
though every other expedient should fail. My. usual ill
fortune pursued me upon this occasion; for the merchant
had lately become insolvent, and to avoid the rage of his
creditors, had fled, without leaving any vestige of this or
similar transactions behind him. He had, some years
since, been an adventurer from Holland, and was suspected
to have returned thither.
ISO
EDGAR HtTNTLY.
CHAPTER XV.
" I came hither with a heart desponding of success: ad¬
versity had weakened my faith in the promises of the
future, and I was prepared to receive just such tidings as
you have communicated. Unacquainted with the secret
motives of Waldegrave and his sister, it is impossible for me
to weigh the probabilities of their rectitude. I have only my
own assertion to produce in support of my claim; all other
evidence, all vouchers, and papers, which might attest my
veracity, or sanction my claim in a court of law, are buried
in the ocean. The bill was transmitted just before my
departure from Madeira, and the letters by which it was
accompanied informed Waldegrave of my design to follow
it immediately: hence he did not, it is probable, acknow¬
ledge the receipt of my letters. The vessels in which they
were sent arrived in due season: I was assured that all
letters were duly deposited in the post-office, where, at
present, mine are not to be found.
" You assure me that nothing has been found among
his papers, hinting at any pecuniary transaction between
him and me. Some correspondence passed between us
previous to that event: have no letters, with my signature,
been found ? Are you qualified, by your knowledge of Iris
papers, to answer me explicitly ? Is it not possible for some
letters to have been mislaid ? "
" I am qualified," said I, " to answer your enquiries be¬
yond any other person in the world. Waldegrave main¬
tained only general intercourse with the rest of mankind ;
with me his correspondence was copious, and his confidence,
as I imagined, without bounds. His books and papers
were contained in a single chest at his lodgings, the keys
of which he had about him when he died: these keys I
carried to his sister, and was authorised by her to open and
examine the contents of this chest. This was done with
the utmost care. These papers are now in my possession:
among them no paper of the tenour you mention was found,
and no letter with your signature. Neither Mary Wal-
EDGAR HUNTLY.
degrave nor I are capable of disguising the truth or com¬
mitting an injustice: the moment she receives conviction
of your right she will restore this money to you; the
moment I imbibe tbis conviction I will exert all my in¬
fluence, and it is not small; to induce her to restore it.
Permit me, however, to question you in your turn. Who
was the merchant on whom your bill was drawn, what was
the date of it, and when did the bill and its counterparts
arrive ? "
" I do not exactly remember the date of the bills: they
were made out, however, six days before I myself embarked,
which happened on the 10th of August, 1784. They were
sent by three vessels, one of which was bound to Charleston,
and the others to New York: the last arrived within two
days of each other, and about the middle of November in
the same year. The name of the payer was Monteith."
After a pause of recollection, I answered—" I will not
hesitate to apprise you of every thing which may throw
light upon this transaction, and whether favourable or
otherwise to your claim. I have told you that among my
friend's papers your name is not to be found; I must like¬
wise repeat that the possession of this money by Waldegrave
was wholly unknown to us till his death; we are likewise
unacquainted with any means by which he could get pos¬
session of so large a sum in his own right: he spent no
more than his scanty stipend as a teacher, though this
stipend was insufficient to supply his wants. This bank
receipt is dated in December, 1784; a fortnight, perhaps,
after the date that you have mentioned. You will perceive
how much this coincidence, which could scarcely have
taken place by chance, is favourable to your claim.
" Mary Waldegrave resides at present at Abingdon : she
will rejoice, as I do, to see one who, as her brother's friend,
is entitled to her affection. Doubt not but that she will
listen with impartiality and candour to all that you can
urge in defence of your title to this money. Her decision
will not be precipitate, but it will be generous and just,
and founded on such reasons that, even if it be adverse to
your wishes, you will be compelled to approve it."
" I can entertain no doubt," he answered, " as to the
K 2
132
EDGAR HUNTLY.
equity of my claim. The coincidences you mention are
sufficient to convince me that this sum was received upon
my bill; but this conviction must necessarily be confined
to myself. No one but I can be conscious to the truth of
my own story: the evidence on which I build my faith in
this case,, is that of my own memory and senses; but this
evidence cannot make itself conspicuous to you : you have
nothing but my bare assertion, in addition to some proba¬
bilities flowing from the conduct of Waldegrave. What
facts may exist to corroborate my claim, which you have
forgotten, or which you may think proper to conceal, I can¬
not judge. 1 know not what is passing in the secret of
your hearts ; I am unacquainted with the character of this
lady and with yours —• I have nothing on which to build
surmises and suspicions of your integrity, and nothing to
generate unusual confidence ; the frailty of your virtue and
the strength of your temptations I know not. However
she decides in this case, and whatever opinion I shall form
as to the reasonableness of her decision, it will not become
me either to upbraid her, or to nourish discontentment and
repinings.
" I know that my claim has no legal support — that if
this money be resigned to me, it will be the impulse of
spontaneous justice, and not the coercion of law to which
I am indebted for it. Since, therefore, the justice of my
claim is to be measured, not by law, but by simple equity,
I will candidly acknowledge that as yet it is uncertain
whether I ought to receive, even should Miss Waldegrave be
willing to give it: I know my own necessities and schemes,
and in what degree this money would be subservient to
these; but I know not the views and wants of others, and
cannot estimate the usefulness of this money to them : how¬
ever I decide upon your conduct in withholding or retaining
it, I shall make suitable allowance for my imperfect know¬
ledge of your motives and wants, as well as for your una¬
voidable ignorance of mine.
" I have related my sufferings from shipwreck and po¬
verty, not to bias your judgment or engage your pity, but
merely because the impulse to relate them chanced to awake
— because my 1loart is softened by tlm remembrance of
Waldegrave, who has been my only friend, and by the
sight of one whom he loved.
" I told you that my father lived in Chetasco : he is
now aged, and I am his only child : I should have rejoiced
in being able to relieve his grey hairs from labour, to which
his failing strength cannot be equal. This was one of my
inducements in coming to America; another was, to pre¬
pare the way for a woman whom I married in Europe, and
who is now awaiting intelligence from me in London: her
poverty is not less than my own ; and by marrying against
the wishes of her kindred, she has bereaved herself of all
support hut that of her husband. Whether I shall be able
to rescue her from indigence, whether I shall alleviate the
poverty of my father, or increase it by burdening his scanty
friends by my own maintenance as well as his, the future
alone can determine.
" I confess that my stock of patience and hope has never
been large, and that my misfortunes have nearly exhausted
it: the flower of my years has been consumed in struggling
with adversity, and my constitution has received a shock
from sickness and ill-treatment in Portugal, which I can¬
not expect long to survive. But I make you sad," he
continued: " I have said all that I meant to say in this
interview: I am impatient to see my father, and night has
already come ; I have some miles yet to ride to his cottage,
and over a rough road: I will shortly visit you again, and
talk to you at greater leisure on these and other topics; at
present I leave you."
I was unwilling to part so abruptly with this guest, and
entreated him to prolong his visit; but he would not be
prevailed upon : repeating his promise of shortly seeing
me again, he mounted his horse, and disappeared. I looked
after him with affecting and complex emotions; I reviewed
the incidents of this unexpected and extraordinary interview
as if it had existed in a dream. An hour had passed, and
this stranger had alighted among us as from the clouds, to
draw the veil from those obscurities which had bewildered
us so long, to make visible a new train of disastrous con¬
sequences flowing from the untimelv death of thv brother,
EDGAR HUNTLY.
134
EDGAR HUNTLY.
and to blast that scheme of happiness on which thou and I
had so fondly meditated.
But what wilt thou think of this new-born claim ? The
story, hadst thou observed the features and guise of the
relater, would have won thy implicit credit: his counte¬
nance exhibited deep traces of the afflictions he had endured
and the fortitude which he had exercised ; he was sallow
and emaciated, but his countenance was full of seriousness
and dignity; a sort of ruggedness of brow, the token of
great mental exertion and varied experience, argued a pre¬
mature old age.
What a mournful tale ! Is such the lot of those who
wander from their rustic homes in search of fortune ? Our
countrymen are prone to enterprise, and are scattered over
every sea and every land in pursuit of that wealth which
will not screen them from disease and infirmity, which is
missed much oftener than found, and which, when gained,
by no means compensates them for the hardships and vicis¬
situdes endured in the pursuit.
But what if the truth of these pretensions be admitted ?
The money must be restored to its right owner. I know
that, whatever inconveniences may follow the deed, thou
wilt not hesitate to act justly : affluence and dignity, how¬
ever valuable, may be purchased too dear : honesty will not
take away its keenness from the winter blast, its ignominy
and unwholesomeness from servile labour, or strip of its
charms the life of elegance and leisure; but these, unaccom¬
panied with self-reproach, are less deplorable than wealth
and honour, the possession of which is marred by our own
disapprobation.
I know the bitterness of this sacrifice, I know the impa¬
tience with which your poverty has formerly been borne —
how much your early education is at war with that degrad¬
ation and obscurity to which your youth has been con¬
demned — how earnestly your wishes panted after a state
wbich might exempt you from dependence upon daily
labour and on the caprices of others, and might secure to
you leisure to cultivate and indulge your love of knowledge
and your social and beneficent affections.
Your motive for desiring a change of fortune has been
EDGAR HCNTLY.
135
greatly enforced since we have become known to each
other: thou hast honoured me with thy affection; but that
union, on which we rely for happiness, could not take place
while both of us were poor: my habits, indeed, have made
labour and rustic obscurity less painful than they would
prove to my friend; but my present condition is wholly
inconsistent with marriage: as long as my exertions are
insufficient to maintain us both, it would be unjustifiable
to burden you with new cares and duties : of this you are
more thoroughly convinced than I am. The love of inde¬
pendence and ease, and impatience of drudgery, are woven
into your constitution: perhaps they are carried to an
erroneous extreme, and derogate from that uncommon ex¬
cellence by which your character is, in other respects, dis¬
tinguished ; but they cannot be removed.
This obstacle was unexpectedly removed by the death of
your brother; however justly to be deplored was this
catastrophe, yet, like every other event, some of its con¬
sequences were good: by giving you possession of the
means of independence and leisure, by enabling us to com¬
plete a contract which poverty alone had thus long delayed,
this event has been, at the same time, the most disastrous
and propitious which could have happened.
Why thy brother should have concealed from us the
possession of this money — why, with such copious means
of indulgence, and leisure, he should still pursue his irk¬
some trade, and live in so penurious a manner, has been a
topic of endless and unsatisfactory conjecture between us.
It was not difficult to suppose that this money was held in
trust for another; but in that case it was unavoidable that
some document or memorandum, or at least some claimant
would appear. Much time has since elapsed, and you have
thought yourself at length justified in appropriating this
money to your own use.
Our flattering prospects are now shut in; you must
return to your original poverty, and once more depend for
precarious subsistence on your needle. You cannot restore the
whole; for unavoidable expenses, and the change of your
mode of living, have consumed some part of it: for so much
you must consider yourself as Weymouth's debtor.
k 4
136
EDGAR HUNTLY.
Repine not, my friend, at this unlooked-for reverse:
think upon the merits and misfortunes of your brother s
friend — think upon his aged father, whom we shall enable
him to rescue from poverty—think upon his desolate wife,
whose merits are probably at least equal to your own, and
whose helplessness is likely to he greater. I am not insen¬
sible to the evils which have returned upon us with aug¬
mented force, after having for a moment taken their flight;
I know the precariousness of my condition, and that of my
sisters — that our subsistence hangs upon the life of an old
man. My uncle's death will transfer this property to his
son, who is a stranger and an enemy to us, and the first act
of whose authority will unquestionably he to turn us forth
from these doors. Marriage with thee was anticipated with
joyous emotions, not merely on my own account or on.
thine, but likewise for the sake of those beloved girls, to
whom that event would enable me to furnish an asylum.
But wedlock is now more distant than ever: my heart
bleeds to think of the sufferings which my beloved Mary is
again fated to endure; but regrets are only aggravations of
calamity; they are pernicious, and it is our duty to shake
them off.
I can entertain no doubts as to the equity of Weymouth's
claim : so many coincidences could not have happened by
chance. The non-appearance of any letters or papers con¬
nected with it, is indeed a mysterious circumstance; but
why should Waldegrave be studious of preserving these ?
They were useless paper, and might, without impropriety,
be cast away, or made to serve any temporary purpose;
perhaps, indeed, they still lurk in some unsuspected corner.
To wish that time may explain this mystery in a different
manner, and so as to permit our retention of this money, is,
perhaps, the dictate of selfishness: the transfer to Wey¬
mouth will not be productive of less benefit to him and to*
his family, than we should derive from the use of it.
These considerations, however, will be weighed when we
meet; meanwhile I will return to my narrative.
EDGAR HUNTLY.
1ST
CHAPTER XVI.
Here, my friend, thou must permit me to pause. The
following incidents are of a kind to which the most ardent
invention has never conceived a parallel; Fortune, in her
most wayward mood, could scarcely be suspected of an in¬
fluence like this. This scene was pregnant with astonish¬
ment and horror; I cannot even now recall it without
reviving the dismay and confusion which I then expe¬
rienced.
Possibly, the period will arrive when I shall look back
without agony on the perils I have undergone: that period
is still distant. Solitude and sleep are now no more than
the signals to summon up a tribe of ugly phantoms. Famine
and blindness, and death and savage enemies, never fail to
be conjured up by the silence and darkness of the night; I
cannot dissipate them by any efforts of reason : my cow¬
ardice requires the perpetual consolation of light; my heart
droops when I mark the decline of the sun; and I never
sleep but with a candle burning at my pillow. If, by any
chance, I should awake and find myself immersed in dark¬
ness, I know not what act of desperation I might be sud¬
denly impelled to commit.
I have delayed this narrative longer than my duty to my
friend enjoined: now that I am able to hold a pen, I will
hasten to terminate that uncertainty with regard to my fate,
in which my silence has involved thee — I will recall that
series of unheard-of and disastrous vicissitudes which has
constituted the latest portion of my life.
I am not certain, however, that I shall relate them in an
intelligible manner ; one image runs into another, sensations
succeed in so rapid a train, that I fear I shall be unable to
distribute and express them with sufficient perspicuity. As
I look back, my heart is sore and aches within my bosom ;
I am conscious to a kind of complex sentiment of distress
and forlornness that cannot be perfectly portrayed by words:
but I must do as well as I can. In the utmost vigour of
my faculties, no eloquence that I possess would do justice
138
EDGAR HUNTEY.
to the tale; now, in my languishing and feeble state, I shall
furnish thee with little more than a glimpse of the truth:
with these glimpses, transient and faint as they are, thou
must be satisfied.
I have said that I slept; my memory assures me of this—
it informs of the previous circumstances of my laying aside
my clothes, of placing the light upon a chair within reach
of my pillow, of throwing myself upon the bed, and of gazing
on the rays of the moon reflected on the wall, and almost
obscured by those of the candle; I remember my occasional
relapses into fits of incoherent fancies, the harbingers of
sleep — I remember, as it were, the instant when my
thoughts ceased to flow, and my senses were arrested by
the leaden wand of forgetfulness.
My return to sensation and to consciousness took place
in no such tranquil scene. I emerged from oblivion by
degrees so slow and so faint, that their succession cannot be
marked: when enabled at length to attend to the information
which my senses afforded, I was conscious, for a time, of
nothing but existence : it was unaccompanied with lassitude
or pain, but I felt disinclined to stretch my limbs or raise
my eyelids; my thoughts were wildering and mazy, and
though consciousness was present, it was disconnected with
the locomotive or voluntary power.
From this state a transition was speedily effected: I per¬
ceived that my posture was supine, and that I lay upon my
back. I attempted to open my eyes ; the weight that op¬
pressed them was too great for a slight exertion to remove !
the exertion which I made cost me a pang more acute than
any which I ever experienced: my eyes, however, were
opened ; but the darkness that environed me was as in¬
tense as before.
I attempted to rise; but my limbs were cold, and my
joints had almost lost their flexibility : my efforts were
repeated, and at length I attained a sitting posture. I
was now sensible of pain in my shoulders and back; I
was universally in that state to which the frame is reduced
by blows of a club mercilessly and endlessly repeated; my
temples throbbed, and my face was covered with clammy
and cold drops : but that which threw me into the deepest
EDGAR HUNTLY.
139
consternation, was my inability to see; I turned my head
to different quarters, I stretched my eyelids, and exerted
every visual energy, but in vain — I was wrapped in the
murkiest and most impenetrable gloom.
The first effort of reflection was to suggest the belief that
I was blind: that disease is known to assail us in a moment
and without previous warning. This surely was the mis¬
fortune (that had now befallen me : some ray, however
fleeting and uncertain, could not fail to be discerned, if the
power of vision were not utterly extinguished; in what cir¬
cumstances could I possibly be placed, from which every
particle of light should, by other means, be excluded ?
This led my thoughts into a new train. I endeavoured
to recall the past; but the past was too much in contra¬
diction to the present, and my intellect was too much
shattered by external violence, to allow me accurately to
review it.
Since my sight availed nothing to the knowledge of my
condition, I betook myself to other instruments. The ele¬
ment which I breathed was stagnant and cold ; the spot
where I lay was rugged and hard; I was neither naked
nor clothed — a shirt and trousers composed my dress, and
the shoes and stockings which always accompanied these
were now wanting. What could I infer from this scanty
garb, this chilling atmosphere, this stony bed ?
I had awakened as from sleep. What was my condition
when I fell asleep ? Surely it was different from the pre¬
sent. Then I inhabited a lightsome chamber, and was
stretched upon a down bed; now I was supine upon a
rugged surface, and immersed in palpable obscurity: then
I was in perfect health; now my frame was covered with
bruises, and every joint was racked with pain. What dun¬
geon or den had received me, and by whose command was
I transported hither ?
After various efforts, I stood upon my feet. At first I
tottered and staggered. I stretched out my hands on all
sides, but met only with vacuity. I advanced forward.
At the third step my foot moved something which lay upon
the ground: I stooped and took it up, and found on ex¬
amination that it was an Indian tomahawk. This in-
140 EDGAR HUNTLY.
cident afforded me no hint from which I might conjecture
my state.
Proceeding irresolutely and slowly forward, my hands
at length touched a wall. This, like the flooring, was of
stone, and was rugged and impenetrable : I followed this
wall. An advancing angle occurred at a short distance,
which was followed by similar angles. I continued to ex¬
plore this clue, till the suspicion occurred that I was merely
going round the walls of a vast and irregular apartment.
The utter darkness disabled me from comparing directions
and distances. This discovery, therefore, was not made on
a sudden, and was still entangled with some doubt. My
blood recovered some warmth, and my muscles some elas¬
ticity ; but, in proportion as my sensibility returned, my
pains augmented. Overpowered by my fears and my ago¬
nies, I desisted from my fruitless search, and sat down,
supporting my back against the wall.
My excruciating sensations for a time occupied my at¬
tention. These, in combination with other causes, gradually
produced a species of delirium; I existed as it were in a
wakeful dream. With nothing to correct my erroneous
perceptions, the images of the past occurred in capricious
combinations and vivid hues. Methouglit I was the victim
of some tyrant who had thrust me into a dungeon of his
fortress, and left me no power to determine whether he
intended I should perish with famine, or linger out a long
life in hopeless imprisonment: whether the day was shut
out by insuperable walls, or the darkness that surrounded
me was owing to the night, and to the smallness of those
crannies through which daylight was to be admitted, I con¬
jectured in vain.
Sometimes I imagined myself buried alive : methouglit I
had fallen into seeming death, and my friends had con¬
signed me to the tomb, from which a resurrection was im¬
possible : — that in such a case my limbs would have been
confined to a coffin, and my coffin to a grave, and that I
should instantly have been suffocated, did not occur to
destroy my supposition; neither did this supposition over¬
whelm me with terror, or prompt my efforts to deliverance:
my state was full of tumult and confusion, and my atten-
EDGAR HUNTLY.
141
tion was incessantly divided between my painful sensations
and my feverish dreams.
There is no standard by which time can be measured,
but the succession of our thoughts, and the changes that
take place in the external world: from the latter 1 was
totally excluded ; the former made the lapse of some hours
appear like the tediousness of weeks and months. At
length a new sensation recalled my rambling meditations,
and gave substance to my fears : I now felt the cravings of
hunger, and perceived that, unless my deliverance were
speedily effected, I must suffer a tedious and lingering
death.
I once more tasked my understanding and my senses to
discover the nature of my present situation, and the means
of escape. I listened to catch some sound: I heard an
unequal and varying echo, sometimes near and sometimes
distant, sometimes dying away and sometimes swelling into
loudness : it was unlike any thing I had before heard ; but
it was evident that it arose from wind sweeping through
spacious halls and winding passages. These tokens were
incompatible with the result of the examination I had
made; if my hands were true, I was immured between
walls through which there was no avenue.
I now exerted my voice, and cried as loud as my wasted
strength would admit: its echoes were sent back to me in
broken and confused sounds and from above. This effort
was casual; but some part of that uncertainty in which 4
was involved was instantly dispelled by it. In passing
through the cavern on the former day, I have mentioned
the verge of the pit at which I arrived: to acquaint me as
far as was possible with the dimensions of the place, I had
hallooed with all my force, knowing that sound is reflected
according to the distance and relative positions of the sub¬
stances from which it is repelled.
The effect produced by my voice on this occasion resem¬
bled with remarkable exactness the effect which was then
produced. Was I then shut up in the same cavern? Had
I reached the brink of the same precipice, and been thrown
headlong into that vacuity ? Whence else could arise the
bruises which I had received but from my fall? Yet all
142
EDGAR HUNTIiY.
remembrance of my journey hither was lost: I had deter¬
mined to explore this cave on the ensuing day ; but my
memory informed me not that this intention had been car¬
ried into effect: still it was only possible to conclude that I
had come hither on my intended expedition, and had been
thrown by another, or had, by some ill chance, fallen into
the pit.
This opinion was conformable to what I had already
observed : — the pavement and walls were rugged like those
of the footing and sides of the cave through which I had
formerly passed.
But if this were true, what was the abhorred catastrophe
to which I was now reserved ? The sides of this pit were
inaccessible; human footsteps would never wrander into
these recesses : my friends were unapprised of my forlorn
state ; here I should continue till wasted by famine ; in this
grave should I linger out a few days in unspeakable agonies,
and then perish for ever.
The inroads of hunger were already experienced; and
this knowledge of the desperateness of my calamity urged
me to frenzy. I had none but capricious and unseen Fate
to condemn; the author of my distress, and the means he
had taken to decoy me hither, were incomprehensible:
surely my senses were fettered or depraved by some spell:
I was still asleep, and this was merely a tormenting vision;
or madness had seized me, and the darkness that environed,
and the hunger that afflicted me, existed only in my own
distempered imagination.
The consolation of these doubts could not last long;
every hour added to the proofs that my perceptions were
real: — my hunger speedily became ferocious; I tore the
linen of my shirt between my teeth, and swallowed the
fragments: I felt a strong propensity to bite the flesh from
my arm ; my heart overflowed with cruelty, and I pondered
on the delight I should experience in rending some living
animal to pieces, and drinking its blood and grinding its
quivering fibres between my teeth.
This agony had already passed beyond the limits of
endurance : I saw that time, instead of bringing respite or
relief, would only aggravate my wants, and that my only
EDGAR HUNTLY.
143
remaining hope was to die before I should be assaulted by
the last extremes of famine. I now recollected that a
tomahawk was at hand,, and rejoiced in the possession of an
instrument by which I could so effectually terminate my
sufferings.
I took it in my hand, moved its edge over my fingers,
and reflected on the force that was required to make it
reach my heart; I investigated the spot where it should
enter, and strove to fortify myself with resolution to repeat
the stroke a second or third time, if the first should prove
insufficient: I was sensible that I might fail to inflict a
mortal wound, but delighted to consider that the blood
which would be made to flow would finally release me, and
that meanwhile my pains would be alleviated by swallow¬
ing this blood.
You will not wonder that I felt some reluctance to em¬
ploy so fatal, though indispensable a remedy. I once more
ruminated on the possibility of rescuing myself by other
means. I now reflected that the upper termination of the
wall could not be at an immeasurable distance from the
pavement: I had fallen from a height; but if that height
had been considerable, instead of being merely bruised,
should I not have been dashed in pieces ?
Gleams of hope burst anew upon my soul. Was it not
possible, I asked, to reach the top of this pit ? The sides
were rugged and uneven ; would not their projeetures and
abruptnesses serve me as steps by which I might ascend
in safety ? This expedient was to be tried without delay ;
shortly my strength would fail, and my doom would be
irrevocably sealed.
I will not enumerate my laborious efforts, my alternations
of despondency and confidence, the eager and unwearied
scrutiny with which I examined the surface, the attempts
which I made, and the failures which, for a time, suc¬
ceeded each other: a hundred times, when I had ascended
some feet from the bottom, I was compelled to relinquish
my undertaking by the untenable smoothness of the spaces
which remained to be gone over; a hundred times I threw
myself, exhausted by my fatigue and my pains, on the
ground: the consciousness was gradually restored that till
EDGAR HUNTLY.
I had attempted every part of the wall, it was absurd to
despair; and I again drew my tottering limbs and aching
joints to that part of the wall which had not been sur¬
veyed.
At length, as I stretched my hand upward, I found
somewhat that seemed like a recession in the wall: it was
possible that this was the top of the cavity, and this might
be the avenue to liberty. My heart leaped with joy, and
I proceeded to climb the wall. No undertaking could be
conceived more arduous than this : the space between this
verge and the floor was nearly smooth ; the verge was higher
from the bottom than my head; the only means of ascend¬
ing that were offered me were by my hands, with which I
could draw myself upward, so as at length to maintain my
hold with my feet.
My efforts were indefatigable, and at length I placed
myself on the verge. When this was accomplished, my
strength was nearly gone ; had I not found space enough
beyond this brink to stretch myself at length, I should un¬
avoidably have fallen backward into the pit, and all my
pains had served no other end than to deepen my despair
and hasten my destruction.
What impediments and perils remained to be encoun¬
tered I could not judge. I was now inclined to forebode
the worst: the interval of repose which was necessary to
be taken, in order to recruit my strength, would accelerate
the ravages of famine, and leave me without the power to
proceed.
In this state, I once more consoled myself that an in¬
strument of death was at hand: I had drawn up with me
the tomahawk, being sensible that should this impediment
be overcome, others might remain that would prove insu¬
perable. Before I employed it, however, I cast my eyes
wildly and languidly around. The darkness was no less
intense than in the pit below ; and yet two objects were
distinctly seen.
They resembled a fixed and obscure flame ; they were
motionless : though lustrous themselves, they created no
illumination around them: this circumstance, added to
others which reminded me of similar objects noted on for-
EDGAR HUNTLY. 145
mer occasions, immediately explained the nature of what
I beheld. These were the eyes of a panther.
Thus had I struggled to obtain a post where a savage
was lurking, and waited only till my efforts should place
me within reach of his fangs. The first impulse was to
arm myself against this enemy : the desperateness of my
condition was for a moment forgotten ; the weapon which
was so lately lifted against my own bosom, was now raised
to defend my life against the assault of another.
There was no time for deliberation and delay: in a
moment he might spring from his station and tear me to
pieces; my utmost speed might not enable me to reach
him where he sat, but merely to encounter his assault. I
did not reflect how far my strength was adequate to save
me; all the force that remained was mustered up and
exerted in a throw.
No one knows the powers that are latent in his consti¬
tution : called forth by eminent dangers, our efforts fre¬
quently exceed our most sanguine belief. Though tottering
on the verge of dissolution, and apparently unable to crawl
from this spot, a force was exerted in this throw probably
greater than I had ever before exerted: it was resistless
and unerring. I aimed at the middle space between these
glowing orbs: it penetrated the skull, and the animal fell,
straggling and shrieking on the ground.
My ears quickly informed me when his pangs were at an
end : his cries and his convulsions lasted for a moment, and
then ceased. The effect of his voice in these subterranean
abodes was unspeakably rueful.
The abruptness of this incident, and the preternatural
exertion of my strength, left me in a state of languor and
sinking, from which slowly and with difficulty I recovered.
