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 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 illustrated, 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 consanguinity, 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 dictates 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 canvas, 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 sublimity and
grandeur on this scene.