University of Virginia Library

11. EDGAR HUNTLY;
OR,
MEMOIRS OF A SLEEP-WALKER.
CHAPTER XI.

Next morning I stored a
small bag with meat and bread, and
throwing an axe on my shoulder, set
out, without informing any one of my
intentions, for the hill. My passage
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 conclusions, 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 the 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
choaked 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 posture,
but clung, with hands and feet, to
its rugged bark. Having reached the
opposite cliff I proceeded to examine the
spot where Clithero had disappeared. My
fondest hopes were realised, 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 terminating
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 long 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 ascending,
in a few minutes, into a kind of
passage, open above, but walled by a
continued rock on both sides. The sides
of this passage conformed with the utmost
exactness to each other. Nature, at some
former period, had ccasioned 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 foot-steps were perpetually
stumbling and sliding. This

reflection gave birth to the fear that he
was dead. A nearer inspection dispelled
my apprehensions, and shewed 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 to be suspended.
His slumber enabled me to pause, to
ruminate on the manner by which his
understanding might be most successfully
addressed; to 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 experience 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 concerted, 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 regrets 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 embruing 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
annihilate these evils? Every man, not
himself the victim of irretreivable 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 himself are as fruitless as those
with which he attempted the relief of
others.

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 suggestions
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 solemnize
his features, and to embellish those
immutable lines which betokened the
spirit of his better days. Linaments
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 inquiry and intrusion 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 withdrew 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 unexpected 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 person
of his visitant, would take no precaution

against the 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, and, leaving
the food where it could scarcely fail of
attracting his notice, I returned by the
way that 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 neccessary, 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 circumstances 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 shewed
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 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. I 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 publickly 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 Clithero on the morrow,
and for this interview the discoveries
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
house-keeper, 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 banishing
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 remembrance 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 contemplated.

I recalled the conversation which
had just ended with the house-keeper.
Clithero had been our theme, but she had
dealt chiefly in repetitions of what had
formerly been related by her or by Inglefield.
I inquired 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
sometime return to claim his property.
This box contained nothing with which
others had a right to meddle. 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 house-keeper 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 were
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 disposed 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 extraordinary.
Its structure was remarkable.
It consisted of six sides, square and of
similar dimensions. These were joined,
not by mortice and tennon; 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
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 receptacle which all the maxims
of society combine to render sacred.

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 examined, 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 withheld?
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, phantastic and groundless.
A thousand conceivable motives
might induce him to pervert or conceal
the truth. If he were thoroughly known,
his character might assume a new appearance,
and what is now so difficult to reconcile
to common 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 shew 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 possessed some influence,
however small, deserve to be mentioned.
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 determined to examine,
and if possible to open it.