The first suggestion that occurred was to feed upon the
carcass of this animal; my hunger had arrived at that pitch
where all fastidiousness and scruples are at an end. I crept
to the spot 1 will not shock you by relating the ex -
tremes to which dire necessity had driven me. I review
this scene with loathing and horror ; now that it is past, I
look back upon it as on some hideous dream — the whole
appears to be some freak of insanity: no alternative was
L
146
EDGAR HUNTLY.
offered, and hunger was capable of being appeased even by
a banquet so detestable.
If this appetite has sometimes subdued the sentiments of
nature; and compelled the mother to feed upon the flesh of
her offspring, it will not excite amazement that I did not
turn from the yet warm blood and reeking fibres of a brute.
One evil was now removed only to give place to another.
The first sensations of fulness had scarcely been felt, when
my stomach was seized by pangs whose acuteness exceeded
all that I ever before experienced. I bitterly lamented my
inordinate avidity ; the excruciations of famine were better
than the agonies which this abhorred meal had produced.
Death was now impending with no less proximity and cer¬
tainty, though in a different form : death was a sweet relief
for my present miseries, and I vehemently longed for its
arrival. I stretched myself on the ground — I threw my¬
self into every posture that promised some alleviation of
this evil—I rolled along the pavement of the cavern, wholly
inattentive to the dangers that environed me : that I did
not fall into the pit whence I had just emerged, must be
ascribed to some miraculous chance.
How long my miseries endured, it is not possible to tell;
I cannot even form a plausible conjecture: judging by the
lingering train of my sensations, I should suppose that some
days elapsed in this deplorable condition; but nature could
not have so long sustained a conflict like this.
Gradually my pains subsided, and I fell into a deep sleep.
I was visited by dreams of a thousand hues; they led me
to flowing streams and plenteous banquets, which, though
placed within my view, some power forbade me to approach.
From this sleep I recovered to the fruition of solitude and
darkness; but my frame was in a state less feeble than
before: that which I had eaten had produced temporary
distress, but on the whole had been of use. If this food
had not been provided for me, I should scarcely have avoided
death ; I had reason, therefore, to congratulate myself on
the danger that had lately occurred.
I had acted without foresight; and yet no wisdom could
have prescribed more salutary measures. The panther was
slain, not from a view to the relief of my hunger, but from
EDGAR HUNTLY.
147
a self-preserving and involuntary impulse. Had I fore¬
known the pangs to which my ravenous and bloody meal
would give birth, I should have carefully abstained ; and
yet these pangs were a useful effort of nature to subdue
and convert to nourishment the matter I had swallowed.
I was now assailed by the torments of thirst; my inven¬
tion and my courage were anew bent to obviate this pressing-
evil. I reflected that there was some recess from this cavern,
even from the spot where I now stood: before, I was
doubtful whether in this direction from this pit any avenue
could be found; but since the panther had come hither there
was reason to suppose the existence of some such avenue.
I now likewise attended to a sound, which, from its in¬
variable tenour, denoted somewhat different from the whist¬
ling of a gale; it seemed like the murmur of a running
stream. I now prepared to go forward, and endeavoured
to move along in that direction in which this sound appa¬
rently came.
On either side and above my head there was nothing but
vacuity. My steps were to be guided by the pavement,
which, though unequal and rugged, appeared on the whole
to ascend. My safety required that I should employ both
hands and feet in exploring my way.
I went on thus for a considerable period. The murmur,
instead of becoming more distinct, gradually died away.
My progress was arrested by fatigue, and I began once more
to despond. My exertions produced a perspiration, which,
while it augmented my thirst, happily supplied me with
imperfect means of appeasing it.
This expedient would perhaps have been accidentally
suggested, but my ingenuity was assisted by remembering
the history of certain English prisoners in Bengal, whom
their merciless enemy imprisoned in a small room, and some
of whom preserved themselves alive merely by swallowing
the moisture that flowed from their bodies. This experi¬
ment I now performed with no less success.
This was slender and transitory consolation; I knew that
wandering at random I might never reach the outlet of this
cavern, or might be disabled by hunger and fatigue from
going farther than the outlet. The cravings which had
h 2
1
148
EDGAR HUNTLY.
lately been satiated, would speedily return, and my negli¬
gence had cut me off from the resource which had recently
been furnished: I though not till now that a second meal
might be indispensable.
To return upon my footsteps to the spot where the dead
animal lay, was a heartless project; I might thus be placing
myself at a hopeless distance from liberty ; besides, my
track could not be retraced. I had frequently deviated from
a straight direction for the sake of avoiding impediments;
all that I was sensible 9f was, that I was travelling up an
irregular acclivity. I hoped sometime to reach the summit;
but had no reason for adhering to one line of ascent in pre¬
ference to another.
To remain where I was, was manifestly absurd ; whether
I mounted or descended, a change of place was most likely
to benefit me. I resolved to vary my direction; and, in¬
stead of ascending, keep along the side of what I accounted
a hill. I had gone some hundred feet, when the murmur
before described once more saluted my ear.
This sound being imagined to proceed from a running
stream, could not but light up joy in the heart of one nearly
perishing with thirst; I proceeded with new courage. The
sound approached no nearer, nor became more distinct ; but
as long as it died not away, I was satisfied to listen and to
hope.
I was eagerly observant if any the least glimmering of
light should visit this recess; at length, on the right hand,
a gleam infinitely faint caught my attention. It was wa¬
vering and unequal. I directed my steps towards it. It
became more vivid and permanent; it was of that kind,
however, which proceeded from a fire kindled with dry sticks,
and not from the sun. I now heard the crackling of flames.
This sound made me pause, or at least to proceed with
circumspection. At length the scene opened, and I found
myself at the entrance of a cave. I quickly reached a sta¬
tion whence I saw a fire burning. At first, no other object
was noted; but it was easy to infer that the fire was
kindled by men, and that they who kindled it could be at
no great distance.
edgar huntly.
149
CHAPTER XVII.
Thus was I delivered from my prison, and restored to the
enjoyment of the air and the light. Perhaps the chance
was almost miraculous that led me to this opening: in any
other direction I might have involved myself in an inextri¬
cable maze, and rendered my destruction sure. But what
now remained to place me in absolute security ? Beyond
the fire I could see nothing; but since the smoke rolled
rapidly away, it was plain that on the opposite side, the
cavern was open to the air.
I went forward; but my eyes were fixed upon the fire.
Presently, in consequence of changing my station, I per¬
ceived several feet, and the skirts of blankets. I was some¬
what startled at these appearances. The legs were naked, and
scored with uncouth figures: the mocassins which lay beside
them,, and which were adorned in a grotesque manner, in
addition to other incidents, immediately suggested the sus¬
picion that they were Indians. No spectacle was more
adapted than this to excite wonder and alarm. Had some
mysterious power snatched me from the earth, and cast me
in a moment into the heart of the wilderness ? Was I still
in the vicinity of my paternal habitation, or was I thou¬
sands of miles distant ?
Were these the permanent inhabitants of this region, or
were they wanderers and robbers ? While in the heart of
the mountain I had entertained a vague belief that I was
still within the precincts of Norwalk. This opinion was
shaken for a moment by the objects which I now beheld:
but it insensibly returned: yet, how was this opinion to be
reconciled to appearances so strange and uncouth, and what
measure did a due regard to my safety enjoin me to take ?
I now gained a view of four brawny and terrific figures,
stretched upon the ground. They lay parallel to each other
on their 16ft sides; in consequence of which their faces
were turned from me. Between each was an interval,
h 3
150
EDGAR HUNTLY.
where lay a musket: their right hands seemed placed upon
.the stocks of their guns, as if to seize them on the first
moment of alarm.
The aperture through which these objects were seen, was
at the back of the cave, and some feet from the ground.
It was merely large enough to suffer a human body to pass:
it was involved in profound darkness, and there was no
danger of being suspected or discovered as long as 1 main¬
tained silence, and kept out of view.
It was easily imagined that these guests would make but
a short sojourn in this spot. There was reason to suppose
that it was now night, and that after a short repose, they
would start up and resume their journey. It was my first
design to remain shrouded in this covert till their departure;
and I prepared to endure imprisonment and thirst some¬
what longer.
Meanwhile, my thoughts were busy in accounting for this
spectacle. I need not tell thee that Norwalk is the ter¬
mination of a sterile and narrow tract, which begins in the
Indian country: it forms a sort of rugged and rocky vein,
and continues upwards of fifty miles. It is crossed in a
few places by narrow and intricate paths, by which a com¬
munication is maintained between the farms and settlements
on the opposite sides of the ridge.
During former Indian wars, this rude surface was some¬
times traversed by the Red-men ; and they made, by means
of it, frequent and destructive inroads into the heart of the
English settlements. During the last war, notwithstanding
the progress of population, and the multiplied perils of such
an expedition, a band of them had once penetrated into
Norwalk, and lingered long enough to pillage and murder
some of the neighbouring inhabitants.
I have reason to remember that event. My father's
house was placed on the verge of this solitude ; eight of
these assassins assailed it at the dead of night: my parents
and an infant child were murdered in their beds ; the house
was pillaged, and then burnt to the ground: happily, my¬
self and my two sisters were abroad upon a visit. The
preceding day had been fixed for our return to our father's
house; but a storm occurred, which made it dangerous to
EDGAR HUNTLY.
151
cross the river; and by obliging us to defer our journey,
rescued us from captivity or death.
Most men are haunted by some species of terror or an¬
tipathy, which they are for the most part able to trace to
some incident which befell them in their early years. You
will not be surprised that the fate of my parents, and the
sight of the body of one of this savage band, who, in the
pursuit that was made after them, was overtaken and killed,
should produce lasting and terrific images in my fancy: I
never looked upon, or called up the image of a savage,
without shuddering.
I knew that at this time some hostilities had been com¬
mitted on the frontier — that a long course of injuries and
encroachments had lately exasperated the Indian tribes —
that an implacable and exterminating war was generally
expected : we imagined ourselves at an inaccessible distance
from the danger; but I could not but remember that this
persuasion was formerly as strong as at present, and that
an expedition which had once succeeded, might possibly be
attempted again : here was every token of enmity and
bloodshed; each prostrate figure was furnished with a
rifled musket and a leathern bag tied round his waist, which
was probably stored with powder and ball.
From these reflections, the sense of my own danger was
revived and enforced; but I likewise ruminated on the
evils which might impend over others: I should, no doubt,
be safe by remaining in this nook; but might not some
means be pursued to warn others of their danger ? Should
they leave this spot without notice of their approach being
given to the fearless and pacific tenants of the neighbour¬
ing district, they might commit in a few hours the most
horrid and irreparable devastation.
The alarm could only be diffused in one way. Could I
not escape unperceived, and without alarming the sleepers,
from this cavern ? The slumber of an Indian is broken
by the slightest noise; but if all noise be precluded, it is
commonly profound. It was possible, I conceived, to leave
my present post, to descend into the cave, and issue forth
without the smallest signal: their supine posture assured
me that they were asleep: sleep usually comes at their
D 4
152
EDGAR HUNTLY.
bidding; and if, perchance, they should be wakeful at an
unseasonable moment, they always sit upon their haunches,
and leaning their elbows on their knees, consume the tedious
hours in smoking. My peril would be great: accidents
which I could not foresee, and over which I had no com¬
mand, might occur, to awaken some one at the moment I
was passing the fire: should I pass in safety, I might issue
forth into a wilderness of which I had no knowledge, where
I might wander till I perished with famine, or where my
footsteps might be noted and pursued, and overtaken by
these implacable foes. These perils were enormous and
imminent: but I likewise considered that I might be at no
great distance from the habitations of men, and that my
escape might rescue them from the most dreadful calamities.
I determined to make this dangerous experiment without
delay.
I came nearer to the aperture, and had consequently a
larger view of this recess. To my unspeakable dismay, I
now caught a glimpse of one, seated at the fire : his back
was turned towards me, so that I could distinctly survey
his gigantic form and fantastic ornaments.
My project was frustrated. This one was probably
commissioned to watch and to awaken his companions when
a due portion of sleep had been taken: that he would not
be unfaithful or remiss in the performance of the part as¬
signed to him, was easily predicted: to pass him without
exciting his notice, and the entrance could not otherwise be
reached, was impossible. Once more I shrunk back, and
revolved with hopelessness and anguish the necessity to
which I was reduced.
This interval of dreary foreboding did not last long.
Some motion in him that was seated by the fire attracted
my notice: I looked, and beheld him rise from his place
and go forth from the cavern. This unexpected incident
led my thoughts into a new channel. Could not some ad¬
vantage be taken of his absence ? Could not this oppor¬
tunity be seised for making my escape ? He had left his
gun and hatchet on the ground: it was likely, therefore,
that he had not gone far, and would speedily return. Might
not these weapons be seised, and some provision be thus
EDGAR HUNTLY.
153
made against the danger of meeting him without, or of
being pursued ?
Before a resolution could be formed, a new sound saluted
my ear: it was a deep groan, succeeded by sobs that seemed
struggling for utterance, but were vehemently counteracted
by the sufferer. This low and bitter lamentation appa¬
rently proceeded from some one within the cave: — it
could not be from one of this swarthy band: it must then
proceed from a captive whom they had reserved for torment
or servitude, and who had seized the opportunity afforded
by the absence of him that watched, to give vent to his
despair.
I again thrust my head forward, and beheld lying on
the ground apart from the rest, and bound hand and foot,
a young girl. Her dress was the coarse russet garb of the
country, and bespoke her to be some farmer's daughter,
Her features denoted the last degree of fear and anguish;
and she moved her limbs in such a manner as showed that
the ligatures by which she was confined, produced by their
tightness, the utmost degree of pain.
My wishes were now bent, not only to preserve myself,
and to frustrate the future attempts of these savages, but
likewise to relieve this miserable victim. This could only
be done by escaping from the cavern, and returning with
seasonable aid :—the sobs of the girl were likely to rouse
the sleepers: my appearance before her would prompt her
to testify her surprise by some exclamation or shriek.
What could hence be predicted but that the band would
start on their feet, and level their unerring pieces at my
head ?
I know not why I was insensible to these dangers. My
thirst was rendered by these delays intolerable; it took
from me in some degree the power of deliberation : the
murmurs which had drawn me hither continued still to be
heard; some torrent or cascade could not be far distant
from the entrance of the cavern, and it seemed as if one
draught of clear water was a luxury cheaply purchased by
death itself: this, in addition to considerations more dis¬
interested, and which I have already mentioned, impelled
me forward.
154
EDGAR. HUNTLY.
The girl's cheek rested on the hard rock, and her eyes
were dim with tears; as they were turned towards me,
however, I hoped that my movements would be noticed by
her gradually, and hence lessen her surprise. This expect¬
ation was fulfilled: I had not advanced many steps before
she discovered me. This moment was critical beyond all
others in the course of my existence — my life was sus¬
pended, as it were, by a spider's thread; all rested on the
effect which this discovery should make upon this feeble
victim.
I was watchful of the first movement of her eye which
should indicate a consciousness of my presence : I laboured,
by gestures and looks,v to deter her from betraying her
emotion: my attention was at the same time fixed upon
the sleepers, and an anxious glance was cast towards the
quarter whence the watchful savage might appear.
I stooped and seized the musket and hatchet. The space
beyond the fire was, I expected, open to the air: I issued
forth with trembling steps : the sensations inspired by the
dangers which environed me, added to my recent horrors,
and the influence of the moon, which had now gained the
zenith, and whose lustre dazzled my long benighted senses,
cannot be adequately described.
For a minute I was unable to distinguish objects: this
confusion was speedily corrected, and I found myself on
the verge of a steep. Craggy eminences arose on all sides:
on the left hand was a space that offered some footing; and
hither I turned: a torrent was below me, and this path
appeared to lead to it: it quickly appeared in sight, and all
foreign cares were for a time suspended.
This water fell from the upper regions of the hill, upon
a flat projecture which was continued on either side, and on
part of which I was now standing. The path was bounded
on the left by an inaccessible wall, and on the right ter¬
minated at the distance of two or three feet from the wall,
in a precipice: the water was eight or ten paces distant,
and no impediment seemed likely to rise between us. I
rushed forward with speed.
My progress was quickly checked. Close to the falling
water, seated on the edge, his back supported by the rock,
EDGAR HUNTLY.
155
and his legs hanging over the precipice, I now beheld the
savage who left the cave before me : the noise of the cascade,
and the improbability of interruption, at least from this
quarter, had made him inattentive to my motions.
I paused. Along this verge lay the only road by which
I could escape: the passage was completely occupied by
this antagonist: to advance towards him, or to remain where
I was, would produce the same effect — I should, in either
case, be detected. He was unarmed; but his outcries would
instantly summon his companions to his aid: I could not
hope to overpower him, and pass him in defiance of his
opposition ; but if this were effected, pursuit would be in¬
stantly commenced : I was unacquainted with the way; the
way was unquestionably difficult: my strength was nearly
annihilated ; I should be overtaken in a moment, or their
deficiency in speed would be supplied by the accuracy of
their aim: their bullets, at least, would reach me.
There was one method of removing this impediment:
the piece which I held in my hand was cocked; there could
be no doubt that it was loaded — a precaution of this kind
would never be omitted by a warrior of this hue: at a
greater distance than this, I should not fear to reach the
mark. Should I not discharge it, and at the same moment
rush forward to secure the road which my adversary's death
would open to me ?
Perhaps you will conceive a purpose like this to have
argued a sanguinary and murderous disposition. Let it be
remembered, however, that I entertained no doubts about
the hostile designs of these men : this was sufficiently indi¬
cated by their arms, their guise, and the captive who at¬
tended them. Let the fate of my parents be likewise
remembered: I was not certain but that these very men
were the assassins of my family, and were those who
had reduced me and my sisters to the condition of orphans
and dependants. No words can describe the torment of
my thirst: relief to these torments, and safety to my life
were within view. How could I hesitate ?
Yet I did hesitate: my aversion to bloodshed was not
to be subdued but by the direst necessity. I knew, indeed,
that the discharge of a musket would only alarm the enemies
156'
EDGAR HUNTLY.
which remained behind; but I had another and a better
weapon in my grasp: I could rive the head of my adver¬
sary, and cast him headlong, without any noise which should
be heard, into the eavern.
Still I was willing to withdraw, to re-enter the cave, and
take shelter in the darksome recesses from which I had
emerged: here I might remain unsuspected till these de¬
tested guests should depart: the hazards attending my re-
entrance were to be boldly encountered, and the torments of
unsatisfied thirst were to be patiently endured, rather than
imbrue my hands in the blood of my fellow men. But this
expedient would be ineffectual if my retreat should be ob¬
served by this savage: of that I was bound to be incon-
testibly assured: I retreated, therefore, but kept my eye
fixed at the same time upon the enemy.
Some ill fate decreed that I should not retreat unobserved.
Scarcely had I withdrawn three paces when he started from
his seat, and turning towards me, walked with a quick pace.
The shadow of the rock, and the improbability of meeting
an enemy here, concealed me for a moment from his ob¬
servation. I stood still: the slightest motion would have
attracted his notice; at present, the narrow space engaged
all his vigilance: cautious footsteps, and attention to the
path, were indispensable to his safety. The respite was
momentary, and I employed it in my own defence.
How otherwise could I act ? The danger that impended,
aimed at nothing less than my life; to take the life of
another was the only method of averting it: the means
were in my hand, and they were used: in an extremity
like this, my muscles would have acted almost in defiance
of my will.
The stroke was quick as lightning, and the wound mortal
and deep: he had not time to descry the author of his fate;
but, sinking on the path, expired without a groan. The
hatchet buried itself in his breast, and rolled with him to
the bottom of the precipice.
Never before had I taken the life of a human creature:
on this head I had, indeed, entertained somewhat of reli¬
gious scruples: these scruples did not forbid me to defend
myself, but they made me cautious and reluctant to decide;
edgar huntly.
157
though they could not withold my hand when urged by a
necessity like this, they were sufficient to make me look
back upon the deed with remorse and dismay.
I did not escape all compunction in the present instance;
but the tumult of my feelings was quickly allayed. To
quench my thirst was a consideration by which all others
were supplanted : I approached the torrent, and not only
drank copiously, but laved my head, neck, and arms, in
this delicious element.
CHAPTER XVIII.
Never was any delight worthy of comparison with the
raptures which I then experienced. Life, that was rapidly
ebbing, appeared to return upon me with redoubled violence;
my languors, my excruciating heat, vanished in a moment;
and I felt prepared to undergo the labours of Hercules.
Having fully supplied the demands of nature in this respect,
I returned to reflection on the circumstances of my situa¬
tion. The path winding round the hill was now free from
all impediments. What remained but to precipitate my
flight ? I might speedily place myself beyond all danger; I
might gain some hospitable shelter, where my fatigues might
be repaired by repose, and my wounds be cured; I might
likewise impart to my protectors seasonable information of
the enemies who meditated their destruction.
I thought upon the condition of the hapless girl whom I
had left in the power of the savages. Was it impossible to
rescue her ? Might I not relieve her from her bonds, and
make her the companion of my flight ? The exploit was
perilous, but not impracticable: there was something das¬
tardly and ignominious in withdrawing from the danger,
and leaving a helpless being exposed to it: a single minute
might suffice to snatch her from death or captivity : the
parents might deserve that I should hazard, or even sacri¬
fice, my life in the cause of their child. $
After some fluctuation, I determined to return to the
158
EDGAR HUNTLY.
cavern, and attempt the rescue of the girl. The success of
this project depended on the continuance of their sleep : it
was proper to approach with wariness, and to heed the
smallest token which might bespeak their condition. I
crept along the path, bending my ear forward to catch any
sound that might arise. I heard nothing but the half-
stifled sobs of the girl.
I entered with the slowest and most anxious circumspec¬
tion : every thing was found in its pristine state. The
girl noticed my entrance with a mixture of terror and joy :
my gestures and looks enjoined-upon her silence. I stooped
down, and taking another hatchet, cut asunder the deer¬
skin thongs by which her wrists and ankles were tied ; I
then made signs for her to rise and follow me. She will¬
ingly complied with my directions; but her benumbed
joints and lacerated sinews refused to support her: there
was no time to be lost; I therefore lifted her in my arms,
and, feeble and tottering as I was, proceeded with this bur¬
den along the perilous steep, and over a most rugged path.
I hoped that some exertion would enable her to retrieve
the use of her limbs: I set her, therefore, on her feet,
exhorting her to walk as well as she was able, and pro¬
mising her my occasional assistance. The poor girl was
not deficient in zeal, and presently moved along with light
and quick steps: we speedily reached the bottom of the
hill.
No fancy can conceive a scene more wild and desolate
than that which now presented itself. The soil was nearly
covered with sharp fragments of stone; between these
sprung brambles and creeping vines, whose twigs crossing
and intertwining with each other, added to the roughness
below, made the passage infinitely toilsome. Scattered over
this space were single cedars, with their ragged spines and
wreaths of moss, and copses of dwarf oaks, which were
only new emblems of sterility.
I was wholly unacquainted with the scene before me:
no marks of habitation or culture, no traces of the footsteps
of men, were discernible: I scarcely knew in what region
of the globe I was placed ; I had come hither by means so
EDGAR HUNTLY.
159
inexplicable, as to leave it equally in doubt whether I was
separated from my paternal abode by a river or an ocean.
I made enquiries of my companion; but she was unable
to talk coherently: she answered my questions with weep¬
ing and sobs, and entreaties to fly from the scene of her
distress. I collected from her, at length, that her father's
house had been attacked on the preceding evening, and all
the family but herself destroyed : since this disaster she
had walked very fast and a great way, but knew not how
far or in what direction.
In a wilderness like this, my only hope was to light upon
obscure paths, made by cattle. Meanwhile, I endeavoured
to adhere to one line, and to burst through the vexatious
obstacles which encumbered our way. The ground was
concealed by the bushes, and we were perplexed and fa¬
tigued by a continual succession of hollows and prominences:
at one moment we were nearly thrown headlong into a pit,
at another we struck our feet against the angles of stones:
the branches of the oak rebounded in our faces or entan¬
gled our legs, and the unseen thorns inflicted on us a
thousand wounds.
I was obliged in these arduous circumstances to support,
not only myself, but my companion : her strength was over¬
powered by her evening journey, and the terror of being
overtaken incessantly harassed her.
Sometimes we lighted upon tracks which afforded us an
easier footing, and inspired us with courage to proceed :
these for a time terminated at a brook, or in a bog, and
we were once more compelled to go forward at ran¬
dom. One of these tracks insensibly became more beaten,
and at length exhibited the traces of wheels. To this I
adhered, confident that it would finally conduct us to a
dwelling.
On either side, the undergrowth of shrubs and brambles
continued as before : sometimes small tracts were observed
which had lately been cleared by fire. At length a vacant
space of larger dimensions than had hitherto occurred, pre¬
sented itself to my view : it was a field of some acres that
had apparently been upturned by the hoe. At the corner
of this field was a small house.
160
EDGAR HUNTLY.
My heart leaped with joy at this sight: I hastened to¬
wards it in the hope that my uncertainties and toils and
dangers were now drawing to a close. This dwelling was
suited to the poverty and desolation which surrounded it:
it consisted of a few unhewn logs laid upon each other, to
the height of eight or ten feet, including a quadrangular
space of similar dimensions, and covered by thatch: there
was no window, light being sufficiently admitted into the
crevices between the logs ; these had formerly been loosely
plastered with clay, but air and rain had crumbled and
washed the greater part of this rude cement away: some¬
what like a chimney, built of half-burned bricks, was per¬
ceived at one corner; the door was fastened by a leathern
thong tied to a peg.
All within was silence and darkness. I knocked at the
door and called; but no one moved or answered : the
tenant, whoever he was, was absent. His leave could not
be obtained; and I therefore entered without it. The
autumn had made some progress, and the air was frosty
and sharp: my mind and muscles had been of late so
strenuously occupied, that the cold had not been felt : the
cessation of exercise, however, quickly restored my sensi¬
bility in this respect; but the unhappy girl complained of
being half frozen.
Fire, therefore, was the first object of my search:
happily, seme embers were found upon the hearth, together
with potato stalks and dry chips; and of these, with
much difficulty, I kindled a fire, by which some warmth
was imparted to our shivering limbs. The light enabled
me, as I sat upon the ground, to survey the interior of this
mansion.
Three saplings, stripped of their branches, and bound
together at their ends by twigs, formed a kind of bedstead,
which was raised from the ground by four stones; ropes
stretched across these, and covered by a blanket, consti¬
tuted the bed: a board, of which one end rested on the
bedstead, and the other was thrust between the logs that
composed the wall, sustained the stale fragments of a rye
loaf; a cedar bucket, kept entire by withs instead of hoops,
in which was a little water, full of droppings from the
EDGAR HUNTLY.
161
roof, drowned insects, and sand; a basket or two, neatly
made; and a hoe, with a stake thrust into it by way of
handle; made up all the furniture that was visible.
Next to cold, hunger was the most urgent necessity by
which we were now pressed. This was no time to give
ear to scruples: we therefore unceremoniously divided the
bread and the water between us. I had now leisure to
bestow some regards upon the future.
These remnants of fire and food convinced me that this
dwelling was usually inhabited, and that it had lately been
deserted. Some engagement had probably carried the
tenant abroad: his absence might be terminated in a few
minutes, or might endure through the night. On his
return I questioned not my power to appease any indig¬
nation he might feel at the liberties which I had taken : I
was willing to suppose him one who would readily afford
us all the information and succour that we needed.
If he should not return till sunrise, I meant to resume
my journey. By the comfortable meal we had made, and
the repose of a few hours, we should be considerably in¬
vigorated and refreshed, and the road would lead us to
some more hospitable tenement.
My thoughts were too tumultuous, and my situation too
precarious, to allow me to sleep : the girl, on the contrary,
soon sunk into a sweet oblivion of all her cares : she laid
herself, by my advice, upon the bed, and left me to rumi¬
nate without interruption.
I was not wholly free from the apprehension of danger.
What influence his boisterous and solitary life might have
upon the temper of the being who inhabited this hut,
I could not predict: how soon the Indians might awake,
and what path they would pursue, I was equally unable to
guess ; it was by no means impossible that they might tread
upon my footsteps, and knock in a few minutes at the door
of this cottage. It behoved me to make all the preparation
in my power against untoward incidents.
I had not parted with the gun which I had first seized in
the cavern, nor with the hatchet which I had afterwards
used to cut the bands of the girl. These were at once my
trophies and my means of defence, which it had been rash
M
162
EDGAR HUNTLY.
and absurd to have relinquished. My present reliance was
placed upon these.
