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EDGAR HUNTLY

or, MEMOIRS OF A SLEEP-WALKER

by

CHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN







To the Public:

The flattering reception that has been given, by the public, to Arthur
Mervyn, has prompted the writer to solicit a continuance of the same
favour, and to offer to the world a new performance. America has opened new views to the naturalist and politician, but has
seldom furnished themes to the moral painter. That new springs of action
and new motives to curiosity should operate,--that the field of
investigation, opened to us by our own country, should differ
essentially from those which exist in Europe,--may be readily conceived. The sources of amusement to the fancy and instruction to the heart, that
are peculiar to ourselves, are equally numerous and inexhaustible. It is
the purpose of this work to profit by some of these sources; to exhibit
a series of adventures, growing out of the condition of our country, and
connected with one of the most common and most wonderful diseases or
affections of the human frame. One merit the writer may at least claim:--that of calling forth the
passions and engaging the sympathy of the reader by means hitherto
unemployed by preceding authors. Puerile superstition and exploded
manners, Gothic castles and chimeras, are the materials usually employed
for this end. The incidents of Indian hostility, and the perils of the
Western wilderness, are far more suitable; and for a native of America
to overlook these would admit of no apology. These, therefore, are, in
part, the ingredients of this tale, and these he has been ambitious of
depicting in vivid and faithful colours. The success of his efforts must
be estimated by the liberal and candid reader. C. B. B. Chapter I.


I sit down, my friend, to comply with thy request. At length does the
impetuosity of my fears, the transports of my wonder, permit me to
recollect my promise and perform it. At length am I somewhat delivered
from 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 steadfast 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
engrossed my fears and my hopes, could not be. Yet am I sure that even now my perturbations are sufficiently 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 reawakened by my narrative, incompatible with order
and coherence? Yet when I shall be better qualified for this task I know
not. Time may take away these headlong energies, and give me back my
ancient sobriety; but this change will only be effected by weakening my
remembrance of these events. In proportion as I gain power over words,
shall I lose dominion over sentiments. In proportion as my tale is
deliberate and slow, the incidents and motives which it is designed to
exhibit will be imperfectly revived and obscurely portrayed. Oh, why art thou away at a time like this. Wert thou present, the office
to which my pen is so inadequate would easily be executed by my tongue. Accents can scarcely be too rapid; or that which words should fail to
convey, my looks and gestures would suffice to communicate. 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 congenial to my temper
than a noonday ramble. By nightfall I was within ten miles of my uncle's house. As the darkness
increased, and I advanced on my way, my sensations sunk into melancholy. The scene and the time reminded me of the friend whom I had lost. I
recalled his features, and accents, and gestures, and mused with
unutterable feelings on the circumstances of his death. My recollections once more plunged me into anguish and perplexity. Once
more I asked, Who was his assassin? By what motives could he be impelled
to a deed like this? Waldegrave was pure from all offence. His piety was
rapturous. His benevolence was a stranger to remissness or torpor. All
who came within the sphere of his influence 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 importunities that he
should postpone his ill-omened journey till the morning, his
inexplicable obstinacy, his resolution to set out on foot during a dark
and tempestuous night, and the horrible disaster that befell him. The first intimation I received of this misfortune, the insanity of
vengeance and grief into which I was hurried, my fruitless searches for
the author of this guilt, my midnight wanderings and 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.