I now, for the first time, examined the prize that I had
made : other considerations had prevented me till now from
examining the structure of the piece; but I could not but
observe that it had two barrels, and was lighter and smaller
than an ordinary musket. The light of the fire now enabled
me to inspect it with more accuracy.
Scarcely had I fixed my eyes upon the stock, when I
perceived marks that were familiar to my apprehension.
Shape, ornaments, and ciphers were evidently the same with
those of a piece which I had frequently handled : the marks
were of a kind which could not be mistaken. This piece
was mine ; and when I left my uncle's house it was depo¬
sited, as I believed, in the closet of my chamber.
Thou wilt easily conceive the inference which this cir¬
cumstance suggested. My hairs rose, and my teeth chat¬
tered -with horror — my whole frame was petrified; and I
paced to and fro, hurried from the chimney to the door,
and from the door to the chimney, with the misguided fury
of a maniac.
I needed no proof of my calamity more incontestible
than this : — my uncle and my sisters had been murdered;
the dwelling had been pillaged, and this had been a part
of the plunder. Defenceless and asleep, they were assailed
by these inexorable enemies; and I, who ought to have
been their protector and champion, was removed to an im¬
measurable distance, and was disabled by some accursed
chance from affording them the succour which they
needed.
For a time, I doubted whether I had not witnessed and
shared this catastrophe : I had no memory of the circum¬
stances that preceded my awaking in the pit. Had not the
cause of my being cast into this abyss some connection with
he ruin of my family ? Had I not been dragged hither by
these savages, and reduced by their malice to that breath¬
less and insensible condition ? Was I born to a malignant
destiny never tired of persecuting ? Thus had my parents
and their infant offspring perished, and thus completed was
the fate of all those to whom my affections cleaved, and
whom the first disaster had spared.
EDGAR, HUNTLY.
163
Hitherto the death of the savage whom I had despatched
with my hatchet, had not been remembered without some
remorse ; now my emotions were totally changed: I was
somewhat comforted in thinking that thus much of necessary
vengeance bad been executed. New and more vehement
regrets were excited by reflecting on the forbearance I had
practised when so much was in my power : all the mis¬
creants had been at my mercy, and a bloody retribution
might with safety and ease have been inflicted on their
prostrate bodies.
It was now too late. What of consolation or of hope
remained to me ? To return to my ancient dwelling, now
polluted with blood, or perhaps nothing but a smoking
ruin, was abhorred: life, connected with remembrance
of my misfortunes was detestable; I was no longer
anxious for flight: no change of the scene but that
which terminated all consciousness, could I endure to
think of.
Amidst these gloomy meditations, the idea was suddenly
suggested of returning with the utmost expedition to the
cavern. It was possible that the assassins were still asleep:
he who was appointed to watch, and to make in due season
the signal for resuming their march, was for ever silent :
without this signal it was not unlikely that they would sleep
till dawn of day : but if they should be roused, they might
be overtaken or met, and by choosing a proper station, two
victims might at least fall; the ultimate event to myself
would surely be fatal; but my own death was an object of
desire rather than of dread : to die thus speedily, and after
some atonement was made for those who had already been
slain, was sweet.
The way to the mountain was difficult and tedious; but
the ridge was distinctly seen from the door of the cottage,
and I trusted that auspicious chance would lead me to
that part of it where my prey was to be found. I snatched
up the gun and tomahawk in a transport of eagerness: on
examining the former, I found that both barrels were
deeply loaded.
This piece was of extraordinary workmanship : it was
the legacy of an English officer, who died in Bengal, to
m 2
164
EDGAR HUNTLY.
Sarsefield : it was constructed for the purposes, not of spor ,
but of war : the artist had made it a congeries of tubes and
springs, by which every purpose of protection and offence
was effectually served : a dagger's blade was attached to it,
capable of being fixed at the end, and of answering the
destructive purpose of a bayonet. On his departure from
Solebury, my friend left it, as a pledge of his affection, in
my possession : hitherto I had chiefly employed it in shoot¬
ing at a mark, in order to improve my sight; now was I
to profit by it in a different way.
Thus armed, I prepared to sally forth on my adventurous
expedition. Sober views might have speedily succeeded to
the present tempest of my passions ; I might have gra¬
dually discovered the romantic and criminal temerity of my
project, the folly of revenge, and the duty of preserving my
life for the benefit of mankind; I might have suspected
the propriety of my conclusion, and have admitted some
doubts as to the catastrophe which I imagined to have be¬
fallen my uncle and sisters ; I might, at least, have con¬
sented to ascertain their condition with my own eyes, and
for this end have returned to the cottage, and have patiently
waited till the morning light should permit me to resume
my journey.
This conduct was precluded by a new incident. Before
I opened the door, I looked through a crevice of the wall,
and perceived three human figures at the farther end of the
field. They approached the house. Though indistinctly
seen, something in their port persuaded me that these were
the Indians from whom I had lately parted. I was startled,
but not dismayed; my thirst of vengeance was still pow¬
erful, and I believed that the moment of its gratification
was hastening. In a short time they would arrive, and
enter the house. In what manner should they be re¬
ceived ?
I studied not my own security : it was the scope of my
wishes to kill the whole number of my foes ; but that being
done, I was indifferent to the consequences: I desired not
to live to relate or to exult in the deed.
To go forth was perilous and useless: all that remained
was to sit upon the ground opposite the door, and fire at
EDGAR HUNTDY.
165
each as he entered. In the hasty survey I had taken of
this apartment, one object had been overlooked or imper¬
fectly noticed: close to the chimney was an aperture,
formed by a cavity partly in the wall and in the ground :
it was the entrance of an oven, which resembled, on the
outside, a mound of earth, and which was filled with dry
stalks of potatoes and other rubbish.
Into this it was impossible to thrust my body : a sort of
screen might be formed of the brushwood, and more de¬
liberate and effectual execution be done upon the enemy.
I weighed not the disadvantages of this scheme, but pre¬
cipitately threw myself into this cavity. I discovered in
an instant that it was totally unfit for my purpose; but it
was too late to repair my miscarriage.
This wall of the hovel was placed near the verge of a
sandbank; the oven was erected on the very brink: this
bank being of a loose and mutable soil, could not sustain
my weight; it sunk, and I sunk along with it. The
height of the bank was three or four feet; so that, though
disconcerted and embarrassed, I received no injury : I
still grasped my gun, and resumed my feet in a mo¬
ment.
What was now to be done ? The bank screened me
from the view of the savages; the thicket was hard by,
and if I were eager to escape, the way was obvious and
sure. But though single, though enfeebled by toil, by ab¬
stinence, and by disease, and though so much exceeded in
number and strength by my foes, I was determined to
await and provoke the contest.
In addition to the desperate impulse of passion, I was
swayed by thoughts of .the danger which beset the sleeping
girl, and from which my flight would leave her without
protection. How strange is the destiny that governs man¬
kind ! The consequence of shrouding myself in this cavity
had not been foreseen : it was an expedient which courage,
and not cowardice suggested ; and yet it was the only ex¬
pedient by which flight had been rendered practicable : to
have issued from the door would only have been to con¬
front, and not to elude the danger.
The first impulse prompted me to re-enter the cottage by
m 3
166 EDGAR IIUNTEY.
this avenue; but this could not be done with certainty and
expedition. What then remained ? While I deliberated,
the men approached, and after a moment's hesitation, en¬
tered the house, the door being partly open.
The fire on the hearth enabled them to survey the room:
one of them uttered a sudden exclamation of surprise. This
was easily interpreted: — they had noticed the girl who
had lately been their captive, lying asleep on the blanket:
their astonishment at finding her here, and in this condition,
may be easily conceived.
I now refiected that I might place myself, without being
observed, near the entrance, at an angle of the building,
and shoot at each as he successively came forth. I per¬
ceived that the bank conformed to two sides of the house,
and that I might gain a view of the front and of the en¬
trance without exposing myself to observation.
I lost no time in gaining this station. The bank was as
high as my breast: it was easy, therefore, to crouch beneath
it, to bring my eye close to the verge, and, laying my gun
upon the top of it among the grass, with its muzzles pointed
to the door, patiently to rvait their forthcoming.
My eye and my ear were equally attentive to what was
passing : a low and muttering conversation was maintained
in the house. Presently I heard a heavy stroke descend.
I shuddered, and my blood ran cold at the sound : I enter¬
tained no doubt but that it was the stroke of a hatchet on
the head or breast of the helpless sleeper.
It was followed by a loud shriek: the continuance of
these shrieks proved that the stroke had not been instantly
fatal. I waited to hear it repeated ; but the sounds that
now arose were like those produced by dragging somewhat
along the ground : the shrieks, meanwhile, were incessant
and piteous. My heart faltered, and I saw that mighty
efforts must be made to preserve my joints and my nerves
steadfast:—all depended on the strenuous exertions and the
fortunate dexterity of a moment.
One now approached the door, and came forth dragging
the girl, whom he held by the hair, after him. What hin¬
dered me from shooting at his first appearance, I know not;
this had been my previous resolution : my hand touched
EDGAR HUNTLY.
167
the trigger; and as he moved, the piece was levelled at his
right ear. Perhaps the momentous consequences of my
failure made me wait til] his ceasing to move might render
my aim more sure.
Having dragged the girl, still piteously shrieking, to the
distance of ten feet from the house, he threw her from him
with violence. She fell upon the ground; and observing
him level his piece at her breast, renewed her supplications
in a still more piercing tone. Little did the forlorn wretch
think that her deliverance was certain and near. I rebuked
myself for having thus long delayed: I fired, and my
enemy sunk upon the ground without a struggle.
Thus far had success attended me in this unequal con¬
test. The next shot would leave me nearly powerless: if
that, however, proved as unerring as the first, the chances of
defeat were lessened. The savages within, knowing the
intentions of their associate with regard to the captive girl,
would probably mistake the report which they heard for
that of his piece. Their mistake, however, would speedily
give place to doubts, and they would rush forth to ascertain
the truth. It behoved me to provide a similar reception
for him that next appeared.
It was as I expected. Scarcely was my eye again fixed upon
the entrance, when a tawny and terrific visage was stretched
fearfully forth : it was the signal of his fate. His glances,
cast wildly and swiftly round, lighted upon me,- and on
the fatal instrument which was pointed at his forehead.
His muscles were at once exerted to withdraw his head,
and to vociferate a warning to his fellow, but his movement
was too slow — the ball entered above his ear : he tumbled
headlong to the ground, bereaved of sensation, though not
of life, and had power only to struggle and mutter.
CHAPTER XIX.
Think not that I relate these things with exultation or
tranquillity: all my education and the habits of my life
m 4-
168
EDGAR HUN1LY.
tended to unfit me for a contest and a scene like this. But I
ivas not governed by the soul which usually regulates my
conduct; I had imbibed from the unparalleled events which
had lately happened a spirit vengeful, unrelenting, and
ferocious.
There was now an interval for flight; throwing my
weapons away, I might gain the thicket in a moment: I
had no ammunition, nor would time be afforded me to re¬
load my piece; my antagonist would render my poniard
and my speed of no use to me : should he miss me as I fled,
the girl would remain to expiate, by her agonies and death,
the fate of his companions.
These thoughts passed through my mind in a shorter
time than is demanded to express them ; they yielded to an
expedient suggested by the sight of the gun that had been
raised to destroy the girl, and which now lay upon the
ground. T am not large of bone, but am not deficient in agi¬
lity and strength: all that remained to me of these qualities
was now exerted ; and dropping my own piece, I leaped
upon the bank, and flew to seize my prize.
It was not till I snatched it from the ground, that the
propriety of regaining my former post rushed upon my
apprehension. He that was still posted in the hovel would
mark me through the seams of the wall, and render my
destruction sure. I once more ran towards the bank, with
the intention to throw myself below it: all this was per¬
formed in an instant ; but my vigilant foe was aware of his
advantage, and fired through an opening between the logs :
the bullet grazed my cheek, and produced a benumbing
sensation that made me instantly fall to the earth. Though
bereaved of strength, and fraught with the belief that I had
received a mortal wound, my caution was not remitted ; I
loosened not my grasp of the gun ; and the posture into
which I accidentally fell, enabled me to keep an eye upon
the house, and a hand upon the trigger. Perceiving my
condition, the savage rushed from his covert in order to
complete his work ; but at three steps from the threshold
he received my bullet in his breast. The uplifted toma¬
hawk fell from his hand, and uttering a loud shriek, he fell
upon the body of his companion : his cries struck upon my
\
EDGAR HUNTLY.
169
heart, and I wished that his better fortune had cast this
evil from him upon me.
Thus I have told thee a bloody and disastrous tale:
when thou reflectest on the mildness of my habits, my an¬
tipathy to scenes of violence and bloodshed, my unacquaint-
ance with the use of fire-arms, and the motives of a soldier,
thou wilt scarcely allow credit to my story: that one rushing
into these dangers, unfurnished with stratagems or weapons,
disheartened and enfeebled by hardships and pain, should
subdue four antagonists, trained from their infancy to the
artifices and exertions of Indian warfare, will seem the vision
of fancy, rather than the lesson of truth.
I lifted my head from the ground, and pondered upon
the scene : the magnitude of this exploit made me question
its reality. By attending to my own sensations, I discovered
that I had received no wound, or at least none of which
there was reason to complain: the blood flowed plentifully
from my cheek, but the injury was superficial. It was
otherwise with my antagonists : the last that had fallen now
ceased to groan: their huge limbs, inured to combat and
war-worn, were useless to their own defence, and to the
injury of others.
The destruction that I witnessed was vast. — Three
beings, full of energy and heroism, endowed with minds
strenuous and lofty, poured out their lives before me: I
was the instrument of their destruction-—this scene of car¬
nage and blood was laid by me; to this havoc and horror
was I led by such rapid footsteps !
My anguish was mingled with astonishment: in spite of
the force and uniformity with which my senses were im¬
pressed by external objects, the transition I had undergone
was so wild and inexplicable —all that I had performed, all
that I had witnessed since my egress from the pit, were so
contradictory to precedent events, that I still clung to the
belief that my thoughts were confused by delirium. From
these reveries I was at length recalled by the groans of the
girl, who lay near me on the ground.
I went to her, and endeavoured to console her. I found
that while lying in the bed she had received a blow upon
the side, which was still productive of acute pain: she was
170
EDGAR HUNTLY.
unable to rise or to walk, and it was plain that one or more
of her ribs had been fractured by the blow.
I knew not what means to devise for our mutual relief:
it was possible that the nearest dwelling was many leagues
distant: I knew not in what direction to go in order to find
it, and my strength would not suffice to carry my wounded
companion thither in my arms : there was no expedient but
to remain in this field of blood till the morning.
I had scarcely formed this resolution before the report of
a musket was heard at a small distance : at the same moment
I distinctly heard the whistling of a bullet near me. I now
remembered that of the five Indians whom I saw in the
cavern, I was acquainted with the destiny only of four : the
fifth might be still alive, and Fortune might reserve for
him the task of avenging his companions : his steps might
now be tending hither in search of them.
The musket belonging to him who was shot upon the
threshold, was still charged: it was discreet to make all the
provision in my power against danger. I possessed myself
of his gun; and seating myself on the ground, looked care¬
fully on all sides, to descry the approach of the enemy. I
listened with breathless eagerness.
Presently voices were heard: they ascended from that
part of the thicket from which my view was intercepted by
the cottage. These voices had something in them that be¬
spoke them to belong to friends and countrymen: as yet I
was unable to distinguish words.
Presently my eye was attracted to one quarter by a sound
as of feet trampling down bushes: several heads were seen
moving in succession, and at length the whole person was
conspicuous. One after another leaped over a kind of
mound which bordered the field, and made towards the
spot where I sat. This band was composed of ten or
twelve persons, with each a gun upon his shoulder. Their
guise, the moment it was perceived, dissipated all my ap¬
prehensions.
They came within the distance of a few paces before they
discovered me. One stopped, and bespeaking the atten¬
tion of his followers, called to know who was there. I
answered that I was a friend, who entreated their assistance.
EDGAR HUKTLY.
171
I shall not paint their astonishment when, on coming nearer,
they beheld me surrounded by the arms and dead bodies
of my enemies.
I sat upon the ground, supporting my head with my left
hand, and resting on my knee the stock of a heavy musket.
My countenance was wan and haggard, my neck and bo¬
som were died in blood, and my limbs, almost stripped by
the brambles of their slender covering, were lacerated by a
thousand wounds. Three savages, two of whom were
steeped in gore, lay at a small distance, with the traces of
recent life on their visages. Hard by was the girl, venting
her anguish in the deepest groans, and entreating relief from
the new comers.
One of the company, on approaching the girl, betrayed
the utmost perturbation.
" Good God!" he cried, " is this a dream? — Can it
be you ? — Speak !"
" Ah, my father ! my father!" answered she, "it is I
indeed!"
The company, attracted by this dialogue, crowded round
the girl, whom her father, clasping in his arms, lifted from
the ground, and pressed in a transport of joy to his breast.
This delight was succeeded by solicitude respecting her
condition. She could only answer his enquiries by com¬
plaining that her side was bruised to pieces. " How came
you here ? Who hurt you ? Where did the Indians carry
you ?" were questions to which she could make no reply
but by sobs and plaints.
My own calamities were forgotten in contemplating the
fondness and compassion of the man for his child. I
derived new joy from reflecting that I had not abandoned
her, and that she owed her preservation to my efforts. The
enquiries which the girl was unable to answer, were now
put to me. Every one interrogated who I was, whence I
had come, and what had given rise to this bloody contest.
I was not willing to expatiate on my story. The spirit
which had hitherto sustained me began now to subside; my
strength ebbed away with my blood; tremors, lassitude, and
deadly cold invaded me, and I fainted on the ground.
Such is the capricious constitution of the human mind!
172
EDGAR HUNTLY.
While dangers were at hand, while my life was to be pre¬
served only by zeal and vigilance and courage, I was no^
wanting to myself. Had my perils continued, or even mul¬
tiplied, no doubt my energies would have kept equal pace
with them; but the moment that I was encompassed by
protectors, and placed in security, I grew powerless and
faint. My weakness was proportioned to the duration
and intensity of my previous efforts, and the swoon into
which 1 now sunk was no doubt mistaken by the spectators
for death.
On recovering from this swoon my sensations were not
unlike those which I had experienced on awaking in the pit.
For a moment a mistiness involved every object, and I was
able to distinguish nothing. My sight by rapid degrees
was restored, my painful dizziness was banished, and 1 sur¬
veyed the scene before me with anxiety and wonder.
I found myself stretched upon the ground. I perceived
the cottage and the neighbouring thicket, illuminated by a
declining moon. My head rested upon something, which,
on turning to examine, I found to be one of the slain In¬
dians : the other two remained upon the earth at a small
distance, and in the attitudes in which they had fallen.
Their arms, the wounded girl, and the troop who were near
me when I fainted, were gone.
My head had reposed upon the breast of him whom I
had shot in this part of his body. The blood had ceased
to ooze from the wound; but my dishevelled locks were
matted and steeped in that gore which had overflowed and
choked up the orifice. I started from this detestable pillow,
and regained my feet.
I did not suddenly recall what had lately passed, or com¬
prehend the nature of my situation. At length, however,
late events were recollected.
That I should be abandoned in this forlorn state by these
men, seemed to argue a degree of cowardice or cruelty of
which I should have thought them incapable. Presently,
however, I reflected that appearances might have easily misled
them into a belief of my death : — on this supposition, to
have carried me away, or to have stayed beside me, would
be useless : other enemies might be abroad, or their families,
\
now that their fears were somewhat tranquillised, might
require their presence and protection.
I went into the cottage. The fire still burned, and
afforded me a genial warmth. I sat before it, and began
to ruminate on the state to which I was reduced, and on
the measures I should next pursue. Daylight could not be
very distant: should I remain in this hovel till the morn¬
ing, or immediately resume my journey ? I was feeble,
indeed; but by remaining here, should I not increase my
feebleness ? The sooner I should gain some human ha¬
bitation the better; whereas watchfulness and hunger would
render me at each minute less able to proceed than on the
former.
This spot might be visited on the next day; but this
was involved in uncertainty : the visitants, should any
come, would come merely to examine and bury the dead,
and bring with them neither the clothing nor the food which
my necessities demanded. The road was sufficiently dis¬
cernible, and would unavoidably conduct me to some dwell¬
ing. I determined, therefore, to set out without delay.
Even in this state I was not unmindful that my safety
might require the precaution of being armed : besides, the
fusee which had been given me by Sarsefield, and which I
had so unexpectedly recovered, had lost none of its value
in my eyes : I hoped that it had escaped the search of the
troop who had been here, and still lay below the bank in
the spot where I had dropped it.
In this hope I was not deceived — it was found : I pos¬
sessed myself of the powder and shot belonging to one of
the savages, and loaded it. Thus equipped for defence, I
regained the road, and proceeded with alacrity on my way.
For the wound in my cheek Nature had provided a styptic ;
but the soreness was extreme, and I thought of no remedy
but water, with which I might wash away the blood; my
thirst likewise incommoded me, and I looked with eager¬
ness for the traces of a spring. In a soil like that of the
wilderness around me, nothing was less to be expected than
to light upon water. In this respect, however, my destiny
was propitious : I quickly perceived water in the ruts: —
it trickled hither from the thicket on one side, and pur-
EDGAR IIUNTLY.
174
EDGAR HUNTLY.
suing it among the bushes, I reached the bubbling source:
though scanty and brackish, it afforded me unspeakable
refreshment.
Thou wilt think, perhaps, that my perils were now at an
end — that the blood I had already shed was sufficient for
my safety: I fervently hoped that no new exigence would
occur, compelling me to use the arms that I bore in my
own defence ; I formed a sort of resolution to shun the
contest with a new enemy, almost at the expense of my
own life ; I was satiated and gorged with slaughter, and
thought upon a new act of destruction with abhorrence and
loathing.
But though I dreaded to encounter a new enemy, I was
sensible that an enemy might possibly be at hand. I had
moved forward with caution, and my sight and hearing
were attentive to the slightest tokens. Other troops, be¬
sides that which I encountered, might be hovering near,
and of that troop I remembered that one at least had sur¬
vived.
The gratification which the spring had afforded me was
so great, that I was in no haste to depart. I lay upon a
rock, which chanced to be shaded by a tree behind me :
from this post T could overlook the road to some distance,
and at the same time be shaded from the observation of
others.
My eye was now caught by movements which appeared
like those of a beast: in different circumstances I should
have instantly supposed it to be a wolf, or panther, or bear;
now my suspicions were alive on a different account, and
my startled fancy figured to itself nothing but a human
adversary.
A thicket was on either side of the road : that opposite
to my station was discontinued at a small distance by the
cultivated field ; the road continued along this field, bounded
by the thicket on the one side, and the open space on the
other : to this space the being, who was now descried, was
cautiously approaching.
He moved upon all fours,.and presently came near enough
to be distinguished. His disfigured limbs, pendants from
his ears and nose, and his shorn locks, were indubitable
\
EDGAR HUNTEY.
175
indications of a savage : occasionally he reared himself
above the bushes, and scanned with suspicious vigilance
the cottage and the space surrounding it; then he stooped,
and crept along as before.
I was at no loss to interpret these appearances — this
was my surviving enemy: he was unacquainted with the fate
of his associates, and was now approaching the theatre of
carnage, to ascertain their fate.
Once more was the advantage afforded me: from this
spot might unerring aim be taken, and the last of this hos¬
tile troop be made to share the fate of the rest: — should
I fire, or suffer him to pass in safety ?
My abhorrence of bloodshed was net abated ; but I had
not foreseen this occurrence. My success hitherto had
seemed to depend upon a combination of fortunate inci¬
dents, which could not be expected again to take place ;
but now was 1 invested with the same power : the mark
was near — nothing obstructed or delayed ; I incurred no
danger, and the event was certain.
Why should he be suffered to live ? lie came hither
to murder and despoil my friends ; this work he has no
doubt performed : nay, has, he not borne his part in the
destruction of my uncle and my sisters ? He will live only
to pursue the same sanguinary trade, to drink the blood
and exult in tire laments of his unhappy foes, and of my
own brethren. Fate has reserved him for a bloody and
violent death: for how long a time soever it may be de¬
ferred, it is thus that his career will inevitably terminate.
Should he be spared, he will still roam in the wilderness,
and I may again be fated to encounter him: then our
mutual situation may be widely different, and the advantage
I now possess may be his.
While hastily revolving these thoughts, I was thoroughly
aware that one event might take place which would render
all deliberation useless. Should he spy me where I lay,
my fluctuations must end — my safety would indispensably
require me to shoot. This persuasion made me keep a
steadfast eye upon his motions, and be prepared to antici¬
pate his assault.
It now most seasonably occurred to me that one essential
176'
EDGAR HUNTLY.
duty remained to be performed: one operation, without
which fire-arms are useless, had been unaccountably
omitted — my piece was uncocked. I did not reflect that
in moving the spring a sound would necessarily be produced
sufficient to alarm him; but I knew that the chances of
escaping his notice, should I be perfectly mute and still,
were extremely slender, and that, in such a case, his move¬
ments would be quicker than the light; it behoved me,
therefore, to repair my omission.
The sound struck him with alarm : he .turned and darted
at me an enquiring glance. I saw that forbearance was no
longer in my power; but my heart sunk while I complied
with what may surely be deemed an indispensable necessity.
This faltering perhaps it was that made me swerve some¬
what from the fatal line: he was disabled by the wound,
but not killed.
He lost all power of resistance, and was, therefore, no
longer to be dreaded: he rolled upon the ground, uttering
doleful shrieks, and throwing his limbs into those contor¬
tions which bespeak the keenest agonies to which ill-fated
man is subject. Horror, and compassion, and remorse,
were mingled into one sentiment, and took possession of
my heart: to shut out this spectacle, I withdrew from the
spot, but I stopped before I had moved beyond hearing of
his cries.
The impulse that drove me from the scene was pusil¬
lanimous and cowardly ; the past, however deplorable, could
not be recalled; but could not I afford some relief to this
wretch ?— could not I, at least, bring his pangs to a speedy
close ? Thus he might continue, writhing and calling
upon death for hours. Why should his miseries be use¬
lessly prolonged ?
There was but one way to end them: to kill him out¬
right was the dictate of compassion and of duty. I hastily
returned, and once more levelled my piece at his head: it
was a loathsome obligation, and was performed with un¬
conquerable reluctance. Thus to assault and to mangle
the body of an enemy already prostrate and powerless was
an act worthy of abhorrence; yet it was, in this case,
prescribed by pity.
EDGAR HUNTLY. 177
My faltering hand rendered this second bullet ineffectual :
one expedient, still more detestable, remained. Having
gone thus far, it would have been inhuman to stop short:
his heart might easily be pierced by the bayonet, and his
struggles would cease.
This task of cruel lenity was at length finished. I
dropped the weapon, and threw myself on the ground,
overpowered by the horrors of this scene. Such are the
deeds which perverse nature compels thousands of rational
beings to perform' and to witness—such is the spectacle,
endlessly prolonged and diversified, which is exhibited in
every field of battle, of which habit and example, the
temptations of gain, and the illusions of honour, will make
us, not reluctant or indifferent, but zealous and delighted
actors and beholders!
Thus, by a series of events impossible to be computed
or foreseen, was the destruction of a hand selected from
their fellows for an arduous enterprise, distinguished by
prowess and skill, and equally armed against surprise and
force, completed by the hand of a boy, uninured to hostility,
unprovided with arms, precipitate and timorous ! I have
noted men who seemed horn for no end but by their
achievements to belie experience and baffle foresight, and
outstrip belief. Would to God that I had not deserved
to be numbered among these! But what power was it
that called me from the sleep of death just in time to escape
the merciless knife of this enemy ? Had my swoon con¬
tinued till he had reached the spot, he would have effectuated
my death by new wounds, and torn away the skin from
my brows. Such are the subtile threads on which hangs
the fate of man, and of the universe !
While engaged in these reflections, I perceived that the
moonlight had began to fade before that of the sun; a
dusky and reddish hue spread itself over the east. Cheered
by this appearance, I once more resumed my feet and the
road. I left the savage where he lay, but made prize of
his tomahawk: I had left my own in the cavern, and this
weapon added little to my burden. Prompted by some
freak of fancy, I stuck his musket in the ground, and left
it standing upright in the middle of the road.
178
edgar huntly.
CHAPTER XX.
I moved forward with as quick a pace as my feeble limbs
would permit: I did not allow myself to meditate. The
great object of my wishes was a dwelling where food and
repose might he procured. I looked earnestly forward,
and on each side, in search of some token of human re¬
sidence ; • but the spots of cultivation, the well-pole, the
worm-fence, and the hay-rick, were no where to be seen ;
I did not even meet with a wild hog or a bewildered cow.
The path was narrow, and on either side was a trackless
wilderness: on the right and left were the waving lines of
mountainous ridges, which had no peculiarity enabling me
to ascertain whether I had ever before seen them.
At length I noticed that the tracks of wheels had disap¬
peared from the path that I was treading; that it became more
narrow, and exhibited fewer marks of being frequented.
These appearances were discouraging: I now suspected
that I had taken a wrong direction; and instead of ap¬
proaching, was receding from the habitation of men.
It was wisest, however, to proceed: the road could
not but have some origin, as well as end. Some hours
passed away in this uncertainty. The sun rose, and by
noonday I seemed to be further than ever from the end of
my toils : the path was more obscure, and the wilderness
more rugged: thirst more incommoded me than hunger,
but relief was seasonably afforded by the brooks that flowed
across the path.
Coming to one of these, and having slaked my thirst, I
sat down upon the hank, to reflect on my situation : the
circuity of the path had frequently been noticed; and I
began to suspect that though I had travelled long, I had
not moved far from the spot where I had commenced my
pilgrimage.
Turning my eyes on all sides, I noticed a sort of pool,
formed by the rivulet, at a few paces distant from the road :
in approaching and inspecting it, I observed the footsteps
of cattle, who had retired by a path that seemed much
EDGAR HUNTLY.
179
beaten; I likewise noticed a cedar bucket, broken and old,
lying on the margin. These tokens revived my drooping
spirits, and I betook myself to this new track : it was in¬
tricate ; but at length led up a steep, the summit of which
was of better soil than that of which the flats consisted.
A clover field and several apple trees, sure attendants of
man, were now discovered: from this space I entered a
corn-field; and at length, to my inexpressible joy, caught
a glimpse of a house.
This dwelling was far different from that I had lately
left: it was as small and as low, but its walls consisted of
boards; a window of four panes admitted the light, and a
chimney of brick, well burned, and neatly arranged, peeped
over the roof: as I approached, I heard the voice of
children and the hum of a spinning-wheel.
I cannot make thee conceive the delight which was
afforded me by all these tokens. I now found myself indeed
among beings like myself, and from whom hospitable
entertainment might be confidently expected. I compassed
the house, and made my appearance at the door.
A good woman, busy at her wheel, with two children
playing on the ground before her, were the objects that
now presented themselves. The uncouthness of my garb,
my wild and weather-worn appearance, my fusee and
tomahawk, could not but startle them. The woman
stopped her wheel, and gazed as if a spectre had sprung
into view.
I was somewhat aware of these consequences, and en¬
deavoured to elude them, by assuming an air of supplica¬
tion and humility. I told her that I was a traveller, who
had unfortunately lost his way, and had rambled in this
wild till nearly famished for want: I entreated her to give
me some food ; any thing, however scanty or coarse, would
be acceptable.
After some pause she desired me, though not without
some marks of fear, to walk in. She placed before me
some brown bread and milk: she eyed me while I eagerly
devoured this morsel; it was indeed more delicious than
any I had ever tasted. At length she broke silence, and
n 2
180
EDGAR HUNTLY.
expressed her astonishment and commiseration at my
seemingly forlorn state, adding that perhaps I was the man
whom the men were looking after who had been there some
hours before.
My curiosity was roused by this intimation. In answer
to my interrogations, she said that three persons had lately
stopped, to enquire if her husband had not met, within the
last three days, a person of whom their description seemed
pretty much to suit my person and dress; he was tall,
slender, wore nothing but a shirt and trowsers, and was
wounded on the cheek.
" What," I asked, " did they state the rank or condition
of the person to be ? "
" He lived in Solebury. He was supposed to have ram¬
bled in the mountains, and to have lost his way, or to have
met with some mischance. It was three days since he had
disappeared, but had been seen by some one the last night
at Deb's hut."
" What and where was Deb's hut ? "
" It was a hut in the wilderness, occupied by an old
Indian woman, known among her neighbours by the name
of Old Deb; some people called her Queen Mab: her
dwelling was eight long miles from this house."
A thousand questions were precluded, and a thousand
doubts solved by this information. Queen Mab were
sounds familiar to my ears; for they originated with
myself.
This woman originally belonged to the tribes of Dela-
wares or Lennilennapee : all these districts were once com¬
prised within the dominions of that nation. About thirty
years ago, in consequence of perpetual encroachments of the
English colonists, they abandoned their ancient seats, and
retired to the banks of the Wabash and Muskingum.
This emigration was concerted in a general council of
the tribe, and obtained the concurrence of all but one
female: her birth, talents, and age gave her much con¬
sideration and authority among her countrymen; and all
her zeal and eloquence were exerted to induce them to lay
aside their scheme: in this, however, she could not suc¬
ceed. Finding them refractory, she declared her resolution
edgar huntly.
181
to remain behind, and maintain possession of the land
which her countrymen should impiously abandon.
The village inhabited by this clan was built upon the
ground which now constitutes my uncle's barn-yard and
orchard. On the departure of her countrymen, this female
burned the empty wigwams, and retired into the fastnesses
of Norwalk. She selected a spot suitable for an Indian
dwelling, and a small plantation of maize, and in which
she was seldom liable to interruption and intrusion.
Her only companions were three dogs, of the Indian or
wolf species: these animals differed in nothing from their
kinsmen of the forest, but in their attachment and obedience
to their mistress : she governed them with absolute sway;
they were her servants and protectors, and attended her
person, or guarded her threshold, agreeable to her di¬
rections : she fed them with corn, and they supplied her
and themselves with meat, by hunting squirrels, racoons,
and rabbits.
To the rest of mankind they were aliens or enemies.
They never left the desert but in company with their mis¬
tress ; and when she entered a farm-house, waited her
return at a distance: they would suffer none to approach
them ; but attacked no one who did not imprudently crave
their acquaintance, or who kept at a respectful distance
from their wigwam : that sacred asylum they would not
suffer to be violated; and no stranger could enter it but at
the imminent hazard of his life, unless accompanied and
protected by their dame.
The chief employment of this woman, when at home,
besides plucking the weeds from among her corn, bruising
the grain between two stones, and setting her snares for
rabbits and opossums, was to talk. Though in solitude,
her tongue was never at rest but when she was asleep ; but
her conversation was merely addressed to her dogs. Her
voice was sharp and shrill, and her gesticulations were
vehement and grotesque. A hearer would naturally imagine
that she was scolding; but, in truth, she was merely giving
them directions. Having no other object of contemplation
or subject of discourse, she always found in their postures
and looks occasion for praise, or blame, or command. The
n 3
182
EDGAR HUNTLY.
readiness with which they understood, and the docility with
which they obeyed her movements and words, were truly
wonderful.
If a stranger chanced to wander near her hut, and over¬
hear her jargon, incessant as it was and shrill, he might
speculate in vain on the reason of these sounds : if he
waited in expectation of hearing some reply, he waited in
vain. The strain, always voluble and sharp, was never
intermitted for a moment, and would continue for hours at
a time.
She seldom left the hut but to visit the neighbouring
inhabitants, and demand from them food and clothing, or
whatever her necessities required: these were exacted as
her due; to have her wants supplied was her prerogative,
and to withhold what she claimed was rebellion. She con¬
ceived that by remaining behind her countrymen she suc¬
ceeded to the government, and retained the possession of
all this region. The English were aliens and sojourners,
who occupied the land merely by her connivance and per¬
mission, and whom she allowed to remain on no terms but
those of supplying her wants.
Being a woman aged and harmless, her demands being
limited to that of which she really stood in need, and
which her own industry could not procure, her pretensions
were a subject of mirth and good humour, and her injunc¬
tions obeyed with seeming deference and gravity. To me
she early became an object of curiosity and speculation : I
delighted to observe her habits and humour her prejudices.
She frequently came to my uncle's house, and I sometimes
visited her: insensibly she seemed to contract an affection
for me, and regarded me with more complacency and con¬
descension than any other received.
She always disdained to speak English, and custom had
rendered her intelligible to most in her native language,
with regard to a few simple questions. I had taken some
pains to study her jargon, and could make out to discourse
with her on the few ideas which she possessed : this cir¬
cumstance, likewise, wonderfully prepossessed her in my
favour.
The name by which she was formerly known was Deb ;
EDGAR HUNTLY.
183
but her pretensions to royalty, the wildness of her aspect
and garb, her shrivelled and diminutive form, a constitution
that seemed to defy the ravages of time and the influence of
the elements, her age, which some did not scruple to affirm
exceeded a huntired years, her romantic solitude and moun¬
tainous haunts, suggested to my fancy the appellation of
Queen Mob. There appeared to me some rude analogy be¬
tween this personage and her whom the poets of old time
have delighted to celebrate : thou, perhaps, wilt discover
nothing but incongruities between them; but, be that as it
may, Old Deb and Queen Mab soon came into indiscrimi¬
nate and general use.
She dwelt in Norwalk upwards of twenty years. She
was not forgotten by her countrymen, and generally re¬
ceived from her brothers and sons an autumnal visit; but
no solicitations or entreaties could prevail on her to return
with them. Two years ago some suspicion or disgust in¬
duced her to forsake her ancient habitation, and to seek a
new one. Happily, she found a more convenient habitation
twenty miles to the westward, and in a spot abundantly
sterile and rude.
This dwelling was of logs, and had been erected by a
Scottish emigrant, who not being rich enough to purchase
land, and entertaining a passion for solitude and indepen¬
dence, cleared a field in the unappropriated wilderness, and
subsisted on its produce. After some time he disappeared :
various conjectures were formed as to the cause of his
absence ; none of them were satisfactory ; but that which
obtained most credit was, that he had been murdered by
the Indians who, about the same period, paid their annual
visit to the Queen. This conjecture acquired some force
by observing that the old woman shortly after took posses¬
sion of his hut, his implements of tillage, and his corn¬
field.
She was not molested in her new abode; and her life
passed in the same quiet tenor as before. Her periodical
rambles, her regal claims, her guardian wolves, and her
uncouth volubility, were equally remarkable; but her circuits
were new. Her distance made her visits to Solebury more
n 4
184
EDGAR HUNTLY.
rare, and had prevented me from ever extending my pedes¬
trian excursions to her present abode.
These recollections were now suddenly called up by the
information of my hostess. The hut where I had sought
shelter and relief was, it seems, the residence of Queen Mab.
Some fortunate occurrence had called her away during my
visit: had she and her dogs been at home, I should have
been set upon by these ferocious centinels, and, before their
dame could have interfered, have been, together with my
helpless companion, mangled or killed : these animals never
barked ; I should have entered unaware of my danger; and
my fate could scarcely have been averted by my fusee.
Her absence at this unseasonable hour was mysterious.
It was now the time of year when her countrymen were ac¬
customed to renew their visit: — was there a league be¬
tween her and the plunderers whom I had encountered ?
But who were they by whom my footsteps were so in¬
dustriously traced ? Those whom I had seen at Deb's hut
were strangers to me; hut the wound upon my face was
known only to them. To this circumstance was now added
my place of residence and name. I supposed them im¬
pressed with the belief that I was dead; but this mistake
must have speedily been rectified: revisiting the spot, find¬
ing me gone, and obtaining some intelligence of my former
condition, they had instituted a search after me.
But what tidings were these ? I was supposed to have
been bewildered in the mountains, and three days were said
to have passed since my disappearance : twelve hours had
scarcely elapsed since I emerged from the cavern : had
two days and a half been consumed in my subterranean
prison ?
These reflections were quickly supplanted by others. I
now gained a sufficient acquaintance with the region that
was spread around me. I was in the midst of a vale,
included between ridges that gradually approached each
other, and when joined, were broken up into hollows and
steeps, and spreading themselves over a circular space,
assumed the appellation of Norwalk: this vale gradually
widened as it tended to the westward; and was in this
place ten or twelve miles in breadth. My devious footsteps
EDGAR HUNTLY.
185
had brought me to the foot of the southern barrier: the
outer basis of this was laved by the river; but, as it tended
eastward, the mountain and river receded from each other,
and one of the cultivable districts lying between them was
Solebury, my natal township : hither it was now my duty
to return with the utmost expedition.
There were two ways before me ; one lay along the in¬
terior base of the hill, over a sterile and trackless space, and
exposed to the encounter of savages, some of whom might
possibly be lurking here ; the other was the well-frequented
road on the outside and along the river, and which was to
be gained by passing over this hill. The practicability of
the passage was to be ascertained by enquiries made to my
hostess: she pointed out a path that led to the rocky sum¬
mit and down to the river's brink ; the path was not easy
to be kept in view, or to be trodden, but it was undoubtedly
to be preferred to any other.
A route somewhat circuitous would terminate in the river
road, thenceforward the way to Solebury was level and
direct; but the whole space which I had to traverse was
not less than thirty miles: in six hours it would be night,
and to perform the journey in that time would demand the
agile boundings of a leopard, and the indefatigable sinews
of an elk.
My frame was in miserable plight; my strength had been
assailed by anguish and fear and watchfulness, by toil and
abstinence and wounds; still, however, some remnant was
left: would it not enable me to reach my home by night¬
fall ? I had delighted from my childhood in feats of agility
and perseverance ; in roving through the maize of thickets
and precipices I had put my energies, both moral and phy¬
sical, frequently to the test. Greater achievements than
this had been performed; and I disdained to be outdone in
perspicacity by the lynx, in his sure-footed instinct by the
roe, or in patience under hardship and contention with fa¬
tigue by the Mohawk. I have ever aspired to transcend
the rest of animals in all that is common to the rational
and brute, as well as in all by which they are distinguished
from each other.
186
edgar iiuntly.
CHAPTER XXL
I likewise burned with impatience to know the condition
of my family, to dissipate at once their tormenting doubts
and my 'own with regard to our mutual safety : the evil
that I feared had befallen them was too enormous to allow
me to repose in suspense; and my restlessness and ominous
forebodings would be more intolerable than any hardship
or toils to which I could possibly be subjected during this
journey.
I was much refreshed and invigorated by the food that
I had taken, and by the rest of an hour; with this stock of
recruited force I determined to scale the hill. After re¬
ceiving minute directions, and returning many thanks for
my hospitable entertainment, I set out.
The path was indeed intricate, and deliberate attention
was obliged to be exerted in order to preserve it; hence my
progress was slower than I wished. The first impulse was
to fix my eye upon the summit, and to leap from crag to
crag till I reached it; but this my experience had taught
me was impracticable: it was only by winding through
gullies, and coasting precipices and bestriding chasms, that
I could hope finally to gain the top; and I was assured that
by one way only was it possible to accomplish even this.
An hour was spent in struggling with impediments, and
I seemed to have gained no way; hence a doubt was sug¬
gested whether I had not missed the true road : in this
doubt I was confirmed by the difficulties which now grew
up before me. The brooks, the angles, and the hollows
which my hostess had described, were not to be seen ; in¬
stead of these, deeper dells, more headlong torrents, and
wider gaping rifts were incessantly encountered.
To return was as hopeless as to proceed. I consoled
myself with thinking that the survey which my informant
had made of the hill-side might prove inaccurate ; and that,
in spite of her predictions, the heights might be reached by
other means than by those pointed out by her. I will not
enumerate my toilsome expedients, my frequent disappoint-
EDGAR HUNTLY.
187
ments, and my desperate exertions; suffice it to say, that I
gained the upper space not till the sun had dipped beneath
the horizon.
My satisfaction at accomplishing thus much was not
small; and I hied, with renovated spirits, to the opposite
brow: this proved to he a steep that could not be descended;
the river flowed at its foot; the opposite bank was 500
yards distant, and was equally towering and steep as that
on which I stood. Appearances were adapted to persuade
you that these rocks had formerly joined; but by some
mighty effort of nature had been severed, that the stream
might find way through the chasm. The channel, however,
was encumbered with asperities, over which the river fretted
and foamed with thundering impetuosity.
I pondered for a while on these stupendous scenes; they
ravished my attention from considerations that related to
myself; but this interval was short, and I began to measure
the descent, in order to ascertain the practicability of tread¬
ing it. My survey terminated in bitter disappointment- I
turned my eye successively eastward and westward ; Sole-
bury lay in the former quarter, and thither I desired to go.
I kept along the verge in this direction till I reached an
impassable rift; beyond this I saw that the steep grew lower,
but it was impossible to proceed further : higher up the
descent might be practicable; and though more distant from
Solebury, it was better to reach the road even at that dis¬
tance, than never to reach it.
Changing my course, therefore, I explored the spaces
above. The night was rapidly advancing, the grey clouds
gathered in the south-east, and a chilling blast, the usual
attendant of a night in October, began to whistle among the
pigmy cedars that scantily grew upon these heights. My
progress would quickly be arrested by darkness, and it
behoved me to provide some place of shelter and repose: no
recess, better than a hollow in the rock, presented itself to
my anxious scrutiny.
Meanwhile I would not dismiss the hope of reaching the
road, which I saw some hundred feet below, winding along
the edge of the river, before daylight should utterly fail :
speedily these hopes derived new vigour from meeting a
188
EDGAR HUNTLY.
ledge that irregularly declined from the brow of the hill;
it was wide enough to allow of cautious footing. On a
similar stratum or ledge, projecting still further from the
body of the hill, and close to the surface of the river, was
the road. This stratum ascended from the level of the
stream, while that on which I trod rapidly descended ; I
hoped that they would speedily be blended, or at least ap¬
proach so near as to allow me to leap from one to the other
without enormous hazard.
This fond expectation was frustrated. Presently I per¬
ceived that the ledge below began to descend, while that above
began to tend upward, and was quickly terminated by the
uppermost surface of the cliff. Here it was needful to
pause. I looked over the brink, and considered whether
I might not leap from my present station without endan¬
gering my limbs. The road into which I should fall was
a rocky pavement, far from being smooth ; the descent
could not be less than forty or fifty feet: such an attempt
was, to the last degree, hazardous; but was it not better
to risk my life by leaping from this eminence, than to
remain and perish on the top of this inhospitable mountain ?
The toils which I had endured in reaching this height
appeared to my panic-struck fancy less easy to be borne
again than death.
I know not but that I should have finally resolved to
leap, had not different views been suggested, by observing
that the outer edge of the road was, in like manner, the
brow of a steep which terminated in the river. The sur¬
face of the road was twelve or fifteen feet above the level
of the stream, which in this spot was still and smooth :
hence I inferred that the water was not of inconsiderable
depth. To fall upon rocky points was indeed dangerous ;
but to plunge into water of sufficient depth, even from a
height greater than that at which I now stood, especially
to one to whom habit had rendered water almost as con¬
genial an element as air, was scarcely attended with incon¬
venience. This expedient was easy and safe. Twenty
yards from this spot the channel was shallow, and to gain
the road from the stream was no difficult exploit.
Some disadvantages, however, attended this scheme.
EDGAR HUNTLY.
189
The water was smooth; but this might arise from some
other cause than its depth: my gun likewise must be
left behind me., and that was a loss to which I felt invin¬
cible repugnance; to let it fall upon the road would put it
in my power to retrieve the possession, but it was likely
to be irreparably injured by the fall.
While musing upon this expedient, and weighing in¬
juries with benefits, the night closed upon me. I now
considered that, should I emerge in safety from the stream,
I should have many miles to travel before I could reach a
house : my clothes meanwhile would be loaded with wet;
I should be heart-pierced by the icy blast that now blew,
and my wounds and bruises would be chafed into insup¬
portable pain.
I reasoned, likewise, on the folly of impatience, and the
necessity of repose. By thus long continuance in one
posture my sinews began to stiffen, and my reluctance to
make new exertions to increase: my brows were heavy,
and I felt an irresistible propensity to sleep. I concluded
to seek some shelter, and resign myself, my painful recol¬
lections, and my mournful presages, to sweet forgetfulness :
for this end, I once more ascended to the surface of the
cliff; I dragged my weary feet forward till I found some¬
what that promised me the shelter that I sought.
A cluster of cedars appeared, whose branches overarched
a space that might be called a bower : it was a slight
cavity, whose flooring was composed of loose stones and a
few faded leaves blown from a distance, and finding a
temporary lodgment here. On one side was a rock, forming
a wall rugged and projecting above; at the bottom of the
rock was a rift, somewhat resembling a coffin in shape, and
not much larger in dimensious : this rift terminated on the
opposite side of the rock in an opening that was too small
for the body of a man to pass : the distance between each
entrance was twice the length of a man.
This bower was open to the south-east, whence the gale
now blew: it therefore imperfectly afforded the shelter of
which I stood in need ; but it was the best that the place
and the time afforded: to stop the smaller entrance of the
cavity with a stone, and to heap before the other branches
190
EDGAR HUNTLY.
lopped from the trees with my hatchet, might somewhat
contribute to my comfort.
This was done ; and thrusting myself into this recess as
far as I was able, I prepared for repose. It might have
been reasonably suspected to be the den of rattlesnakes or
panthers ; but my late contention with superior dangers and
more formidable enemies, made me reckless of these: still
another inconvenience remained : in spite of my precau¬
tions, my motionless posture and slender covering exposed
me so much to the cold that I could not sleep.
The air appeared to have suddenly assumed the temper¬
ature of mid-winter: in a short time my extremities were
benumbed, and my limbs shivered and ached as if I had
been seized by an ague ; my bed likewise was dank and
uneven, and the posture I was obliged to assume unnatural
and painful: it was evident that my purpose could not be
answered by remaining here.
I therefore crept forth, and began to reflect upon the
possibility of continuing my journey : motion -was the only
thing that could keep me from freezing, and my frame was
in that state which allowed me to take no repose in the
absence of warmth, since warmth was indispensable. It
now occurred to me to ask whether it were not possible to
kindle a fire.
Sticks and leaves were at hand; my hatchet and a
pebble would enable me to extract a spark; from this, by
suitable care and perseverance, I might finally procure
sufficient fire to give me comfort and ease, and even enable
me to sleep. This boon was delicious, and I felt as if I
were unable to support a longer deprivation of it.
I proceeded to execute this scheme. I took the driest
leaves, and endeavoured to use them as tinder, but the
driest leaves were moistened by the dews: they were only
to be found in the hollows, in some of which were pools of
water, and others were dank. I was not speedily discou¬
raged ; but my repeated attempts failed, and I was finally
compelled to relinquish this expedient.
All that now remained, was to wander forth, and keep
myself in motion till the morning. The night was likely
to prove tempestuous and long; the gale seemed freighted
EDGAR HUNTLY.
with ice, and acted upon my body like the points of a
thousand needles. There was no remedy, and I mustered
my patience to endure it.
I returned again to the brow of the hill: I ranged along
it till I reached a place where the descent was perpendi¬
cular, and, in consequence of affording no sustenance to
trees or bushes, was nearly smooth and bare. There was
no road to be seen ; and, this circumstance, added to the
sounds which the rippling current produced, afforded me
some knowledge of my situation.
The ledge, along which the road was conducted, disap¬
peared near this spot: the opposite sides of the chasm through
which flowed the river approached nearer to each other,
in the form of jutting promontories. I now stood upon the
verge of that on the northern side : the water flowed at
the foot; but, for the space of ten or twelve feet from the
rock, was so shallow, as to permit the traveller and his
horse to wade through it, and thus to regain the road which
the receding precipice had allowed to be continued on the
further side.
I knew the nature and dimensions of this ford ; I knew
that at a few yards from the rock the channel was of great
depth. To leap into it in this place was a less dangerous
exploit than at the spot where I had formerly been tempted
to leap ; there I was unacquainted with the depth, but here
I knew it to be considerable: still there was some ground
of hesitation and fear; my present station was loftier, and
how deeply I might sink into this gulf, how far the fall and
the concussion would bereave me of my presence of mind,
I could not determine. This hesitation vanished, and placing
my tomahawk and fusee upon the ground, I prepared to
leap.
This purpose was suspended in the moment of its exe¬
cution, by a faint sound, heard from the quarter whence I
had come: it was the warning of men, but had nothing in
common with those which I had been accustomed to hear:
it was not the howling of a wolf, or the yelling of a panther;
these had often been overheard by night, during my last
year's excursion to the lakes : my fears whispered that this
was the vociferation of a savage.
192
EDGAR HUNTLY.
I was unacquainted with the number of the enemies who
had adventured into this district. Whether those whom 1
had encountered at Deb's hut were of that band whom I
had met with in the cavern, was merely a topic of conjec¬
ture : there might he a half score of troops, equally nu¬
merous, spread over the wilderness, and the signal I had
just heard might betoken the approach of one of these: yet
by what means they should gain the nook, and what prey
they expected to discover, were not easily conceived.
The sounds, somewhat diversified, nearer and rising from
different quarters, were again heard: my doubts and ap¬
prehensions were increased. What expedient to adopt for
my own safety was a subject of rapid meditation ; whether
to remain stretched upon the ground, or to rise and go
forward. Was it likely the enemy would coast along the
edge of the steep ? Would they ramble hither to look upon
the ample scene which spread on all sides around the base
of this rocky pinnacle ? In that case, how should I conduct
myself? My arms were ready for use. Could I not elude
the necessity of shedding more blood ? Could I not anti¬
cipate their assault by casting myself without delay into the
stream ?
The sense of danger demanded more attention to he paid
to external objects, than to the motives by which my future
conduct should be influenced. My post was on a circular
projecture, in some degree detached from the body of the
hill, the brow of which continued in a straight line, unin¬
terrupted by this projecture, which was somewhat higher
than the continued summit of the ridge: this line ran at
the distance of a few paces from my post. Objects moving
along this line could merely be perceived to move, in the
present obscurity.
My scrutiny was entirely directed to this quarter. Pre¬
sently the treading of many feet was heard, and several
figures were discovered, following each other in that straight
and regular succession which is peculiar to the Indians:
they kept along the brow of the hill joining the promontory.
— I distinctly marked seven figures in succession.
My resolution was formed : should any one cast his eye
hither, suspect, or discover an enemy, and rush towards me,
EDGAR HUNTLY.
193
I determined to start upon my feet, fire on my foe as he
advanced, throw my piece on the ground, and then leap
into the river.
Happily, they passed unobservant and in silence. I re¬
mained in the same posture for several minutes : at length,
just as my alarms began to subside, the hollows before heard
arose, and from the same quarter as before. This con¬
vinced me that my perils were not at an end. This now
appeared to be merely the vanguard, and would speedily be
followed by others, against whom the same caution was ne¬
cessary to be taken.
My eye, anxiously bent the only way by which any one
could approach, now discerned a figure, which was indu¬
bitably that of a man armed: none other appeared in com¬
pany, but doubtless others were near: he approached, stood
still, and appeared to gaze steadfastly at the spot where I
lay.
The optics of a Lennilennapee I knew to be far keener
than my own. A log or a couched fawn would never be
mistaken for a man, nor a man for a couched fawn or a log :
not only a human being would be instantly detected, but a
decision be unerringly made, whether it were friend or foe.
That my prostrate body was the object on which the atten¬
tion of this vigilant and steadfast gazer was fixed, could not
be doubted : yet, since he continued an inactive gazer,
there was ground for a possibility to stand upon, that
I was not recognised; my fate, therefore, was still in
suspense.
This interval was momentary. I marked a movement,
which my fears instantly interpreted to be that of levelling
a gun at my head. This action was sufficiently con¬
formable to my prognostics. Supposing me to be detected,
there was no need for him to change his post; aim might
too fatally be taken, and his prey be secured, from the dis¬
tance at which he now stood.
These images glanced upon my thought, and put an
end to my suspense. A single effort placed me on my
feet. I fired with a precipitation that precluded the cer¬
tainty of hitting my mark, dropped my piece upon the
ground, and leaped from this tremendous height into the
o
194
EDGAR HUNTLY.
river. I reached the surface, and sunk in a moment to the
bottom.
Plunging headlong into the water, the impetus created
by my fall from such a height, would be slowly resisted by
this denser element. Had the depth been less, its resist¬
ance would not perhaps have hindered me from being
mortally injured against the rocky bottom ; had the depth
been greater, time enough would not have been allowed me
to regain the surface ; had 1 fallen on my side, I should
have been bereaved of life or sensibility by the shock
which my frame would have received : as it was, my fate
was suspended on a thread. To have lost my presence of
mind, to have forborne to counteract my sinking for an in¬
stant, after I had reached the water, would have made all
exertions to regain the air fruitless. To so fortunate a
concurrence of events was thy friend indebted for his
safety !
Yet I only emerged from the gulf to encounter new
perils. Scarcely had I raised my head above the surface,
and inhaled the vital breath, when twenty shots were aimed
at me from the precipice above. A shower of bullets fell
upon the water ; some of them did not fall further than two
inches from my head. I had not been aware of this new
danger, and now that it assailed me, continued gasping for
air, and floundering at random. The means of eluding it
did not readily occur; my case seemed desperate, and all
caution was dismissed.
This state of discomfiting surprise quickly disappeared.
I made myself acquainted at a glance with the posi¬
tion of surrounding objects. I conceived that the oppo¬
site bank of the river would afford me most security, and
thither I tended with all the expedition in my power.
Meanwhile my safety depended on eluding the bullets
that continued incessantly to strike the water at an arm's
length from my body: for this end, I plunged beneath the
surface, and only rose to inhale fresh air. Presently the
firing ceased, the flashes that lately illuminated the bank
disappeared, and a certain bustle and murmur of confused
voices gave place to solitude and silence.
edgar huntly.
195
CHAPTER XXII,
I reached without difficulty the opposite bank; but the
steep was inaccessihle. I swam along the edge, in hopes
of meeting with some projection or recess, where I might
at least rest my weary limbs, and, if it were necessary to
recross the river, to lay in a ^tock of recruited spirits and
strength for that purpose. I trusted that the water would
speedily become shoal, or that the steep would afford rest to
my feet. In both these hopes I was disappointed.
There is no one to whom I would yield the superiority
in swimming; but my strength, like that of other human
beings, had its limits. My previous fatigues had been
enormous, and my clothes, heavy with moisture, greatly
encumbered and retarded my movements. I had proposed
to free myself from this imprisonment, but I foresaw the
inconveniences of wandering over this scene in absolute
nakedness; and was willing, therefore, at whatever hazard,
to retain them. I continued to struggle with the current,
and to search for the means of scaling the steeps. My
search was fruitless, and I began to meditate the recrossing
of the river
Surely my fate has never been paralleled! Where was
this series of hardships and perils to end ? No sooner was
one calamity eluded, than I was beset by another. I had
emerged from abhorred darkness in the heart of the earth,
only to endure the extremities of famine, and encounter the
fangs of a wild beast; from these I was delivered only to
be thrown into the midst of savages, to wage an endless
and hopeless war with adepts in killing, with appetites that
longed to feast upon my bowels, and to quaff my heart's
blood; from these, likewise, was I rescued, but merely to
perish in the gulfs of the river, to welter 011 unvisited shores,
or to be washed far away from curiosity or pity.
Formerly, water was not only my field of sport, but my
sofa and my bed; I could float for hours on the surface,
enjoying its delicious cool, almost without the expense of
o 2
196
EDGAR HUXTDY.
the slightest motion; it was an element as fitted for repose as
for exercise. But now the buoyant spirit seemed to have
flown : my muscles were shrunk ; the air and water were
equally congealed, and my most vehement exertions were
requisite to sustain me on the surface.
At first I had moved along with my wonted celeTity and
ease, but quickly my forces were exhausted; my pantings
and efforts were augmented, and I saw that to cross the
river again was impracticable; I must continue, therefore,
to search out some accessible spot in the bank along which
I was swimming.
Each moment diminished my stock of strength, and it
behoved me to make good my footing before another minute
should escape. I continued to swim, to survey the bank,
and to make ineffectual attempts to grasp the rock ; the
shrubs which grew upon it would not uphold me, and the
fragments which for a moment inspired me with hope,
crumbled away as soon as they were touched.
At length I noticed a pine which was rooted in a crevice
near the water; the trunk, or any part of the root, was
beyond my reach, but I trusted that I could catch hold of
the branch which hung lowest, and that, when caught, it
would assist me in gaining the trunk, and thus deliver me
from the death which could not be otherwise averted.
The attempt was arduous : had it been made when 1 first
reached the bank, no difficulty had attended it; but now,
to throw myself some feet above the surface, could scarcely
be expected from one whose utmost efforts seemed to be
demanded to keep him from sinking ; yet this exploit, ar¬
duous as it was, was attempted and accomplished: Happily
the twigs were strong, enough to sustain my weight till I
caught at other branches, and finally placed myself upon
the trunk.
This danger was now past; but I admitted the conviction
that others no less formidable remained to be encountered,
and that my ultimate destiny was death. I looked upwards :
— new efforts might enable me to gain the summit of this
steep ; but perhaps I should thus be placed merely in the
situation from which I had just been delivered: it was of
little moment whether the scene of my imprisonment was
EDGAR HUNTLY.
197
a dungeon not to be broken, or a summit from which de¬
scent was impossible.
The river, indeed, severed me from a road which was
level and safe ; but my recent dangers were remembered
only to make me shudder at the thought of incurring them
a second time, by attempting to cross it. I blush at the
recollection of this cowardice; it was little akin to the
spirit which I had recently displayed ; it was indeed an
alien to my bosom, and was quickly supplanted by intre¬
pidity and perseverance.
I proceeded to mount the hill; from root to root, and
from branch to branch, lay my journey: it was finished,
and I sat down upon the highest brow to meditate on future
trials. No road lay along this side of the river, which was
rugged and sterile, and farms were sparingly dispersed over
it: to reach one of these was now the object of my wishes.
I had not lost the desire of reaching Solebury before morn¬
ing ; but my wet clothes, and the coldness of the night,
seemed to have bereaved me of the power.
1 traversed this summit, keeping the river on my right
hand ; happily its declinations and ascents were by no means
difficult, and I was cheered in the midst of my vexations,
by observing that every mile brought me nearer to my
uncle's dwelling. Meanwhile I anxiously looked for some
tokens of a habitation ; these at length presented themselves:
— a wild heath, whistled over by October blasts, meagerly
adorned with the dry stalks of scented shrubs, and the bald
heads of the sapless mullen, was succeeded by a fenced field
and a corn-stack : the dwelling to which these belonged was
eagerly sought.
I was not surprised that all voices were still, and all
lights extinguished ; for this was the hour of repose. Hav¬
ing reached a piazza before the house, I paused : — whether,
at this drowsy time, to knock for admission, to alarm the
peaceful tenants, and take from them the rest which their
daily toils, and their rural innocence had made so sweet, or
to retire to what shelter a haystack or barn coukl afford,
was the theme of my deliberations.
, Meanwhile I looked up at the house; it was the model
o 3 ,
398
EDGAR HUNTLY.
of cleanliness and comfort: it was built of wood; but the
materials had undergone the plane, as well as the axe and
the saw. It was painted white; and the windows not only
had sashes, but these sashes were supplied, contrary to cus¬
tom, with glass : in most cases, the aperture where glass
should be is stuffed with an old hat or petticoat. The door
had not only all its parts entire, but was embellished with
mouldings and a pediment. I gathered from these tokens
that this was the abode, not only of rural competence and
innocence, but of some beings, raised by education and for¬
tune above the intellectual mediocrity of clowns.
Methought I could claim consanguinity with such beings;
not to share their charity and kindness would be inflicting
as well as receiving injury; the trouble of affording shelter
and warmth and wholesome diet to a wretch destitute as I
was, would be eagerly sought by them.
Still I was unwilling to disturb them. I bethought my¬
self that their kitchen might be entered, and all that my
necessities required be obtained, without interrupting their
slumber. I needed nothing but the warmth which their
kitchen hearth would afford ; stretched upon the bricks I
might dry my clothes, and perhaps enjoy some unmolested
sleep : in spite of presages of ill, and the horrid remem¬
brances of what I had performed and endured, I believed
that nature would afford a short respite to my cares.
I went to the door of what appeared to be a kitchen ;
the door was wide open. This circumstance portended
evil; though it be not customary to lock or to bolt, it is still
less usual to have entrances unclosed. I entered with sus¬
picious steps, and saw enough to confirm my apprehensions.
Several pieces of wood half-burned, lay in the midst of the
floor: they appeared to have been removed hither from the
chimney, doubtless with a view to set fire to the whole
building.
The fire had made some progress on the floor, but had
been seasonably extinguished by pails full of water thrown
upon it; the floor was still deluged with wet; the pail, not
emptied of all its contents, stood upon the hearth. The
earthen vessels and plates, whose proper place was the
dresser, were scattered in fragments in all parts of the room
EDGAR HUNTLY.
199
I looked around me for some one to explain this scene, but
no one appeared.
The last spark of fire was put cut, so that at that mo¬
ment any further attempt at discovery seemed vain ; still to
retire from this scene, neither curiosity nor benevolence
would permit. That some mortal injury had been intended
was apparent: what greater mischief had befallen, or
whether greater might not, by my interposition, be averted,
could only be ascertained by penetrating further into the
house. I opened a door on one side, which led to the main
body of the building, and entered to a bedchamber: I stood
at the entrance and knocked, but no one answered my
signals.
The sky was not totally clouded, so that some light per¬
vaded the room : I saw that a bed stood in the corner; but
whether occupied or not, its curtains hindered me from
judging. I stood in suspense a few minutes, when a mo¬
tion in the bed showed me that some one was there : I
knocked again, but withdrew to the outside of the door.
This roused the sleeper; who, half groaning and puffing
the air through his nostrils, grumbled out in the hoarsest
voice that I ever heard, and in a tone of surly impatience
—" Who is there ?"
I hesitated for an answer ; but the voice instantly con¬
tinued in the manner of one half a sleep, and enraged at
being disturbed —" Is it you, Peg? D—n ye, stay away,
now — I tell ye, stay away, or, by God, I will cut your
throat — I will " He continued to mutter and swear,
but without coherence or distinctness.
These were the accents of drunkenness, and denoted a
wild and ruffian life; they were little in unison with the
external appearances of the mansion, and blasted all
the hopes I had formed of meeting under this roof with,
gentleness and hospitality. To talk with this being, to
attempt to reason him into humanity and soberness, was
useless: I was at a loss in what manner to address him, or
whether it was proper to maintain any parley. Meanwhile,
my silence was supplied by the suggestions of his own
distempered fancy. —"Ay," said he, " ye will, will ye?
Well, come on —let's see who's the better at the oak-stick:
o 4<
200
EDGAR HUNTLY.
if I part with ye, before I have bared your bones — I 11
teach ye to be always dipping in my dish, ye devil's dam,
ye !"
So saying, he tumbled out of bed : at the first step he
struck his head against the bedpost; but setting himself
upright, he staggered towards the spot where I stood :
some new obstacle occurred — he stumbled and fell at his
length upon the floor.
To encounter or expostulate with a man in this state,
was plainly absurd : I turned and issued forth, with an
aching heart, into the court before the house. The mise¬
ries which a debauched husband or father inflicts upon all
whom their evil destiny allies to him, were pictured by my
fancy, and wrung from me tears of anguish : these images,
however, quickly yielded to reflections on my own state :
no expedient now remained, but to seek the barn, and find
a covering and a bed of straw.
I had scarcely set foot within the barn-yard when I
heard a sound as of the crying of an infant: it appeared to
issue from the barn ; I approached softly and listened at
the door. The cries of the babe continued, but were ac¬
companied by entreaties of a nurse or a mother to be quiet:
these entreaties were mingled with heart-breaking sobs and
exclamations of — " Ah, me ! my babe, canst thou not
sleep, and afford thy unhappy mother some peace ? Thou
art cold, and I have not sufficient warmth to cherish thee !
What will become of us ? Thy deluded father cares not
if we both perish."
A glimpse of the true nature of the scene seemed to be
imparted by these words. I now likewise recollected inci¬
dents that afforded additional light. — Somewhere on this
bank of the river, there formerly resided one by name Selby;
he was an aged person, who united science and taste to the
simple and laborious habits of a husbandman. He had a
son, who resided several years in Europe ; but on the death
of his father, returned home, accompanied by a wife : he
had succeeded to the occupation of the farm ; but rumour
had whispered many tales to the disadvantage of his morals.
His wife was affirmed to be of delicate and polished man¬
ners, and much unlike her companion.
EDGAR HUNTLY.
201
It now occurred to me that this was the dwelling of the
Selbys, and I seemed to have gained some insight into the
discord and domestic miseries by which the unhappy lady
suffered. This was no time to waste my sympathy on
others; I could benefit her nothing. Selby had probably
returned from a carousal, with all his malignant passions
raised into frenzy by intoxication : he had driven his de¬
solate wife from her bed and house ; and, to shun outrage
and violence, she had fled, with her helpless infant, to the
barn. To appease his fury, to console her, to suggest a
remedy for this distress, was not in my power : to have
sought an interview, would be merely to excite her terrors
and alarm her delicacy, without contributing to alleviate
her calamity. Here then was no asylum for me : a place
of rest must be sought at some neighbouring habitation ; it
was probable that one would be found at no great distance ;
the path that led from the spot where I stood, through a
gate into a meadow, might conduct me to the nearest
dwelling ; and this path I immediately resolved to explore.
I was anxious to open the gate without noise, but I could
not succeed; some creaking of its hinges was unavoidably
produced, which I feared would be overheard by the lady,
and multiply her apprehensions and perplexities. This
inconvenience was irremediable; I therefore closed the
gate and pursued the footway before me with the utmost
expedition. I had not gained the further end of the meadow
when I lighted on something which lay across the path,
and which, on being closely inspected, appeared to be a
human body : it was the corpse of a girl, mangled by a
hatchet; her head, gory and deprived of its locks, easily
explained the kind o'f enemies by whom she had been
assailed. Here was proof that this quiet and remote ha¬
bitation had been visited, in their destructive progress, by
the Indians; the girl had been slain by them, and her
scalp, according to their savage custom, had been torn away
to be preserved as a trophy.
The fire which had been kindled on the kitchen floor was
now remembered, and corroborated the inferences which
were drawn from this spectacle. And yet that the mischief
had been thus limited, that the besotted wretch who lay
202
EDGAR HUNTLY.
helpless on his bed, and careless of impending danger, and
that the mother and her infant should escape, excited some
degree of surprise. Could the savages have been inter¬
rupted in their work, and obliged to leave their vengeance
unfinished ?
Their visit had been recent; many hours had not elapsed
since they prowled about these grounds. Had they wholly
disappeared, and meant they not to return ? To what new.
danger might I be exposed in remaining thus guideless and
destitute of all defence ?
In consequence of these reflections, I proceeded with
more caution ; I looked with suspicious glances before and
on either side of me. I now approached the fence which,
on this side, bounded the meadow: something was dis¬
cerned, or imagined, stretched close to the fence on the
ground, and filling up the pathway. My apprehensions of
a lurking enemy had been previously awakened, and my
fancy instantly figured to itself an armed man, lying
on the ground, and waiting to assail the unsuspecting pas¬
senger.
At first I was prompted to fly; but a second thought
showed me that I had already approached near enough to be
endangered. Notwithstanding my pause, the form was'
motionless ; the possibility of being misled in my con¬
jectures was easily supposed: what I saw might be a log,
or it might be another victim to savage ferocity. This
tract was that which my safety required me to pursue ;
to turn aside, or go back, would be merely to bewilder my¬
self anew.
Urged by these motives I went nearer, and at last was
close enough to perceive that the figure was human : he lay
upon his face; near his right hand was a musket un¬
clenched. This circumstance, his death-like attitude, and
the garb and ornaments of an Indian, made me readily
suspect the nature and cause of this catastrophe: here the
invaders had been encountered and repulsed, and one, at
least, of their number had been left upon the field.
I was weary of contemplating these rueful objects ; cus¬
tom, likewise, even in so short a period, had inured me to
spectacles of horror—I was grown callous and immovable:
edgar huntly.
203
I stayed not to ponder on the scene; but snatching the
musket, which was now without an owner, and which
might he indispensable to my defence, I hastened into the
wood. On this side the meadow was skirted by a forest,
but a beaten road led into it, and might therefore be
attempted without danger.
CHAPTER XXIII.
The road was intricate and long; it seemed designed to
pervade the forest in every possible direction. I frequently
noticed cut wood, piled in heaps upon either side, and
rejoiced in these tokens that the residence of men was near.
At length I reached a second fence, which proved to be
the boundary of a road still more frequented; I pursued
this, and presently beheld before me the river and its
opposite barriers.
This object afforded me some knowledge of my situ¬
ation. There was a ford over which travellers used to
pass, and in which the road that I was now pursuing ter¬
minated : the stream was rapid and tumultuous; but in
this place it did not rise higher than the shoulders: on the
opposite side was a highway, passable for horses and men,
though not carriages, and which led into the midst of
Solebury. Should I not rush into the stream, and still aim
at reaching my uncle's house before morning ? Why
should I delay.
Thirty hours of incessant watchfulness and toil, of
enormous efforts and perils, preceded and accompanied by
abstinence and wounds, were enough to annihilate the
strength and courage of ordinary men : in the course of
them, I had frequently believed myself to have reached
the verge beyond which my force would not carry me; but
experience as frequently demonstrated my error. Though
many miles were yet to be traversed, though my clothes
were once more to be drenched and loaded with moisture,
though every hour seemed to add somewhat to the keenness
204
EDGAR HUNTLY.
of the blast; yet how should I know, but by trial, whether
nay stock of energy was not sufficient for this last exploit?
My resolution to proceed was nearly formed, when the
figure of a man moving slowly across the road, at some
distance before me, was observed. Hard by this ford lived
a man by name Bisset, of whom I had slight knowledge :
he tended his two hundred acres with a plodding and
money-doting spirit, while his son overlooked a grist-mill
on the river; he was a creature of gain, coarse and harm¬
less : the man whom I saw might be he, or some one be¬
longing to his family. Being armed for defence, I less
scrupled a meeting with any thing in the shape of man; I
therefore called. The figure stopped and answered me,
without surliness or anger. The voice was unlike that of
Bisset; but this person's information I believed would be
of some service.
Coming up to him, he proved to be a clown, belonging
to Bisset's habitation. His panic and surprise on seeing
me made him aghast: in my present garb I should not
have easily been recognised by my nearest kinsman, and
much less easily by one who had seldom met me.
It may be easily conceived that my thoughts, when
allowed to wander from the objects before me, were tor¬
mented with forebodings and inquietudes on account of the
ills which I had so much reason to believe had befallen my
family. I had no doubt that some evil had happened; but
the full extent of it was still uncertain. I desired and
dreaded to discover the truth, and was unable to interrogate
this person in a direct manner; I could deal only in cir¬
cuities and hints: I shuddered while I waited for an answer
to my enquiries.
Had not Indians, I asked, been lately seen in this neigh¬
bourhood ? Were they not suspected of hostile designs?
Had they not already committed some mischief? Some
passenger, perhaps, had been attacked ; or fire had been set
to some house ? On which side of the river had their steps
been observed, or any devastation been committed ? Above
the ford, or below it ? At what distance from the river ?
When his attention could be withdrawn from my person
and bestowed upon my questions, he answered that some
EDGAR HUNTLY.
205
alarm had indeed been spread about Indians, and that par¬
ties from Solebury and Chetasco were out in pursuit of
them—that many persons had been killed by them, and
that one house in Solebury had been rifled and burned on the
night before the last.
These tidings were a dreadful confirmation of my fears:
there scarcely remained a doubt; but still my expiring hope
prompted me to enquire to whom the house belonged.
He answered that he had not heard the name of the
owner; he was a stranger to the people on the other side of
the river.
" Were any of the inhabitants murdered?"
" Yes j all that were at home, except a girl whom they
carried off! some say she has been retaken."
" What was the name ? — Was it Huntly ?"
" Huntly? — Yes — no." He did not know —he had
forgotten.
I fixed my eyes upon the ground — an interval of
gloomy meditation succeeded : all was lost — all for whose
sake I desired to live, had perished by the hands of these
assassins ; that dear home, the scene of my sportive child¬
hood, of my studies, labours, and recreations, was ravaged
by fire and the sword—was reduced to a frightful ruin.
Not only all that embellished and endeared existence was
destroyed,but the means of subsistence itself. Thou knowest
that my sisters and I were dependents on the bounty of our
uncle: his death would make way for the succession of his
son, a man fraught with envy and malignity, who always
testified a mortal hatred to us, merely because we enjoyed
the protection of his father. The ground which furnished
me with bread was now become the property of one who,
if he could have done it with security, would gladly have
mingled poison with my food.
All that my imagination or my heart regarded as of value
had likewise perished; whatever my chamber, my closets,
my cabinets contained, my furniture, my books, the records
of my own skill, the monuments of their existence whom I
loved, my very clothing, were involved in indiscriminate
and irretrievable destruction. Why should I survive this
calamity ?
206
EDGAR HUNTLY.
But did not he say that one had escaped ? T he only
females in the family were my sisters : one of these had
been reserved for a fate worse than death — to gratify the
innate and insatiable cruelty of savages, by suffering all the
torments their invention can suggest, or to linger out years
of dreary bondage and unintermitted hardship in the bosom
of the wilderness : to restore her to liberty, to cherish this
last survivor of my unfortunate race, was a sufficient motive
to life and to activity.
But soft! Had not rumour whispered that the captive
was retaken ? Oh ! who was her angel of deliverance ?
Where did she now abide ? Weeping over the untimely
fall of her protector and her friend — lamenting and up¬
braiding the absence of her brother ? Why should I not
haste to find her — to mingle my tears with hers, to assure
her of my safety, and expiate the involuntary crime of my
desertion, by devoting all futurity to the task of her conso¬
lation and improvement ?
The path was open and direct. My new motives would
have trampled upon every impediment, and made me reck¬
less of all dangers and all toils. I broke from my reverie ;
and without taking leave, or expressing gratitude to my
informant, I ran with frantic expedition towards the river,
and plunging into it, gained the opposite side in a moment.
I was sufficiently acquainted with the road: some twelve
or fifteen miles remained to be traversed. I did not fear
that my strength would fail in the performance of my
journey : it was not my uncle's habitation to which I di¬
rected my steps. Inglefield was my friend ; if my sister
had existence, or was snatched from captivity, it was here
that an asylum had been afforded to her, and here was I to
seek the knowledge of my destiny: for this reason, having
reached a spot where the road divided into two branches,
one of which led to Inglefield's and the other to Huntly's,
I struck into the former.
Scarcely had I passed the angle, when I noticed a build¬
ing on the right hand, at some distance from the road. In
the present state of my thoughts it would not have attracted
my attention, had not a light gleamed from an upper win¬
dow, and told me that all within were not at rest.
EDGAR HUNTLY.
207
I was acquainted with the owner of this mansion: he
merited esteem and confidence, and could not fail to be in¬
formed of recent events. From him I should obtain all
the information that I needed, and I should be delivered
from some part of the agonies of my suspense; I should
reach his door in a few minutes, and the window light was
a proof that my entrance at this hour would not disturb
the family, some of whom were stirring.
Through a gate I entered an avenue of tall oaks, that
led to the house. I could not but reflect on the effect
which my appearance would produce upon the family. —
The sleek locks, neat apparel, pacific guise, sobriety and
gentleness of aspect by which I was customarily distin¬
guished, would in vain be sought in the apparition which
would now present itself before them : my legs, neck, and
bosom were bare, and their native hue was exchanged for
the livid marks of bruises and scarifications ; a horrid scar
upon my cheek, and my uncombed locks, hollow eyes, made
ghastly by abstinence and cold, and the ruthless passions of
which my mind had been the theatre, added to the musket
which I carried in my hand, would prepossess them with
the notion of a maniac or ruffian.
Some inconveniences might hence arise; which, how¬
ever, could not be avoided : I must trust to the speed with
which my voice and my words should disclose my true cha¬
racter and rectify their mistake.
I now reached the principal door of the house : it was
open, and I unceremoniously entered. In the midst of the
room stood a German stove, well heated. To thaw my
half-frozen limbs was my first care.: meanwhile I gazed
around me, and marked the appearances of things.
Two lighted candles stood upon the table; beside them
were cider bottles and pipes of tobacco. The furniture
and room was in that state which denoted it to have been
lately filled with drinkers and smokers ; yet neither voice,
nor visage, nor motion, was any where observable: I lis¬
tened ; but neither above nor below, within nor without,
could any tokens of a human being be perceived.
This vacancy and silence must have been lately preceded
by noise, concourse, and bustle. The contrast was myste-«
208
EDGAR HUNTLY.
rious and ambiguous : no adequate cause of so quick and
absolute a transition occurred to me. Having gained some
warmth, and lingered some ten or twenty minutes in this
uncertainty, I determined to explore the other apartments
of the building : I knew not what might betide in my ab¬
sence, or what I might encounter in my search to justify
precaution, and therefore kept the gun in my hand. I
snatched a candle from the table, and proceeded into two
other apartments on the first floor and the kitchen : neither
was inhabited, though chairs and tables were arranged in
their usual order, and no traces of violence or hurry were
apparent.
Having gained the foot of the staircase, I knocked; but
my knocking was wholly disregarded. A light had ap¬
peared in an upper chamber ; it was not, indeed, in one of
those apartments which the family permanently occupied,
but in that which, according to rural custom, was reserved
for guests ; but it indubitably betokened the presence of
some being by whom my doubts might be solved : these
doubts were too tormenting to allow of scruples and delay
— I mounted the stairs.
f At each chamber door I knocked, but I knocked in vain;
I tried to open, but found them to be locked. I at length
reached the entrance of that in which a light had been dis¬
covered : here it was certain that some one would be found;
but here, as well as elsewhere, my knocking was un¬
noticed.
To enter this chamber was audacious; but no other ex¬
pedient was afforded me to determine whether the house had
any inhabitants: I therefore entered, though with caution
and reluctance. No one was within ; but there were suffi¬
cient traces of some person who had lately been here. On
the table stood a travelling escritoir, open, with pens and
inkstand ; a chair was placed before it, and a candle on the
right hand. Such an apparatus was rarely seen in this
country: some traveller, it seemed, occupied this room,
though the rest of the mansion was deserted. The pilgrim,
as these appearances testified, was of no vulgar order, and
belonged not to the class of periodical and every-day
guests.
EDGAR HUNTLY. 209
It now occurred to me that the occupant of this apart¬
ment could not he far off, and that some danger and embar¬
rassment could not fail to accrue from being found, thus
accoutred and garbed, in a place sacred to the study and
repose of another: it was proper, therefore, to withdraw,
and either to resume my journey, or wait for the stranger's
return, whom perhaps some temporary engagement had
called away, in the lower and public room. The former
now appeared to be the best expedient, as the return of this
unknown person was uncertain, as well as his power to com¬
municate the information which I wanted.
Had paper, as well as the implements of writing, lain
upon the desk, perhaps my lawless curiosity would not have
scrupled to have pried into it. On the first glance, nothing
of that kind appeared; but now, as I turned towards the
door, somewhat lying beside the desk, on the side opposite
the candle, caught my attention. The impulse was instant¬
aneous and mechanical, that made me leap to the spot and
lay my hand upon it: till I felt it between my fingers — till
I brought it near my eyes, and read frequently the inscrip¬
tions that appeared upon it—I was doubtful whether my
senses had deceived me.
Few, perhaps, among mankind have undergone vicissi¬
tudes of peril and wonder equal to mine. The miracles, of
poetry, the transitions of enchantment, are beggarly and
mean, compared with those which I had experienced:
passage into new forms, overleaping the bars of time and
space, reversal of the laws of inanimate and intelligent
existence, had been mine to perform and to witness.
No event had been more fertile of sorrow and perplexity
than the loss of thy brother's letters: they went by means
invisible, and disappeared at a moment when foresight
would have least predicted their disappearance. They now
placed themselves before me in a manner equally abrupt, in
a place and by means no less contrary to expectation. The
papers which I now seized were those letters ; the parch¬
ment cover, the string that tied and the wax that sealed
them, appeared not to have been opened or violated.
The power that removed them from my cabinet, and
dropped them in this house — a house which I rarely
p
210
EDGAR HUNTLY.
visited, which I had not entered during the last year, with
whose inhabitants I maintained no cordial intercourse, and
to whom my occupations and amusements, my joys and my
sorrows, were unknown—was no object even of conjecture :
but they were not possessed by any of tire family; some
stranger was here, by whom they had been stolen, or into
whose possession they had, by some incomprehensible
chance, fallen.
That stranger was near ; he had left this apartment for
a moment — he would speedily return. To go hence might
possibly occasion me to miss him : here, then, I would
wait till he should grant me an interview. The papers were
mine, and were recovered : I would never part with them ;
but to know by whose force, or by whose stratagems, I had
been bereaved of them thus long, was now the supreme
passion of my soul. I seated myself near a table, and
anxiously awaited for an interview, on which I was irre¬
sistibly persuaded to believe that much of my happiness
depended.
Meanwhile, I could not but connect this incident with
the destruction of my family. The loss of these papers had
excited transports of grief; and yet to have lost them thus
was, perhaps, the sole expedient by which their final pre¬
servation could be rendered possible: had they remained in
my cabinet, they could not have escaped the destiny which
overtook the house and its furniture. Savages are not
accustomed to leave their exterminating work unfinished.
The house which they have plundered, they are careful to
level with the ground : this, not only their revenge, but
their caution, prescribes. Fire may originate by accident as
well as by design, and the traces of pillage and murder are
totally obliterated by the flames.
These thoughts were interrupted by the shutting of a
door below, and by footsteps ascending the stairs. My heart
throbbed at the sound — my seat became uneasy, and I
started on my feet; I even advanced halfway to the en¬
trance of the room : my eyes were intensely fixed upon the
door. My impatience would have made me guess at the
person of this visitant by measuring his shadow, if his
shadow were first seen; but this was precluded by the po-
edgar huntly.
211
sition of the light: it was only when the figure entered,
and the whole person was seen, that ray curiosity was gra¬
tified. He who stood before me was the parent and fosterer
of my mind, the companion and instructor of my youth —
from whom I had been parted for years, from whom I
believed myself to be for ever separated — Sarsefielcl
himself!
CHAPTER XXIV.
My deportment at an interview so much desired, and so
wholly unforeseen, was that of a maniac. The petrifying
influence of surprise yielded to the impetuosities of passion :
I held him in my arms — I wept upon his bosom — I
sobbed with emotion, which, had it not found passage at
my eyes, would have burst my heartstrings. Thus it
should seem as if I, who had escaped the deaths that had
previously assailed me in so many forms, were to he re¬
served to solemnise a scene like this, by—dying for joy !
The sterner passions and habitual austerities of my
companion exempted him from pouring out this testimony
of his feelings : his feelings were, indeed, more allied to
astonishment and incredulity than mine had been. My
person was not instantly recognised; he shrunk from my
embrace, as if I were an apparition or impostor; he
quickly disengaged himself from my arms, and, with¬
drawing a few paces, gazed upon me as on one whom he
had never before seen.
These repulses were ascribed to the loss of his affection :
I was not mindful of the hideous guise in which I stood
before him, and by which he might justly be misled to
imagine me a ruffian or a lunatic. My tears flowed now
on' a new account; and I articulated, in a broken and
faint voice — " My master ! my friend! have you for¬
gotten, have you ceased to love me ? "
The sound of my voice made him start, and exclaim —
" Am I alive ? — am I awake ? Speak again, I beseech
p 2
212
EDGAR HUNTLY.
you, and convince me that I am not dreaming, or de¬
lirious !"
" Can you need any proof,' I answered, " that it is
Edgar Huntly — your pupil, your child—that speaks to
you ? "
He now withdrew his eyes from me, and fixed them on
the floor. After a pause, he resumed, in emphatic accents
— "Well, I have lived to this age in unbelief! To
credit or trust in miraculous agency, was foreign to my
nature ; but now I am no longer sceptical: call me to any
bar, and exact from me an oath that you have twice been
dead, and twice recalled to fife — that you move about
invisibly, and change your place by the force, not of
muscles, but of thought, and I will give it.
" How came you hither ? Did you penetrate the wall ?
Did you rise through the floor ?
" Yet surely 'tis an error; you cannot be he whom
twenty witnesses affirmed to have beheld a lifeless and
mangled corpse upon the ground — whom my own eyes saw
in that condition !
" In seeking the spot once more to provide you a grave,
you had vanished : again I met you ; you plunged into a
rapid stream from a height from which it was impossible
to fall and to live ; yet, as if to set the limits of nature at
defiance, to sport with human penetration, you rose upon
the surface — you floated — you swam. Thirty bullets
were aimed at your head by marksmen celebrated for the
exactness of their sight: I myself was of the number, and
I never missed what I desired to hit.
" My predictions were confirmed by the event: you
ceased to struggle — you sunk, to rise no more; and yet,
after these accumulated deaths, you light upon this floor,
so far distant from the scene of your catastrophe, over
spaces only to be passed, in so short a time as has since
elapsed, by those who have wings.
" My eyes, my ears, bear testimony to your existence
now, as they formerly convinced me of your death. What
am I to think ? What proofs am I to credit ? "
There he stopped.
Every accent of this speech added to the confusion of
EDGAR HUNTLY.
213
my thoughts. The allusions that my friend had made
were not unintelligible. — I gained a glimpse of the com¬
plicated errors by which we had been mutually deceived.
— I had fainted on the area before Deb's hut: I was
found by Sarsefield in this condition., and imagined to he
dead.
The man whom I had seen upon the promontory was
not an Indian ; he belonged to a numerous band of pur¬
suers, whom my hostile and precipitate deportment caused
to suspect me for an enemy. They that fired from the
steep were friends. The interposition that screened me
from so many bullets was indeed miraculous. No wonder
that my voluntary sinking, in order to elude their shots,
was mistaken for death; and that, having accomplished the
destruction of this foe, they resumed their pursuit of
others. But how was Sarsefield apprized that it was I
who plunged into the river ? No subsequent event was
possible to impart to him the incredible truth.
A pause of mutual silence ensued. At length Sarsefield
renewed his expressions of amazement at this interview, and
besought me to explain why I had disappeared by night from
my uncle's house, and by what series of unheard-of events
this interview was brought about. Was it indeed Huntly
whom he examined and mourned over at the threshold of
Deb's hut — whom he had sought in every thicket and
cave in the ample circuit of Norwalk and Chetasco —
whom he had seen perish in the current of the Delaware?
Instead of noticing his questions, my soul was harrowed
with anxiety respecting the fate of my uncle and sisters.
Sarsefield could communicate the tidings which would
decide on my future lot, and set my portion in happiness
or misery; yet I had not breath to speak my enquiries ;
hope tottered, and I felt as if a single word would be suf¬
ficient for its utter subversion: at length I articulated the
name of my uncle.
The single word sufficiently imparted my fears, and
these fears needed no verbal confirmation: at that dear
name, my companion's features were overspread by sorrow.
" Your uncle," said he, " is dead."
p 3
214
EDGAR HUNTLY.
" Dead ! Merciful Heaven ! And sisters too ? —both ?
" Your sisters are alive and well."
" Nay/' resumed I, in faltering accents, " jest not
with my feelings—be not cruel in your pity : tell me the
truth."
" I have said the truth: they are well, at Mr. Ingle-
field's."
My wishes were eager to assent to the truth of these
tidings. The better part of me was then safe : but how
did they escape the fate that overtook my uncle ? — how
did they evade the destroying hatchet and the midnight
conflagration ? These doubts were imparted in a tu¬
multuous and obscure manner to my friend: he no sooner
fully comprehended them, than he looked at me with some
inquietude and surprise.
" Huntly," said he, " are you mad ? What has filled you
with these hideous prepossessions ? Much havoc has indeed
been committed in Chetasco and the wilderness, and a log
hut has been burned by design or by accident in Solebury,
but that is all: your house has not been assailed by either
firebrand or tomahawk; every thing is safe, and in its an¬
cient order. The master indeed is gone ; but the old man
fell a victim to his own temerity and hardihood. It is
thirty years since he retired with three wounds from the
field of Braddock; but time in no degree abated his ad¬
venturous and military spirit. On the first alarm he sum¬
moned his neighbours, and led them in pursuit of the
invaders: alas! he was the first to attack them, and the
only one who fell in the contest!"
These words were uttered in a manner that left me no
room to doubt of their truth. My uncle had already been
lamented; and the discovery of the nature of his death, so
contrary to my forebodings, and of the safety of my girls,
made the state of my mind partake more of exultation and
joy than of grief or regret.
But how was I deceived ! Had not my fusee been found
in the hands of an enemy ? Whence could he have plun¬
dered it but from my own chamber ? It hung against the
wall of a closet, from which no stranger could have taken
EDGAR HUNTLY.
215
it except by violence. My perplexities and doubts were
not at an end; but those which constituted my chief tor¬
ment were removed. I listened to my friend's entreaties
to tell him the cause of my elopement, and the incidents
that terminated in the present interview.
I began with relating my return to consciousness in the
bottom of the pit—my efforts to free myself from this
abhorred prison — the acts of horror to which I was im¬
pelled by famine, and their excruciating consequences —
my gaining the outlet of the cavern — the desperate expe¬
dient by which I removed the impediment to my escape,
and the deliverance of the captive girl—the contest I
maintained before Deb's hut—my subsequent wanderings
—the banquet which hospitality afforded me — my journey
to the river bank — my meditations on the means of reaching
the road — my motives for hazarding my life, by plunging
into the stream — and my subsequent perils and fears till I
reached the threshold of this habitation.
" Thus," continued I, " I have complied with your re¬
quest; I have told all that I myself know. What were
the incidents between my sinking to rest at Inglefield's, and
my awaking in the chamber of the hill—by what means
and by whose contrivance, preternatural or human, this
transition was effected, I am unable to explain ; I cannot
even guess.
" What has eluded my sagacity may not be beyond the
reach of another: your own reflections on my tale, or some
facts that have fallen under your notice, may enable you to
furnish a solution. But, meanwhile, how am I to account
for your appearance on this spot ? This meeting was un¬
expected and abrupt to you; but it has not been less so to
me: of all mankind, Sarsefield was the farthest from my
thoughts when I saw these tokens of a traveller and a
stranger.
" You were imperfectly acquainted with my wanderings:
—you saw me on the ground before Deb's hut—you saw
me plunge into the river—you endeavoured to destroy me
while swimming—and you knew, before my narrative was
heard, that Huntly was the object of your enmity. What
was the motive of your search in the desert, and how were
p 4
216
EDGAR HUNTLY.
you apprized of my condition ? These things are not less
wonderful than any of those which I have already re¬
lated."
During my tale the features of Sarsefield betokened the
deepest attention : his eye strayed not a moment from my
face. All my perils and forebodings were fresh in my re¬
membrance— they had scarcely gone by — their skirtSj so
to speak, were still visible. No wonder that my eloquence
was vivid and pathetic — that I portrayed the past as if it
were the present scene, and that not my tongue only, but
every muscle and limb spoke."
When I had finished my relation, Sarsefield sunk into
thoughtfulness: from this, after a time, he recovered, and
said, " Your tale, Huntly, is true; yet, did I not see you
before me — were I not acquainted with the artlessness and
rectitude of your character — and, above all, had not my own
experience during the last three days confirmed every in¬
cident— I should question its truth. You have amply gra¬
tified my curiosity, and deserve that your own should be
gratified as fully. Listen to me.
" Much has happened since we parted, which shall not
be now mentioned. I promised to inform you of my wel¬
fare by letter, and did not fail to write; but whether my
letters were received, or any were written by you in return,
or if written were ever transmitted, I cannot tell; none
were ever received.
Some days since I arrived, in company with a lady who
is my wife, in America. You have never been forgotten by
me: I knew your situation to be little in agreement with
your wishes; and one of the benefits which fortune has
lately conferred upon me, is the power of snatching you
from a life of labour and obscurity, whose goods, scanty as
they are, are transient and precarious; and affording you
the suitable leisure and means of intellectual gratification
and improvement.
" Your silence made me entertain some doubts concern-
ing your welfare, and even your existence: to solve these
doubts, I hastened to Solebury. Some delays upon the
road hindered me from accomplishing my journey by day¬
light: it was night before I entered the Norwalk path;
EDGAR HUNTLY.
217
but my ancient rambles with you made me familiar with
it, and I was not afraid of being obstructed or bewildered.
" Just as I gained the southern outlet, I spied a pas-
seriger on foot coming towards me with a quick pace: the
incident was of no moment; and yet the time of night, the
seeming expedition of the walker, recollection of the mazes
and obstacles which he was going to encounter, and a
vague conjecture that, perhaps, he was unacquainted with
the difficulties that awaited him, made me eye him with
attention as he passed.
" He came near, and I thought I recognised a friend in
this traveller: the form, the gesture, the stature, bore a
powerful resemblance to those of Edgar Huntly : this re¬
semblance was so strong, that I stopped, and after he had
gone by, called him by your name. That no notice was
taken of my call proved that the person was mistaken; but
even though it were another, that he should not even hesi¬
tate or turn at a summons which he could not but perceive
to be addressed, though erroneously, to him, was the source
of some surprise: I did not repeat my call, but proceeded
on my way.
" All had retired to repose in your uncle's dwelling: I
did not scruple to rouse them, and was received with affec¬
tionate and joyous greetings. That you allowed your
uncle to rise before you, was a new topic of reflection. To
my enquiries concerning you, answers were made that ac¬
corded with my wishes: I was told that you were in good
health, and were then ahed. That you had not heard and
risen at my knocking, was mentioned with surprise ; but
your uncle accounted for your indolence by saying that,
during the last week, you had fatigued yourself by ram¬
bling night and day, in search of some maniac or visionary
who was supposed to have retreated into Norwalk.
<e I insisted upon awakening you myself: — 1 antici¬
pated the effect of this sudden and unlooked-for meeting
with some emotions of pride as well as of pleasure : to
find, on opening your eyes, your old preceptor standing by
your bedside and gazing in your face, would place you, I
conceived, in an affecting situation.
" Your chamber door was open, but your bed was
218
EDGAR HUNTLY.
empty. Your uncle and sisters were made acquainted with
this circumstance: their surprise gave way to conjectures
that your restless and romantic spirit had tempted you from
your repose ; that you had rambled abroad on some fantastic
errand, and would probably return before the dawn. I
willingly acquiesced in this opinion ; and my feelings being
too thoroughly aroused to allow me to sleep, I took posses¬
sion of your chamber, and patiently awaited your return.
" The morning returned, but Huntly made not his ap¬
pearance. Your uncle became somewhat uneasy at' this
unseasonable absence. Much speculation and enquiry, as to
the possible reasons of your flight, were made. In my
survey of your chamber, I noted that only part of your
clothing remained beside your bed: coat, hat, stockings,
and shoes, lay upon the spot where they had probably been
thrown when you had disrobed yourself; but the panta¬
loons, which, according to Mr. Huntly's report, completed
your dress, were nowhere to be found. That you should
go forth on so cold a night so slenderly apparelled, was
almost incredible: your reason or your senses had deserted
you, before so rash an action could be meditated.
" I now remembered the person I had met in Norwalk :
his resemblance to your figure — his garb, which wanted hat,
coat, stockings, and shoes — and your absence from your bed
at that hour—were remarkable coincidences. But why did
you disregard my call? Your name uttered by a voice
that could not be unknown, was surely sufficient to arrest
your steps.
" Each hour added to the impatience of your friends :
to their recollections and conjectures I listened with a view
to extract from them some solution of this mystery. At
length a story was alluded to, of some one who, on the
preceding night, had been heard walking in the long room ;
to this was added the tale of your anxieties and wonders
occasioned by the loss of certain manuscripts.
" While ruminating upon these incidents, and endea¬
vouring to extract from this intelligence a clue explanatory
of your present situation, a single word, casually dropped
by your uncle, instantly illuminated my darkness and dis¬
pelled my doubts. —£ After all,' said the old man, c ten to
EDGAR HUNTLY.
219
one but Edgar himself was the man whom we heard walk¬
ing : but the lad was asleep, and knew not what he was
about/
' Surely/ said I, ' this inference is just; his manu¬
scripts could not be removed by any hands but his own,
since the rest of mankind were unacquainted, not only with
the place of their concealment, hut with their existence.
None but a man insane or asleep would wander forth so
slightly dressed; and none but a sleeper would have dis¬
regarded my calls.'—This conclusion was generally adopted;
but it gave birth in my mind to infinite inquietudes. You
had roved into Norwalk — a scene of inequalities, of promi¬
nences and pits, among which, thus destitute of the guid¬
ance of your senses, you could scarcely fail to be destroyed,
or, at least, irretrievably bewildered. I painted to myself
the dangers to which you were subjected : your careless
feet would bear you into some whirlpool, or to the edge of
some precipice; some internal revolution or outward shock
would recall you to consciousness at some perilous moment:
surprise and fear would disable you from taking seasonable
or suitable precautions, and your destruction be made sure.
" The lapse of every new hour, without bringing
tidings of your state, enhanced these fears. At length
the propriety of searching for you occurred. Mr. Huntly
and I determined to set out upon this pursuit, as well as
to commission others. A plan was laid by which every
accessible part of Norwalk, the wilderness beyond the flats
of Solebury, and the valley of Chetasco, should be traversed
and explored.
" Scarcely had we equipped ourselves for this ex¬
pedition, when a messenger arrived, wh6 brought the
disastrous news of Indians being seen within these pre¬
cincts ; and on the last night a farmer was shot in his
fields, a dwelling in Chetasco was burned to the ground,
and its inhabitants murdered or made captives. Rumour
and enquiry had been busy, and a plausible conjecture had
been formed as to the course and number of the enemies:
they were said to be divided into bands, and to amount in
the whole to thirty or forty warriors. This messenger
had come to warn us of danger which might impend, and
220
edgar huntly.
to summon us to join in the pursuit and extirpation of
these detestable foes.
" Your uncle, whose alacrity and vigour age had not
abated, eagerly engaged in this scheme. I was not averse
to contribute my efforts to an end like this: the road
which we had previously designed to take in search of my
fugitive pupil, was the same by which we must trace or
intercept the retreat of the savages: thus two purposes,
equally momentous, would be answered by the same means.
" Mr. Huntly armed himself with your fusee—Ingle-
field supplied me with a gun: during our absence the
dwelling was closed and locked, and your sisters placed
under the protection of Inglefield, whose age and pacifio
sentiments unfitted him for arduous and sanguinary enter¬
prises. A troop of rustics was collected; half of whom
remained to traverse Solebury, and the other, whom Mr.
Huntly and I accompanied, hastened to Chetasco.
CHAPTER XXV.
<e It was noonday before we reached the theatre of action:
fear and revenge combined to make the people of Chetasco
diligent and zealous in their own defence. The havoc
already committed had been mournful; to prevent a re¬
petition of the same calamities, they resolved to hunt out
the hostile footsteps, and exact a merciless retribution.
" It was likely that the enemy, on the approach of day,
had withdrawn from the valley, and concealed themselves
in the thickets between the parallel ridges of the mountain.
This space, which, according to the object with which it is
compared, is either a vale or the top of a hill, was obscure
and desolate: it was undoubtedly the avenue by which the
robbers had issued forth, and by which they would escape
to the Ohio: here they might still remain, intending to
emerge from their concealment on the next night, and
perpetrate new horrors.
" A certain distribution was made of our number, so
EDGAR HUNTLY. 221
as to move in all directions at the same time. I will
not dwell upon particulars — it will suffice to say, that
keen eyes and indefatigable feet brought us at last to the
presence of the largest number of these marauders. Seven
of them were slain by the edge of a brook, where they sat
wholly unconscious of the danger which hung over them;
five escaped, and one of these secured his retreat by Avrest-
ing your fusee from your uncle, and shooting him dead:
before our companion could be rescued or revenged, the
assassin, with the remnant of his troop, disappeared, and
bore away with him the fusee as a trophy of his victory.
" This disaster was deplored, not only on account of
that life which had thus been sacrificed, but because a
sagacious guide and intrepid leader was lost. His ac¬
quaintance with the habits of the Indians, and his ex¬
perience in their wars, made him trace their footsteps with
more certainty than any of his associates.
" The pursuit was still continued, and parties were so
stationed, that the escape of the enemy was difficult, if not
impossible: our search was unremitted; but, during twelve
or fourteen hours, unsuccessful. Queen Mab did not
escape all suspicion: her hut was visited by different par¬
ties ; but the old woman and her dogs had disappeared.
" Meanwhile your situation was not forgotten: every
one was charged to explore your footsteps as well as those
of the savages; but this search was no less unsuccessful
than the former — none had heard of you or seen you.
" This continued till midnight. Three of us made a
pause at a brook, and intended to repair our fatigues by a
respite of a few hours ; but scarcely had we stretched our¬
selves on the ground, when we were alarmed by a shot,
which seemed to have been fired at a short distance. We
started on our feet, and consulted with each other on the
measures to be taken. A second, a third, and a fourth
shot, from the same quarter, excited our attention anew.
Mab's hut was known to stand at the distance and in the
direction of this sound, and hither we resolved to repair.
" This was done with speed, but with the utmost
circumspection. We shortly reached the road that leads
222
EDGAR HUNTLY.
near this hut, and at length gained a view of the building.
Many persons were discovered in a sort of bustling in¬
activity before the hut: they were easily distinguished to
be friends, and were therefore approached without scruple.
" The objects that presented themselves, on a nearer
view, were five bodies stretched upon the ground: three of
them were savages ; the fourth was a girl, who, though
alive, seemed to have received a mortal wound; the fifth,
breathless and mangled, and his features almost concealed
by the blood that overspread his face, was Edgar, the
fugitive for whom I had made such anxious search.
" About the same hour on the last night I had met you
hasting into Norwalk; now were you lying in the midst of
savages, at the distance of thirty miles from your home,
and in a spot which it was impossible for you to have
reached, unless by an immense circuit over rocks and
thickets. That you had found a rift at the basis of the
hill, and thus permeated its solidities, and precluded so
tedious and circuitous a journey as must otherwise have
been made, was not to be imagined.
" But whence arose this scene ? It was obvious to
conclude that my associates had surprised their enemies in
this house, and exacted from them the forfeit of their
crimes ; but how you should have been confounded with
their foes, or whence came the wounded girl, was a subject
of astonishment.
" You will judge how much this surprise was augmented,
when I was informed, that the party whom we found had
been attracted hither by the same signals by which we had
been alarmed; that on reaching this spot you had been
discovered alive, seated on the ground, and still sustaining
the gun with which you had apparently completed the
destruction of so many adversaries ; in a moment after
their arrival, you sunk down and expired.
" This scene was attended with inexplicable circum¬
stances : the musket which lay beside you appeared to have
belonged to one of the savages; the wound by which each
had died was single. Of the four shots we had distin¬
guished at a distance, three of them were therefore fatal to
EDGAR HUNTLY.
223
the Indians, and the fourth was doubtless that by which
you had fallen; yet three muskets only were discoverable.
" The arms were collected, and the girl was carried to
the nearest house by her father. Her situation was deemed
capable of remedy; and the sorrow and wonder which I
felt at your untimely and extraordinary fate, did not hinder
me from endeavouring to restore the health of this unfor¬
tunate victim : I reflected likewise that some light might
be thrown upon transactions so mysterious, by the inform¬
ation which might be collected from her story. Number
less questions and hints were necessary to extract from her
a consistent or intelligent tale. She had been dragged, it
seems, for miles, at the heels of her conquerors, who at
length stopped in a cavern for the sake of some repose.
All slept but one, who sat and watched: something called
him away; and, at the same moment, you appeared at the
bottom of the cave, half naked and without arms: you
instantly supplied the last deficiency by seizing the gun
and tomahawk of him who had gone forth, and who had
negligently left his weapons behind; then stepping over
the bodies of the sleepers, you rushed out of the cavern.
" She then mentioned your unexpected return, her de¬
liverance and flight, and arrival at Deb's hut. You watched
upon the hearth, and she fell asleep upon the blanket; from
this sleep she was aroused by violent and cruel blows.
She looked up — you were gone, and the bed on which
she lay was surrounded by the men from whom she had
so lately escaped. One dragged her out of the hut, and
levelled his gun at her breast; at the moment when he
touched the trigger, a shot came from an unknown quarter,
and he fell at her feet. Of subsequent events she had an
incoherent recollection : the Indians were successively slain ;
and you came to her, and interrogated and consoled her.
"In your journey to the hut you were armed; this in
some degree accounted for appearances—but where were
your arms ? Three muskets only were discovered, and
these undoubtedly belonged to your enemies.
" I now had leisure to reflect upon your destiny. I had
arrived soon enough on this shore merely to witness the
catastrophe of two beings whom I most loved; both were
224
EDGAR HUNTLY.
overtaken by the same fate, nearly at the same hour; the
same hand had possibly accomplished the destruction of
uncle and nephew.
" Now, however, I began to entertain a hope that your
state might not be irretrievable. You had walked and
spoken after the firing was over and your enemies had
ceased to contend with you. A wound had no doubt been
previously received: I had hastily inferred that the wound
was mortal, and that life could not be recalled. Occupied
with attention to the wailings of the girl, and full of
sorrow and perplexity, I had admitted an opinion which
would have never been adopted in different circumstances.
My acquaintance with wounds would have taught me to
regard sunken muscles, lividness, and cessation of the
pulse, as mere indications of a swoon, and not as tokens of
death.
" Perhaps my error was not irreparable ; by hastening
to the hut, I might ascertain your condition, and at least
transport your remains to some dwelling, and finally secure
to you the decencies of burial.
" Of twelve savages discovered on the preceding day,
ten were now killed ; two at least remained, after whom
- the pursuit was still zealously maintained. Attention to
the wounded girl had withdrawn me from the party, and
I had now leisure to return to the scene of these disasters :
the sun had risen, and accompanied by two others I re¬
paired thither.
" A sharp turn in the road, at the entrance of the field,
set before us a starting spectacle. An Indian, mangled by
repeated wounds of bayonet and bullet, was discovered ; his
musket was stuck in the ground, by way of beacon attract¬
ing our attention to the spot. Over this space I had gone
a few hours before, and nothing like this was then seen;
the parties abroad had hied away to a distant quarter.
Some invisible power seemed to be enlisted in our defence,
and to preclude the necessity of our arms.
" We proceeded to the hut: the savages were there;
but Edgar had risen and flown ! Nothing now seemed to
be incredible. You had slain three foes, and the weapon
with which the victory had been achieved had vanished;
EDGAR HUNTLY.
225
you had risen from the dead, had assailed one of the sur¬
viving enemies, had employed bullet and dagger in his
destruction, with both of which you could only be supplied
by supernatural means, and had disappeared. If any inha¬
bitant of Chetasco had done this, we should have heard
of it.
" But what remained? You were still alive; your
strength was sufficient to bear you from this spot. Why
were you still invisible; and to what dangers might you
not be exposed before you could extricate yourself from the
mazes of this wilderness ?
" Once more I procured indefatigable search to be made
after you : it was continued till the approach of evening,
and was fruitless. Enquiries were twice made at the house
where you were supplied with food and intelligence : — on
the second call, I was astonished and delighted by the
tidings received from the good woman : your person and
demeanour and arms were described, and mention made of
your resolution to cross the southern ridge, and traverse
the Solebury road with the utmost expedition.
" The greater part of my inquietudes were now re¬
moved ; you were able to eat and to travel, and there was
little doubt that a meeting would take place between us on
the next morning : meanwhile I determined to concur with
those who pursued the remainder of the enemy. I followed
yo.u in the path that you were said to have taken, and
quickly joined a numerous party who were searching for
those who on the last night had attacked a plantation that
lies near this, and destroyed the inhabitants.
" I need not dwell upon our doublings and circuities. The
enemy was traced to the house of Selby; they had entered ;
they had put fire on the floor, but were compelled to re¬
linquish their prey. Of what number they consisted,
could not be ascertained; but one, lingering behind his
fellows, was shot at the entrance of the wood, and on the
spot where you chanced to light upon him.
" Selby's house was empty, and before the fire had made
any progress, we extinguished it. The drunken wretch
whom you encountered had probably returned from his
nocturnal debauch after we had left the spot.
Q
226
EDGAR HUNTLY.
cc The flying enemy was pursued with fresh diligence:
they were found, by various tokens, to have crossed the
river, and to have ascended the mountain. We trod
closely on their heels. When we arrived at the promon¬
tory described by you, the fatigues of the night and day
rendered me unqualified to proceed: I determined that
this should be the bound of my excursions. I was anxious
to obtain an interview with you; and, unless I paused here,
should not be able to gain Inglefield's as early in the morn¬
ing as I wished. Two others concurred with me in this
resolution, and we prepared to retunr to this house, which
had been deserted by its tenants till the danger was past,
and which had been selected as the place of rendezvous.
" At this moment, dejected and weary, I approached
the ledge which severed the headland from the mountain.
I marked the appearance of some one stretched upon the
ground where you lay. No domestic animal would wander
hither, and place himself upon this spot; there was some¬
thing likewise in the appearance of the object that bespoke
it to be man; but, if it were man, it was incontrovertibly
a savage and a foe: I determined, therefore, to rouse you
by a bullet.
" My decision was perhaps absurd; I ought to have
gained more certainty before I hazarded your destruction :
be that as it will, a moment's lingering on your part would
have probably been fatal. You started on your feet, and
fired. See the hole which your random shot made through
my sleeve ! This surely was a day destined to be signalised
by hair-breadth escapes.
• " Your action seemed incontestably to confirm my prog¬
nostics. Every one hurried to the spot, and was eager to
destroy an enemy : no one hesitated to believe that some
of the shots aimed at you had reached their mark, and that
you had sunk to rise no more.
" The gun which was fired and thrown down was
taken and examined; it had been my companion in many
a toilsome expedition—it had rescued me and my friends
from a thousand deaths; in order to recognise it, I needed
only to touch and handle it: I instantly discovered that
I held in my hand the fusee which I had left with you on
EDGAR HUNTLY.
227
parting, with which your uncle had equipped himself, and
which had been ravished from him by a savage. What
was I hence to infer respecting the person of the last
possessor ?
" My enquiries respecting you of the woman whose
milk and bread you had eaten were minute. You entered,
she said, with a hatchet and gun in your hand. While
you ate, the gun was laid upon the table; she sat near,
and the piece became the object of inquisitive attention.
The stock and barrels were described by her in such terms
as left no doubt that this was the fusee.
" A comparison of incidents enabled me to trace the
manner in which you came into possession of this instru¬
ment : — one of those whom you found in the cavern was
the assassin of your uncle; according to the girl's report,
on issuing from your hiding-place, you seized a gun that
was unoccupied, and this gun chanced to be your own.
" Its two barrels were probably the cause of your suc¬
cess in that unequal contest at Mab's hut. On recovering
from deliquium, you found it where it had been dropped
by you, out of sight, and unsuspected by the party that
had afterwards arrived. In your passage to the river, had
it once more fallen into hostile hands; or had you missed
the way, wandered to this promontory, and mistaken a
troop of friends for a band of Indian marauders ?
" Either supposition was dreadful; the latter was the
most plausible. No motives were conceivable by which
one of the fugitives could be induced to post himself here
in this conspicuous station : whereas the road which led
you to the summit of the hill, to that spot where descent
to the river road was practicable, could not be found but
by those who were accustomed to traverse it. The direc¬
tions which you had exacted from your hostess, proved
your previous unacquaintance with these tracts.
" I acquiesced in this opinion with a heavy and de¬
sponding heart. Fate had led us into a maze, which could
oidy terminate in the destruction of one or of the other.
By the breadth of a hair had I escaped death from your
hand; the same fortune had not befriended you. After
my tedious search, I had lighted on you, forlorn, bo¬
il 2
228
EDGAR HTJNTLY.
wildered, perishing with cold and hunger : instead of
recognising and affording you relief, I compelled you to
leap into the river from a perilous height, and had desisted
from my persecution only when I had bereaved you ol life,
and plunged you to the bottom of the gulf.
" My motives in coming to America were numerous and
mixed. Among these was the parental affection with which
you had inspired me. I came with fortune, and a better
gift than fortune, in my hand. I intended to bestow both
upon you — not only to give you competence, but one who
would endear to you that competence—who would enhance,
by participating, every gratification.
" My schemes were now at an end—you were gone
beyond the reach of my benevolence and justice. I had
robbed your two sisters of a friend and guardian. It was
some consolation to think that it was in my power to stand,
with regard to them, in your place—* that 11 could snatch
them from the poverty, dependence, and humiliation, to
which your death and that of your uncle had reduced
them.
" I was now doubly weary of the enterprise in which I
was engaged, and returned with speed to this rendezvous.
My companions have gone to know the state of the family
who resided under this roof, and left me to beguile the
tedious moments in whatever manner I pleased.
" I have omitted mentioning one incident that happened
between the detection of your flight and our expedition to
Chetasco. Having formed a plausible conjecture as to him
who walked in the long room, it was obvious to conclude
that he who purloined your manuscripts and the walker
were the same personage. It was likewise easily inferred
that the letters were secreted in the cedar chest, or in some
other part of the room. Instances similar to this have here¬
tofore occurred; men have employed anxious months in
search of that which, in a freak of noctambulation, was
hidden by their own hands.
" A search was immediately commenced; and your let¬
ters were found, carefully concealed between the rafters and
shingles of the roof, in a spot where, if suspicion had not
been previously excited, they would have remained till the
'J
edgar huntly. 229
vernal rains and the summer heats had insensibly destroyed
them. This packet I carried with me, knowing the value
which you set upon them, and there being no receptacle
equally safe, but your own cabinet, which was locked.
" Having, as I said, reached this house, and being left
alone, I bethought me of the treasure I possessed. I was
unacquainted with the reasons for which these papers were
so precious : they probably had some momentous and inti¬
mate connection with your own history. As such, they
could not be of little value to me ; and this moment of inoc¬
cupation and regrets was as suitable as any other to the task
of perusing them. I drew them forth, therefore, and laid
them on the table in this chamber.
" The rest is known to you. During a momentary ab¬
sence, you entered. Surely no interview of ancient friends
ever took place in so unexpected and abrupt a manner!
You were dead — I mourned for you as one whom I loved,
and whom Fate had snatched for ever from my sight.
Now, in a blissful hour, you had risen ; and my happiness
in thus embracing you is ten-fold greater than would have
been experienced if no uncertainties and perils had pro¬
tracted our meeting."
CHAPTER XXVI.
Here ended the tale of Sarsefield. Humiliation and joy
were mingled in my heart. The events that preceded my
awakening in the cave were now luminous and plain.
"What explication was more obvious ? What but this solu¬
tion ought to have been suggested by the conduct I had
witnessed in Clithero ?
Clithero ! —Was not this the man whom Clithero had
robbed of his friend ? Was not this the lover of Mrs. Lori-
mer—the object of the persecutions of Wiatte ? Was it not
now given me to investigate the truth of this stupendous
tale—to dissipate the doubts which obstinately clung to my
imagination respecting it ?
Q 3
'
230
EDGAR HUNTLY.
But soft! Had not Sarsefield said that he was married ?
Was Mrs. Lorimer so speedily forgotten by him; or was
the narrative of Clithero the web of imposture or the
raving of insanity ?
These new ideas banished all personal considerations
from my mind. I looked eagerly into the face ol my
friend, and exclaimed in a dubious accent—" How say
you ? Married?—When ? — To whom ?
" Yes, Huntly, I am wedded to the most excellent of
women ; to her am I indebted for happiness, and wealth,
and dignity, and honour ; to her do I owe the power of
being the benefactor and protector of you and your sisters.
She longs to embrace you as a son. To become truly her
son will depend upon your own choice, and that of one
who was the companion of our voyage."
" Heavens !" cried I, in a transport of exultation and
astonishment—" of whom do you speak ? — of the mother
of Clarice — the sister of Wiatte—the sister of the ruffian
who laid snares for her life, who pursued you and the
unhappy Clithero with the bitterest animosity ?"
My friend started at these sounds as if the earth had
yawned at his feet; his countenance was equally significant
of terror and rage. As soon as he regained the power of
utterance, he spoke. — " Clithero ! — Curses light upon
thy lips for having uttered that detested name ! — Thou¬
sands of miles have I flown to shun the hearing of it. Is
the madman here ?—have you set eyes upon him ? — does
he yet crawl upon the face of the earth ? Unhappy, un¬
paralleled, unheard-of, thankless miscreant! Has he told
his execrable falsehoods here ? — has he dared to utter
names so sacred as those of Eupliemia Lorimer and
Clarice ?"
(C He has — he has told a tale that had all the appear¬
ances of truth."
" Out upon the villain ! The truth ! Truth would prove
him to be unnatural—devilish — a thing for which no
language has yet provided a name ! He has called himself
unhappy—no doubt, a victim to injustice, overtaken by
unmerited calamity: — say, has he fooled thee with such
tales ?"
EDGAR HUNTLY.
231
" No : his tale was a catalogue of crimes and miseries
of which he was the author and sufferer. You know not
his motives, his horrors."
" His deeds were monstrous and infernal—his motives
were sordid and flagitious: to display all their ugliness
and infamy was not his province:—no, he did not tell
you that he stole at midnight to the chamber of his mistress
— a woman who astonished the world by her loftiness and.
magnanimity, by indefatigable beneficence and unswerving
equity — who had lavished on this wretch, whom she
snatched from the dirt, all the goods of fortune, all the
benefits of education, all the treasures of love, every pro¬
vocation to gratitude, every stimulant to justice.
" He did not tell you, that, in recompense for every
benefit, he stole upon her sleep, and aimed a dagger at her
breast. There was no room for flight, or ambiguity, or
prevarication : she whom he meant to murder stood near,
saw the lifted weapon, and heard him confess and glory in
his purposes.
" No wonder that the shock bereft her for a time of life.
The interval was seized by the ruffian to effect his escape ;
the rebukes of justice were shunned by a wretch conscious
of his inexpiable guilt. These things he has hidden from
you, and has supplied their place by a tale specious as
false."
" No : among tbe number of his crimes, hypocrisy is
not to be counted. These things are already known to me:
he spared himself too little in the narrative; the excellences
of his lady, her claims to gratitude and veneration, were
urged beyond their true bounds. His attempts upon her
life were related; it is true that he desired and endeavoured
to destroy her."
" How ! has he told you this ? "
" He has told me all. Alas ! the criminal intention has
been amply expiated !"
" What mean you ? Whence, and how came he hither ?
Where is he now ? I will not occupy the same land, the
same world with him. Have this woman and her daughter
lighted on the shore haunted by this infernal and impla-.
cable enemy ? "
q 4>
232
EDGAR HUNTLY.
ee Alas ! it is doubtful whether he exists ! If he lives,
he is no longer to be feared : but he lives not; famine and
remorse have utterly consumed him."
" Famine !—remorse ! You talk in riddles !
1 fc He has concealed himself in the desert; he has ab¬
jured the intercourse of mankind ; he has shut himself in
caverns, where famine must inevitably expedite that death
for which he longs as the only solace of his woes. To no
imagination are his offences blacker and more odious than
to his own. I had hopes of rescuing him from this fate ;
but my own infirmities and errors have afforded me suffi¬
cient occupation."
Sarsefield renewed his imprecations on the memory of
that unfortunate man, and his enquiries as to the circum¬
stances that led him into this remote district. His enquiries
were not to be answered by one in my present condition:
my languors and fatigues had now gained a pitch that was
insupportable. The wound in my face had been chafed and
inflamed by the cold water and the bleak air; and the pain
attending it would no longer suffer my attention to stray.
I sunk upon the floor, and entreated him to afford me the
respite of a few hours' repose.
He was sensible of the deplorableness of my condition,
and chid himself for the negligence of which he had already
been guilty. He lifted me to the bed, and deliberated on
the mode he should pursue for my relief. Some mollifying
application to my wound was immediately necessary ; but
in our present lonely condition it was not at hand : it could
only be procured from a distance; it was proper, therefore,
to hasten to the nearest inhabited dwelling, which belonged
to one, by name ,Walton, and supply himself with such
medicines as could be found.
Meanwhile, there was no danger of molestation and in¬
trusion. There was reason to expect the speedy return of
those who had gone in the pursuit of the savages : this was
their place of rendezvous, and hither they appointed to re¬
assemble before the morrow's? dawn. The distance of the
neighbouring farm was small, and Sarsefield promised to
be expeditious: he left me to myself and my own rumi¬
nations.
\
EDGAR HUNTLY.
233
Harassed by fatigue and pain, I had yet power to ru¬
minate on that series of unparalleled events that had lately
happened. I wept; but my tears flowed from a double
source: from sorrow, on account of the untimely fate of
my uncle; and from joy, that my sisters were preserved
—that Sarsefield had returned, and was not unhappy.
I reflected on the untoward destiny of Clithero : part of
his calamity consisted in the consciousness of having killed
his patroness; but it now appeared, though by some infa¬
tuation I had not previously suspected, that the first im¬
pulse of sorrow in the lady had been weakened by reflection
and by time—that the prejudice persuading her that her
life and that of her brother were to endure and to terminate
together, was conquered by experience or by argument.
She had come, in company with Sarsefield and Clarice, to
America. What influence might these events have upon
the gloomy meditations of Clithero ? Was it possible to
bring them together, to win the maniac from his solitude,
wrest from him his fatal purposes, and restore him to com¬
munion with the beings whose imagined indignation is the
torment of his life ?
These musings were interrupted by sounds from below;
which were easily interpreted into tokens of the return of
those with whom Sarsefield had parted at the promontory:
• voices were confused and busy, but not turbulent. They
entered the lower room; and the motion of chairs and
tables showed that they were preparing to rest themselves
after their toils.
Few of them were unacquainted with me, since they
probably were residents in this district: no inconvenience,
therefore, would follow from an interview, though on their
part wholly unexpected; besides, Sarsefield would speedily
return, and none of the present visitants would be likely
to withdraw to this apartment.
Meanwhile, I lay upon the bed, with my face turned
towards the door, and languidly gazing at the ceiling and
walls. Just then a musket was discharged in the room
below. The shock affected me mechanically, and the first
impulse of surprise made me almost start upon my feet.
The sound was followed by confusion and bustle: some
234
EDGAR HUNTJjY.
rushed forth, and called on each other to run different ways,
and the words — " That is he — stop him ! were spoken
in a tone of eagerness and rage. My weakness and pain
were for a moment forgotten, and my whole attention was
bent to discover the meaning of this hubbub. The musket
which I had brought with me to this chamber lay across
the bed: unknowing of the consequences of this affray with
regard to myself, 1 was prompted, by a kind of self-pre¬
serving instinct, to lay hold of the gun, and prepare to
repel any attack that might be made upon me.
A few moments elapsed, when I thought I heard light
footsteps in the entry leading to this room. I had no time
to construe these signals; but watching fearfully the en¬
trance, I grasped my weapon with new force, and raised it
so as to be ready at the moment of danger. I did not
watch long. A figure cautiously thrust itself forward:
the first glance was sufficient to inform me that this in¬
truder was an Indian, and, of consequence/an enemy. He
was unarmed. Looking eagerly on all sides, he at last
spied me as I lay. My appearance threw him into con¬
sternation ; and, after the fluctuation of an instant, he
darted to the window, threw up the sash, and leaped out
upon the ground.
His flight might have been easily arrested by my shot;
but surprise, added to my habitual antipathy to bloodshed,
unless in cases of absolute necessity, made me hesitate.
He was gone, and I was left to mark the progress of the
drama. The silence was presently broken by firing at a
distance: three shots, in quick succession, were followed
by the deepest pause.
That the party recently arrived had brought with them
one or more captives, and that by some sudden effort the
prisoners had attempted to escape, was the only supposition
that I could form : by what motives either of them could
be induced to seek concealment in my chamber, could not
be imagined.
I now heard a single step on the threshold below. Some
one entered the common room: he traversed the floor
during a few minutes ; and then ascending the staircase,
he entered my chamber. It was Sarsefield. Trouble and
EDGAR HUNTLY.
235
dismay were strongly written on his countenance: he
seemed totally unconscious of my presence; his eyes were
fixed upon the floor, and, as he continued to move across
the room, he heaved forth deep sighs.
This deportment was mournful and mysterious: it was
little in unison with those appearances which he wore at
our parting, and must have been caused by some event that
had since happened. My curiosity impelled me to recall
him from his reverie. I rose, and seizing him by the arm,
looked at him with an air of inquisitive anxiety: it was
needless to speak.
He noticed my movement; and turning towards me,
spoke, in a tone of some resentment — " Why did you
deceive me ? Did you not say Clithero was dead ? "
" I said so because it was my belief. Know you any
thing to the contrary ? — Heaven grant that he be still
alive, and that our mutual efforts may restore him to
peace !"
" Heaven grant," replied my friend, with a vehemence
that bordered upon fury — " Heaven grant that he may
live thousands of years, and know not in their long course
a moment's respite from remorse and from anguish ! But
this prayer is fruitless: he is not dead, but death hovers
over him. Should he live, he will live only to defy justice
and perpetrate new horrors. My skill might perhaps save
him; but a finger shall not be moved to avert his fate.
" Little did I think that the wretch whom my friends re¬
scued from the power of the savages, and brought wounded
and expiring hither, was Clithero. They sent for me in
haste to afford him surgical assistance. I found him
stretched upon the floor below, deserted, helpless, and
bleeding : the moment I beheld him he was recognised.
The last of evils was to look upon the face of this assassin ;
but that evil is passed, and shall never be endured again.
" Rise and come with me: accommodation is prepared
for you at Walcot's. Let us leave this house; and the
moment you are able to perform a journey, abandon for
ever this district."
I could not readily consent to this proposal. Clithero
had been delivered from captivity; but was dying for want
236'
edgar huntly.
of that aid which Sarsefield was able to afford. Was it not
inhuman to desert him in this extremity ? What offence
had he committed that deserved such implacable vengeance?
Nothing I had heard from Sarsefield was in contradiction
to his own story. His deed, imperfectly observed, would
appear to be atrocious and detestable; but the view of all
its antecedent and accompanying events and motives, would
surely place it in the list, not of crimes, but of misfortunes.
But what is that guilt which no penitence can expiate ?
Had not Clithero's remorse been more than adequate to
crimes far more deadly and enormous than this ? This,
however, was no time to argue with the passions of Sarse¬
field. Nothing but a repetition of Clithero's tale could
vanquish his prepossessions and mollify his rage; but this
repetition was impossible to be given by me till a moment
of safety and composure.
These thoughts made me linger, but hindered me from
attempting to change the determination of my friend. He
renewed his importunities for me to fly with him—he
dragged me by the arm; and, wavering and reluctant, I
followed where he chose to lead. He crossed the common
room with hurried steps, and eyes averted from a figure
which instantly fastened my attention.
It was, indeed, Clithero whom I now beheld, supine,
polluted with blood, his eyes closed, and apparently insen¬
sible : this object was gazed at with emotions that rooted
me to the spot. Sarsefield, perceiving me determined to
remain where I was, rushed out of the house, and dis¬
appeared.
CHAPTER XXVII.
I hung over the unhappy wretch, whose emaciated form
and rueful features sufficiently bespoke that savage hands
had only completed that destruction which his miseries had
begun. He was mangled by the tomahawk in a shocking
EDGAR HUNTLY.
237
manner; and there was little hope that human skill could
save his life.
I was sensible of nothing but compassion: I acted
without design, when, seating myself on the floor, I raised
his head and placed it on my knees. This movement
awakened his attention, and opening his eyes, he fixed
them on my countenance: they testified neither insensi¬
bility, nor horror, nor distraction. A faint emotion of
surprise gave way to an appearance of tranquillity. Hav¬
ing perceived these tokens of a state less hopeless than I at
first imagined, I spoke to him.
" My- friend, how do you feel ? Can any thing be
done for you ? "
He answered me in a tone more firm, and with more
coherence of ideas, than previous appearances had taught
me to expect.
" No," said he, " thy kindness, good youth, can avail
me nothing. The end of my existence here is at hand.
May my guilt be expiated by the miseries that I have
suffered, and my good deeds only attend me to the pre¬
sence of my divine Judge !
" I am waiting, but not with trembling or dismay, for
this close of my sorrows. I breathed but one prayer, and
that prayer has been answered: I asked for an interview
with thee, young man; but, feeling as I now feel, this
interview so much desired was beyond my hope. Now
thou art come in due season to hear the last words that
1 shall need to utter.
" I wanted to assure thee that thy efforts for my benefit
were not useless: they have saved me from murdering
myself; a guilt more inexpiable than any which it was in
my power to commit.
" I retired to the innermost recess of Norwalk, and
gained the summit of a hill, by subterranean paths. This
hill I knew to be on all sides inaccessible to human foot¬
steps, and the subterranean passages were closed up by
stones: here I believed my solitude exempt from inter-
ruption, and my death, in consequence of famine, sure.
" This persuasion was not taken away by your appear-
238
EDGAR HUNTLY.
ance on the opposite steep. The chasm which severed us
I knew to be impassable.—I withdrew from your sight.
" Some time after, awakening from a long sleep, I
found victuals beside me. He that brought them was
invisible. For a time I doubted whether some messenger
of Heaven had not interposed for my salvation. How
other than by supernatural means my retreat should be
explored, I was unable to conceive: the summit was en¬
compassed by dizzy and profound gulfs, and the sub¬
terranean passages were still closed.
" This opinion, though corrected by subsequent reflec¬
tion, tended to change the course of my desperate thoughts.
— My hunger, thus importunately urged, would not ab¬
stain, and I ate of the food that was provided. Hence¬
forth I determined to live, to resume the path of obscurity
and labour which I had relinquished, and wait till my
God should summon me to retribution: — to anticipate his
call is only to redouble our guilt.
" I designed not to return to Inglefield's service, but to
choose some other and remoter district. Meanwhile, I
had left in his possession a treasure which my determin¬
ation to die had rendered of no value, but which my change
of resolution restored. Enclosed in a box at Inglefield's
were the memoirs of Euphemia Lorimer; by which in all
my vicissitudes I had been hitherto accompanied, and from
which I consented to part only because I had refused to
live: my existence was now to be prolonged, and this
manuscript was once more to constitute the torment and
the solace of my being.
" I hastened to Inglefield's by night. There was no
need to warn him of my purpose ; I desired that my fate
should be an eternal secret to my ancient master and his
neighbours. The apartment containing my box was well
known, and easily accessible.
" The box was found, but broken and rifled of its trea¬
sure. My transports of astonishment, and indignation, and
grief, yielded to the resumption of my fatal purpose: I
hastened back to the hill, and determined anew to perish.
" This mood continued to the evening of the ensuing
EDGAR HUNTLY.
239
day. "Wandering over rocks and pits, I discovered the
manuscript lying under a jutting precipice. The chance
that brought it hither was not less propitious and miracu¬
lous, than that by which I had been supplied with food : it
produced a similar effect upon my feelings ; and while in
possession of this manuscript I was reconciled to the means
of life. I left the mountain, and traversing the wilderness,
stopped in Chetasco. That kind of employment which I
sought was instantly procured; but my new vocation was
scarcely assumed when a band of savages invaded our
"ecurity.
" Rambling in the desert by moonlight, I encountered
tl .ese foes : they rushed upon me, and after numerous
wounds, which, for the present, neither killed nor disabled
me, they compelled me to keep pace with them in their re¬
treat. Some hours have passed since the troop was over¬
taken, and my liberty redeemed. Hardships and repeated
wounds, inflicted at the moment when the invaders were
surprised and slain, have brought me to my present condi¬
tion. I rejoice that my course is about to terminate."
Here the speaker was interrupted by the tumultuous
entrance of the party by whom he had been brought hither.
Their astonishment at seeing me sustaining the head of the
dying man may be easily conceived. Their surprise was
more strongly excited by the disappearance of the captive,
whom they had left in this apartment bound hand and foot.
It now appeared that, of the savage troop who had adven¬
tured thus far in search of pillage and blood, all had been
destroyed but two, who had been led hither as prisoners.
On their entrance into this house, one of the party had
been sent to Walcot's to summon Sarsefield to the aid of the
wounded man ; while others had gone in search of cords to
secure the arms and legs of the captives, who had hitherto
been manacled imperfectly.
The cords were brought, and one of them was bound;
but the other, before the same operation was begun upon
him, broke, by a sudden effort, the feeble ligatures by which
he was at present constrained, and seizing a musket that lay
near him. fired on his enemies, and then rushed out of doors,
240
EDGAR HTJNTLY.
All eagerly engaged in the pursuit: the savage was fleet as
a deer, and finally eluded his pursuers.
While their attention was thus engaged abroad, he that
remained found means to extricate his wrists and ankles
from his bonds; and betaking himself to the stairs, escaped,
as I before described, through the window of the room
which I had occupied. They pestered me with their cu¬
riosity and wonder, for I was known to all of themj but,
waving the discussions of my own concerns, I entreated
their assistance to carry Clithero to the chamber and the
bed which I had just deserted.
I now, in spite of pain, fatigue, and watchfulness, set
out to go to Walton's. Sarsefield was ready to receive me
at the door, and the kindness and compassion of the family
were active in my behalf. I was conducted to a chamber,
and provided with suitable attendance and remedies.
I was not unmindful of the more deplorable condition of
Clithero : I incessantly meditated on the means for his
relief. His case stood in need of all the vigilance and skill
of a physician, and Sarsefield was the only one of that pro¬
fession whose aid could be seasonably administered : Sarse¬
field, therefore, must be persuaded to bestow this aid.
There were but two modes of conquering his abhorrence
of this man : — to prepossess my friend with the belief of
the innocence of Clithero, or to soothe him into pity by a
picture of remorse and suffering. The latter could best be
done, and in a manner most conformable to truth, by a
simple recital of the incidents that had befallen, and by
repeating the confession which had been extorted from
Clithero.
I requested all but my friend to leave my chamber; and
then, soliciting a patient hearing, began the narrative of
Waldegrave's death—of the detection of Clithero beneath
the shade of the elm—of the suspicions which were thence
produced, and of the forest interview to which these sus¬
picions gave birth: I then repeated, without variation or
addition, the tale which was then told; I likewise men¬
tioned my subsequent transactions in Norwalk, so far as
they illustrated the destiny of Clithero.
During this recital, I fixed my eyes upon the counte-
EDGAR HUNTLY.
241
nance of Sarsefield, and watched every emotion as it rose or
declined: with the progress of my tale, his indignation
and his fury grew less, and at length gave place to horror
and compassion.
His seat became uneasy—his pulse throbbed with new
vehemence. When I came to the motives which prompted
the unhappy man to visit the chamber of his mistress, he
started from his seat, and sometimes strode across the floor
in a troubled mood, and sometimes stood before me with
his breath almost suspended in the eagerness of his atten¬
tion. When I mentioned the lifted dagger, the shriek
from behind, and the apparition that interposed, he shud¬
dered and drew back as if a dagger had been aimed at his
breast.
When the tale was done, some time elapsed in mutual
and profound silence. My friend's thoughts were involved
in a mournful and indefinable reverie: from this he at
length recovered, and spoke.
" It is true; a tale like this could never be the fruit of
invention, or be invented to deceive. He has done himself
injustice: his character was spotless and fair; all his
moral properties seemed to have resolved themselves into
gratitude, fidelity, and honour.
" We parted at the door late in the evening, as he men¬
tioned ; and he guessed truly that subsequent reflection had
induced me to return and to disclose the truth to Mrs.
Lorimer. Clarice, relieved by the sudden death of her
friend, and unexpectedly by all, arrived at the same hour.
" These tidings astonished, afflicted, and delighted Mrs.
Lorimer: her brother's death had been long believed by
all but herself; to find her doubts verified, and his exist¬
ence ascertained, was the dearest consolation that he ever
could bestow. She was afflicted at the proofs that had
been noted of the continuance of his depravity; but she
dreaded no danger to herself from his malignity or ven¬
geance.
" The ignorance and prepossessions of this woman were
remarkable: on this subject only she was perverse, head¬
long, obstinate. Her anxiety to benefit this arch-ruffian
occupied her whole thoughts, and allowed her no time to
R
242
EDGAR HUNTLY.
reflect upon the reasonings or remonstrances of others. She
could not be prevailed on to deny herself to his visits; and
I parted from her in the utmost perplexity.
" A messenger came to me at midnight, entreating my
immediate presence: some disaster had happened, but ol
what kind the messenger was unable to tell. My fears
easily conjured up the image of ATiatte: terror scarcely
allowed me to breathe. When I entered the house of Mrs.
Lorimer, I was conducted to her chamber. She lay upon
the bed in a state of stupefaction, that rose from some
mental cause. Clarice sat by her, wringing her hands, and
pouring forth her tears without intermission. Neither
could explain to me the nature of the scene. I made en¬
quiries of the servants and attendants : they merely said
that the family, as usual, had retired to rest; but their
lady's bell rung with great violence, and called them in
haste to her chamber, where they found her in a swoon
upon the floor, and the young lady in the utmost affright
and perturbation.
" Suitable means being used, Mrs. Lorimer had at
length recovered ; but was still nearly insensible. I went
to Clithero's apartments; but he was not to be found; and
the domestics informed me that, since he had gone with
me, he had not returned. The doors between this chamber
and the court were open : hence that some dreadful in¬
terview had taken place, perhaps with Wiatte, was an
unavoidable conjecture. He had withdrawn, however, with¬
out committing any personal injury.
" I need not mention my reflections upon this scene.
All was tormenting doubt and suspense till the morning
arrived, and tidings were received that Wiatte had been
killed in the streets. This event was antecedent to that
which had occasioned Mrs. Lorimer's distress and alarm. I
now remembered that fatal prepossession by which she was
governed, and her frantic belief that her death and that of
her brother were to fall out at the same time. Could some
witness of his death have brought her tidings of it ? Had
he penetrated, unexpected and unlicensed, to her chamber ?
and were these the effects produced by the intelligence ?
, " Presently I knew that not only Wiatte was dead, but
EDGAR HUNTLY.
243
that Clithero had killed him. Clithero had not been known
to return, and was no where to be found. He then was the
bearer of these tidings; for none but he could have found
access or egress, without disturbing the servants.
" These doubts were at length at an end. In a broken
and confused manner, and after the lapse of some days, the
monstrous and portentous truth was disclosed: After our
interview, Mrs. Lorimer and her daughter had retired to
the same chamber; the former had withdrawn to her
closet, and the latter to bed. Some one's entrance alarmed
Mrs. Lorimer; and coming forth after a moment's pause,
the spectacle which Clithero has too faithfully described,
presented itself.
" What could I think ? A life of uniform hypocrisy,
or a sudden loss of reason, were the only suppositions to be
formed. Clithero was the parent of fury and abhorrence
in my heart: in either case I started at the name—I shud¬
dered at the image of the apostate or the maniac.
" What! kill the brother whose existence was interwoven
with that of his benefactress and his friend ! — then hasten
to her chamber, and attempt her life! — lift a dagger to
destroy her who had been the author of his being and his
happiness!
" He that could meditate a deed like this, was no longer
man : an agent from hell had mastered his faculties; he
was become the engine of infernal malice, against whom it
was the duty of all mankind to rise up in arms, and never
to desist till, by shattering it to atoms, its power to injure
was taken away.
" All enquiries to discover the place of his retreat were
vain. No wonder, inethought, that he wrapped himself in
the folds of impenetrable secresy ; curbed, checked, baffled
in the midst of his career, no wonder that he shrunk into
obscurity — that he fled from justice and revenge — that
he dared not meet the rebukes of that eye which, dissolv¬
ing in tenderness, or flashing with disdain, had ever been
irresistible.
" But how shall I describe Mrs. Lorimer's condition ?
Clithero she had cherished from his infancy: he was the
stay, the consolation, the pride of her life. His projected
r 2
244
EDGAR DUNTIjY.
alliance with her daughter made him still more dear. Iler
eloquence was never tired of expatiating on his purity
and rectitude. No wonder that she delighted in this theme,
for he was her own work; his virtues were the creatures of
her bounty.
« How hard to be endured was this sad reverse ! She
can be tranquil, but never more will she be happy. To
promote her forgetfulness of him, I persuaded her to leave
her country, which contained a thousand memorials of past
calamity, and which was lapsing fast into civil broils. Clarice
has accompanied us; and time may effect the happiness of
others by her means, though she can never remove the me¬
lancholy of her mother.
" I have listened to your tale, not without compassion.
What would you have me to do ? To prolong his life
would be merely to protract his misery.
" He can never be regarded with complacency by my
wife ; he can never be thought of without shuddering by
Clarice. Common ills are not without a cure less than
death; but here all remedies are vain. Consciousness it¬
self is the malady, the pest, of which he only is cured who
ceases to think."
I could not but assent to this mournful conclusion. Yet,
though death was better to Clithero than life, could not
some of his mistakes be rectified? Euphemia Lorimer,
contrary to his belief, was still alive. He dreamed that
she was dead, and a thousand evils were imagined to flow
from that death : this death, and its progeny of ills, haunted
his fancy, and added keenness to his remorse. Was it not
our duty to rectify this error ?
Sarsefield reluctantly assented to the truth of my argu¬
ments on this head: he consented to return, and afford
the dying man the consolation of knowing that the being
whom he adored as a benefactor and parent had not been
deprived of existence, though bereft of peace, by his act.
During Sarsefield's absence, my mind was busy in re¬
volving the incidents that had just occurred. I ruminated
the last words of Clithero : there was somewhat in his
narrative that was obscure and contradictory. He had
left the manuscript which he so much and so justly prized,
edgar huntly.
245
in his cabinet; he entered the chamber in my absence, and
found the cabinet unfastened, and the manuscript gone.
It was I by whom the cabinet was opened ; but the manu¬
script supposed to be contained in it, was buried in the
earth beneath the elm. How should Clithero be unac¬
quainted with its situation, since none but he could have
dug for it this grave ?
This mystery vanished when I reflected on the history
of my own manuscript. Clithero had buried his treasure
with his own hands, as mine had been secreted by myself;
hut both acts had been performed during sleep : the deed
was neither prompted by the will, nor noticed by the senses,
of him by whom it was done. Disastrous and humiliating
is the state of man ! By his own hands is constructed the
mass of misery and error in which his steps are for ever
involved.
Thus it was with thy friend. Hurried on by phantoms
too indistinct to be now recalled, I wandered from my
chamber to the desert: I plunged into some unvisited
cavern, and easily proceeded till I reached the edge of a
pit: there my step was deceived, and I tumbled headlong
from the precipice. The fall bereaved me of sense, and I
continued breathless and motionless during the remainder
of the night and the ensuing day.
How little cognisance have men over the actions and
motives of each other ! How total is our blindness with
regard to our own performances ! Who would have sought
me in the bowels of this mountain ? Ages might have
passed away before my bones would be discovered in this
tomb by some traveller whom curiosity had prompted to
explore it.
I was roused from these reflections by Sarsefield's return.
Enquiring into Clithero's condition, he answered that the
unhappy man was insensible ; but that, notwithstanding
numerous and dreadful gashes in different parts of his
body, it was possible that, by submitting to the necessary
treatment, he might recover.
Encouraged by this information, I endeavoured to awaken
the zeal and compassion of my friend in Clithero's behalf.
He recoiled with involuntary shuddering from any task
r 3
246
EDGAR HUNTLY.
which would confine him to the presence of this man.
Time and reflection, he said, might introduce different
sentiments and feelings ; but at present he could not but
regard this person as a maniac, whose disease was irremedi¬
able, and whose existence could not be protracted but to
his own misery and the misery of others.
Finding him irreconcileably averse to any scheme con¬
nected with the welfare of Clithero, I began to think that
his assistance as a surgeon was by no means necessary: he
had declared that the sufferer needed nothing more than
common treatment; and to this the skill of a score of aged
women in this district, furnished with simples culled from
the forest, and pointed out, of old time, by Indian leeches,
was no less adequate than that of Sarsefield. These women
were ready and officious in their charity, and none of them
were prepossessed against the sufferer by a knowledge of
his genuine story.
Sarsefield, meanwhile, was impatient for my removal to
Inglefield's habitation; and that venerable friend was no
less impatient to receive me. My hurts were superficial,
and my strength sufficiently repaired by a night's repose.
Next day I went thither, leaving Clithero to the care of
his immediate neighbours.
Sarsefield's engagements compelled him to prosecute his
journey into Virginia, from which he had somewhat devi¬
ated in order to visit Solebury : he proposed to return in
less than a month, and then to take me in his company to
New-York. He has treated me with paternal tenderness ;
and insists upon the privilege of consulting for my interest,
as if he were my real father. Meanwhile, these views have
been disclosed to Inglefield ; and it is with him that I am to
remain, with my sisters, until his return.
My reflections have been busy and tumultuous : they
have been busy in relation to you, to Weymouth, and es¬
pecially to Clithero. The latter, polluted with gore, and
weakened by abstinence, fatigue, and the loss of blood, ap¬
peared in my eyes to be in a much more dangerous condi¬
tion than the event proved him to he. I was punctually
informed of the progress of his cure, and proposed in a few
days to visit him. The duty of explaining the truth respect-
edgar huntly.
247
ing the present condition of Mrs. Lorimer, had devolved
upon me. By imparting this intelligence, I hoped to work
the most auspicious revolutions in his feelings; and pre¬
pared, therefore, with alacrity, for an interview.
In this hope I was destined to be disappointed. On the
morning on which I intended to visit him, a messenger ar¬
rived from the house in which he was entertained, and
informed us that the family, on entering the sick man's
apartment, had found it deserted. It appeared that Clithero
had, during the night, risen from his bed, and gone
secretly forth. No traces of his flight have since been
discovered.
But, Oh, my friend ! the death of Waldegrave, thy bro¬
ther, is at length divested of uncertainty and mystery !
Hitherto, I had been able to form no conjecture respecting
it; but the solution was found shortly after this time.
Queen Mab, three days after my adventure, was seized
in her hut on suspicion of having aided and counselled her
countrymen in their late depredations. She was not to be
awed or intimidated by the treatment she received; but
readily confessed and gloried in the mischief she had done,
and accounted for it by enumerating the injuries which she
had received from her neighbours.
These injuries consisted in contemptuous or neglectful
treatment, and in the rejection of groundless and absurd
claims. The people of Chetasco were less obsequious to
her humours than those of Solebury, her ancient neighbour¬
hood ; and her imagination brooded for a long time over
nothing but schemes of revenge : she became sullen,
irascible, and spent more of her time in solitude than
ever.
A troop of her countrymen at length visited her hut.
Their intentions being hostile, they concealed from the
inhabitants their presence in this quarter of the country.
Some motives induced them to withdraw, and postpone, for
the present, the violence which they meditated. One of
them, however, more sanguinary and audacious than the
rest, would not depart without some gratification of his ven¬
geance : he left his associates, and penetrated by night into
Solebury, resolving to attack the first human being whom
r 4
248
EDGAR HUNTLY.
he should meet. It was the fate of thy unhappy brother to
encounter this ruffian, whose sagacity made him forbear to
tear away the usual trophy from the dead, lest he should
afford grounds for suspicion as to the authors of the evil.
Satisfied with this exploit, he rejoined his companions;
and, after an interval of three weeks, returned with a more
numerous party, to execute a more extensive project of de¬
struction. They were counselled, and guided in all their
movements, by Queen Mab, who now explained these par¬
ticulars, and boldly defied her oppressors: her usual obsti¬
nacy and infatuation induced her to remain in her ancient
dwelling, and prepare to meet the consequences.
This disclosure awakened anew all the regrets and
anguish which flowed from that disaster. It has been
productive, however, of some benefit: suspicions and doubts
by which my soul was harassed, and which were injurious
to the innocent, are now at an end. It is likewise some
imperfect consolation, to reflect that the assassin has himself
been killed, and probably by my own hand. The shedder
of blood no longer lives to pursue his vocation, and justice
is satisfied.
Thus have I fulfilled my promise to compose a minute
relation of my sufferings. I remembered my duty to thee ;
and, as soon as I was able to hold a pen, employed it to in¬
form thee of my welfare. I could not at that time enter
into particulars, but reserved a more copious narrative till
a period of more health and leisure.
On looking back, I am surprised at the length to which
my story has run: I thought that a few days would suffice
to complete it; but one page has insensibly been added to
another, till I have consumed weeks and filled volumes.
Here I will draw to a close. I will send you what I have
written, and discuss with you in conversation my other
immediate concerns, and my schemes for the future.
As soon as I have seen Sarsefield I will visit you. —
Farewell!
E. H.
Solebury, November 10.
edgar huntly.
249
LETTER I.
To Mr. Sarsefield.
Philadelphia.
I came hither but ten minutes ago, and write this letter
in the bar of the stage-house. I wish not to lose a moment
in informing you of what has happened. I cannot do
justice to my own feelings when I reflect upon the rashness
of which I have been guilty.
1 will give you the particulars tomorrow. At present,
I shall only say that Clithero is alive; is apprised of your
wifes arrival and abode in New-York; and has set out,
with mysterious intentions, to visit her.
May Heaven avert the consequences of such a design!
May you be enabled by some means to prevent their meet-
ing ! If you cannot prevent it but I must not reason
on such an event, nor lengthen out this letter,
E. H.
LETTER II.
To the same.
I will now relate the particulars which I yesterday pro¬
mised to send you. You heard through your niece of my
arrival at Inglefield's, in Solebury. My enquiries you may
readily suppose would turn upon the fate of my friend's
servant, Clithero, whose last disappearance was so strange
and abrupt, and of whom since that time I had heard
nothing. You are indifferent to his fate, and are anxious
only that his existence and misfortunes may be speedily
forgotten. I confess that it is somewhat otherwise with
me : I pity him ; I wish to relieve him, and cannot admit
the belief that his misery is without a cure. I want to
find him out; I want to know his condition, and, if pos-
250
EDGAR HUNTLY.
sible, to afford him comfort, and inspire him with courage
and hope.
Inglefield replied to my questions—" Oh yes ! he has
appeared — the strange being is again upon the stage !
Shortly after he left his sick bed, I heard from Philip
Beddington, of Chetasco, that Deb's hut had found a new
tenant. At first, I imagined that the Scotsman who built
it had returned; but making closer enquiries, I found that
the new tenant was my servant. I had no inclination to
visit him myself, but frequently enquired respecting him of
those who lived or passed that way, and find that he still
lives there."
" But how ? " said I — " what is his mode of subsist¬
ence ? The winter has been no time for cultivation ; and
he found, I presume, nothing in the ground."
" Deb's hut," replied my friend, " is his lodging and his
place of retirement; but food and clothing he procures by
labouring on a neighbouring farm. This farm is next to
that 6f Beddington, who consequently knows something of
his present situation. I find little or no difference in his
present deportment, and those appearances which he as¬
sumed while living with me ; except that he retires every
night to his hut, and holds as little intercourse as possible
with the rest of mankind. He dines at his employer's
table; but his supper, which is nothing but rye bread, he
carries home with him ; and at all those times, when dis¬
engaged from employment, he secludes himself in his hut,
or wanders nobody knows whither."
This was the substance of Inglefield's intelligence. I
gleaned from it some satisfaction ; it proved the condition
of Clithero to be less deplorable and desperate than I had
previously imagined; his fatal and gloomy thoughts seemed
to have somewhat yielded to tranquillity.
In the course of my reflections, however, I could not
but perceive that his condition, though eligible when com¬
pared with what it once was, was likewise disastrous and
humiliating, compared with his youthful hopes and his
actual merits. For such a one to mope away his life in
this unsocial and savage state, was deeply to be deplored :
it was my duty, if possible, to prevail on him to relinquish
EDGAR HUNTLY.
251
his scheme; and what more would be requisite for that end
than to inform him of the truth ?
The source of his dejection was the groundless belief
that he had occasioned the death of his benefactress : it
was this alone that could justly produce remorse or grief.
It was a distempered imagination, both in him and in me,
that had given birth to this opinion; since the terms of
his narrative, impartially considered, were far from implying
that catastrophe : to him, however, the evidence which he
possessed was incontestible. No deductions from proba¬
bility could overthrow his belief; this could only be effected
by similar and counter evidence. To apprize him that she
was now alive, in possession of some degree of happiness,
the wife of Sarsefield, and an actual resident on this shore,
would dissipate the sanguinary apparition that haunted
him, cure his diseased intellects, and restore him to those
vocations for which his talents, and that rank in society for
which his education had qualified him. Influenced by these
thoughts, I determined to visit his retreat. Being obliged to
leave Solebury the next day, I resolved to set out the same
afternoon, and stopping in Chetasco for the night, seek his
habitation at the hour when he had probably retired to it.
This was done. I arrived at Beddington's at night-fall.
My enquiries respecting Clithero obtained for me the same
intelligence from him which I had received from Inglefield.
Deb's hut was three miles from this habitation; and
thither, when the evening had somewhat advanced, I re¬
paired. This was the spot which had witnessed so many
perils during the last year, and my emotions on approaching
it were awful. With palpitating heart andjquick steps I
traversed the road, skirted on each side by thickets, and
the area before the house. The dwelling was by no means
in so ruinous a state as when I last visited it; the crannies
between the logs had been filled up, and the light within
was perceivable only at a crevice in the door.
Looking through this crevice, I perceived a fire in the
chimney; but the object of my visit was no where to be
seen. I knocked, and requested admission; but no answer
was made. At length I lifted the latch, and entered.
Nobody was there.
252
EDGAR HUNTLY.
It was obvious to suppose that Clitliero had gone abroad
for a short time, and would speedily return; or perhaps
some engagement had detained him at his labour later than
usual: I therefore seated myself on some straw near the
fire, which, with a woollen rug, appeared to constitute his
only bed. The rude bedstead which I formerly met with
was gone ; the slender furniture, likewise, which had then
engaged my attention, had disappeared: there was nothing
capable of human use but a heap of faggots in the corner,
which seemed intended for fuel. How slender is the ac¬
commodation which Nature has provided for man ! and
how scanty is the portion which our physical necessities
require !
While ruminating upon this scene, and comparing past
events with the objects before me, the dull whistling of the
gale without gave place to the sound of footsteps. Pre¬
sently the door opened, and Clithero entered the apartment.
His aspect and guise were not essentially different from
those which he wore when an inhabitant of Solebury.
To find his hearth occupied by another, appeared to
create the deepest surprise. He looked at me without any
tokens of remembrance ! His features assumed a more
austere expression; and after scowling on my person for a
moment, he withdrew his eyes, and placing in a corner a
bundle which he bore in his hand, he turned, and seemed
preparing to withdraw.
I was anxiously attentive to his demeanour; and as soon
as I perceived his purpose to depart, leaped on my feet to
prevent it. I took his hand, and affectionately pressing it,
said — " Do you not know me? Have you so soon for¬
gotten me Avho is truly your friend ? "
He looked at me with some attention ; but again with¬
drew his eyes, and placed himself in silence on the seat
which I had left. I seated myself near him ; and a pause
of mutual silence ensued.
My mind was full of the purpose that brought me
hither; but I knew not in what manner to communicate
my ideas: several times I opened my lips to speak, but
my perplexity continued, and suitable words refused to
suggest themselves. At length I said, in a confused tone
EDGAR HUNTLY.
253
— " I came hither with a view to benefit a man with
whose misfortunes his own lips have made me acquainted,
and who has awakened in my breast the deepest sympathy.
I know the cause and extent of his dejection; I know the
event which has given birth to horror and remorse in his
heart: — he believes that by his means his patroness and
benefactress has found an untimely death."
These words produced a visible shock in my companion,
which evinced that I had at least engaged his attention. I
proceeded.
" This unhappy lady was cursed with a wicked and
unnatural brother: she conceived a disproportionate affec¬
tion for this brother, and erroneously imagined that her
fate was blended with his — that their lives would neces¬
sarily terminate at the same period — and that, therefore,
whoever was the contriver of his death, was likewise, by a
fatal and invincible necessity, the author of her own.
" Clithero was her servant; but was raised by her
bounty to the station of her son, and the rank of her friend.
Clithero, in self-defence, took away the life of that un¬
natural brother; and in that deed falsely, but cogently,
believed that he had perpetrated the destruction of his
benefactress.
" To ascertain the truth, he sought her presence; she
was found; the tidings of her brother's death were com¬
municated, and she sunk breathless at his feet."
At these words Clithero started from the ground, and
cast upon me looks of furious indignation.
cc And come you hither," he muttered, "for this end—
to recount my offences, and drive me again to despair ? "
" No," answered I, with quickness ; " I come to out-
root a fatal but powerful illusion ; I come to assure you
that the woman with whose destruction you charge your¬
self, is not dead !"
These words, uttered with the most emphatical so¬
lemnity, merely produced looks in which contempt was
mingled with anger. He continued silent.
" I perceive," resumed I, " that my words are dis¬
regarded. Would to Heaven I were able to conquer your
incredulity, and show you, not only the truth, but the
2 54
EDGAR HUNTLV.
probability of my tale ! Can you not confide in me, that
Euphemia Lorimer is now alive, is happy, is the wife of
Sarsefield—that her brother is forgotten, and his murderer
regarded without enmity or vengeance ?"
He looked at me with a strange expression of contempt.
" Come," said he, at length, " make out thy assertion
to be true : fall on thy knees, and invoke the thunder of
heaven to light on thy head if thy words be false ! Swear
that Euphemia Lorimer is alive, happy, forgetful of Wiatte,
and compassionate of me ! Swear that thou hast seen her,
talked with her, received from her own lips the confession
of her pity for him who aimed a dagger at her bosom !
Swear that she is Sarsefield's wife !"
I put my hands together, and lifting my eyes to heaven,
exclaimed — "I comply with your conditions — I call
the omniscient God to witness that Euphemia Lorimer is
alive — that I have seen her with these eyes, have talked
with her, have inhabited the same house for months !"
These asseverations were listened to with shuddering •
he laid not aside, however, an air of incredulity and con¬
tempt.
" Perhaps," said he, " thou canst point out the place
of her abode — canst guide me to the city, the street, the
very door of her habitation ? "
" I can. She resides at this moment in the city of New-
York, in Broadway, in a house contiguous to the "
" 'Tis well !" exclaimed my companion, in a tone loud,
abrupt, and in the utmost degree vehement — " 'tis well !
Rash and infatuated youth ! thou hast ratified, beyond
appeal or forgiveness, thy own doom — thou hast once
more let loose my steps, and sent me on a fearful journey
— thou hast furnished the means of detecting thy im¬
posture ! I will fly to the spot which thou describest; I
will ascertain thy falsehood with my own eyes : if she be
alive, then am I reserved for the performance of a new
crime ; my evil destiny will have it so; if she be dead, I
shall make thee expiate."
So saying, he darted through the door, and was gone in
a moment beyond my sight and my reach. I ran to the
road, looked on every side, and called; but my calls were
EDGAR HUNTLY.
255
repeated in vain — he had fled with the swiftness of a
deer.
My own embarrassment, confusion, and terror, were in¬
expressible. His last words were incoherent; they denoted
the tumult and vehemence of phrensy ; they intimated his
resolution to seek the presence of your wife. I had
furnished a clue which could not fail to conduct him to
her presence. What might not be dreaded from the in¬
terview ! Clithero is a maniac; this truth cannot be con¬
cealed. Your wife can with difficulty preserve her tran¬
quillity when his image occurs to her remembrance ; what
must it be when he starts up before her in his neglected
and ferocious guise, and armed with purposes, perhaps, as
terrible as those which had formerly led him to her secret
chamber and her bedside !
His meaning was obscurely conveyed; he talked of a
deed for the performance of which his malignant fate had
reserved him, which was to ensue their meeting, and which
was to afford disastrous testimony of the infatuation which
had led me hither.
• Heaven grant that some means may suggest themselves
to you of intercepting his approach ! Yet 1 know not what
means can be conceived. Some miraculous chance may
befriend you; yet this is scarcely to be hoped ; it is a
visionary and fantastic base on which to rest our security.
I cannot forget that my unfortunate temerity has created
this evil; yet who could foresee this consequence of my
intelligence ? I imagined that Clithero was merely a victim
of erroneous gratitude, a slave of the errors of his education
and the prejudices of his rank—that his understanding
was deluded by phantoms in the mask of virtue and duty,
and not, as you have streanuously maintained, utterly
subverted.
I shall not escape your censure, but I shall likewise gain
your compassion ; I have erred, not through sinister or
malignant intentions, but from the impulse of misguided,
indeed, but powerful benevolence.
~E. H.
2 56
edgar huntlv.
LETTER III.
To Edgar Huntly.
New-York.
Edgar,
After the fatigues of the day I returned home. As I
entered, my wife was breaking the seal of a letter; but on
seeing me she forbore, and presented the letter to me.
" 1 saw," said she, " by the superscription of this letter,
who the writer was; so, agreeably to your wishes, I pro¬
ceeded to open it; but you have come just time enough to
save me the trouble."
This letter was from you: it contained information
relative to Clithero. See how imminent a chance it was
that saved my wife from a knowledge of its contents ! It
required all my efforts to hide my perturbation from her,
and excuse myself from showing her the letter.
I know better than you the character of Clithero, and
the consequences of a meeting between him and my wife:
you may be sure that I would exert myself to prevent
a meeting.
The method for me to pursue was extremely obvious.
Clithero is a madman, whose liberty is dangerous, and
who requires to be fettered and imprisoned as the most
atrocious criminal.
I hastened to the chief magistrate, who is my friend,
and, by proper representations, obtained from him autho¬
rity to seize Clithero wherever I should meet with him,
and effectually debar him from the perpetration of new
mischiefs.
New-York does not afford a place of confinement for
lunatics as suitable to his case as Pennsylvania. I was
desirous of placing him as far as possible from the place
of my wife's residence. Fortunately, there was a packet for
Philadelphia, on the point of setting out on her voyage:
this vessel I engaged to wait a day or two for the purpose
of conveying him to the Pennsylvania hospital. Mean¬
while, proper persons were stationed at Powell's-hook, and
EDGAR HUNTDY.
257
at the quays where the various stage-boats from Jersey
arrive.
These precautions were effectual. Not many hours
after the receipt of your intelligence, this unfortunate man
applied for a passage at Elizabeth-town, was seized the
moment he set his foot on shore, and was forthwith con¬
veyed to the packet, which immediately set sail.
I designed that all these proceedings should be concealed
from the servants; but unfortunately neglected to take
suitable measures for hindering the letter, which you gave
me reason to expect on the ensuing day, from coming into
their hands: it was delivered to my wife in my absence,
and opened immediately by her.
You know what is at present her personal condition;
you know what strong reasons I had to prevent any danger
or alarm from approaching her: terror could not assume a
shape more ghastly than this. The effects have been what
might have been easily predicted: her own life has been
imminently endangered, and an untimely birth has blasted
my fondest hope. Her infant, with whose future exist¬
ence so many pleasures were entwined, is dead.
I assure you, Edgar, my philosophy has not found itself
lightsome and inactive under this burden. I find it hard
to forbear commenting on your rashness in no very mild
terms; you acted in direct opposition to my counsel, and
to the plainest dictates of propriety. Be more circumspect
and more obsequious for the future.
You knew the liberty that would be taken of opening
my letters ; you knew of my absence from home during
the greatest part of the day, and the likelihood, therefore,
that your letters would fall into my wife's hands before
they came into mine. These considerations should have
prompted you to send them under cover to Whitworth or
Harvey, with directions to give them immediately to me.
Some of these events happened in my absence ; for I
determined to accompany the packet myself, and see the
madman safely delivered to the care of the hospital.
I will not torture your sensibility by recounting the in¬
cidents of his arrest and detention. You will imagine that
his strong but perverted reason exclaimed loudly against
s
258
EDGAR HUNTLY.
the injustice of his treatment. It was easy for him to
outreason his antagonist, and nothing but force could sub¬
due his opposition. On me devolved the province of his
gaoler and his tyrant; a province which required a heart
more steeled by spectacles of suffering and the exercise of
cruelty than mine had been.
Scarcely had we passed The Narrows, when the lunatic,
being suffered to walk the deck, as no apprehensions were
entertained of his escape in such circumstances, threw him¬
self overboard, with a seeming intention to gain the shore.
The boat was immediately manned— the fugitive was pur¬
sued ; but at the moment when his flight was overtaken,
he forced himself beneath the surface, and was seen no
more.
With the life of this wretch, let our regrets and our fore¬
bodings terminate. He has saved himself from evils for
which no time would have provided a remedy — from lin¬
gering for years in the noisome dungeon of an hospital.
Having no reason to continue my voyage, I put^myself on
board a coasting sloop, and regained this city" in a few
hours. I persuade myself that my wife's indisposition will
be temporary. It was impossible to hide from her the
death of Clithero and its circumstances. May this be the
last arrow in the quiver of Adversity ! — Farewell!
THE END.
. London:
Printed by A. & R. Spottiswoode,
New-Street-Square.