University of Virginia Library

13. EDGAR HUNTLY.
CHAPTER XIII.

Since my return home, my mind
had been fully occupied by schemes and
reflections relative to Clithero. The
project suggested by thee, and to which
I had determined to devote my leisure,
was forgotten, or remembered for a
moment and at wide intervals. What,
however, was nearly banished from my
waking thoughts, occurred, in an incongruous
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 complacensy, but

inquietude and anger. Some service or
duty remained to be performed by me,
which I had culpably neglected: to inspirit
my zeal, to awaken my remembrance,
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 surprise,
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 letters which, during
his short but busy life, I received from

him; the nature of this correspondence,
and the opportunity which this employment
would afford me of contemplating
these ample and precious monuments
of the intellectual 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. This, 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 sun-rise 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 transcribing 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 interdictions which had been
formerly imposed?

Thou art not fully acquainted with
the intellectual history 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 formerly
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 universalize matter; to destroy the
popular distinctions between soul and
body, and to dissolve the supposed
connection between the moral condition
of man, anterior and subsequent to
death.

This creed he adopted with all the
fulness of conviction, and propagated
with the utmost zeal. Soon after our
friendship 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 Waldegrave were
too frequently devoted 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 religious
influence, and listening daily to
the reasonings and exhortations of Mr.
S..., whose benign temper and blameless
deportment was a visible and constant
lesson, he insensibly 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 reasonings 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 combatted 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 believed 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
eloquence, been defended in these letters.
Beside, mixed up with abstract
reasonings, were numberless passages
which 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 be to
mutilate and deform them.

His intreaties and remonstrances
were earnest and frequent, 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 I 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 subtleties, 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
apostacy, 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 promise. 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 are 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. The letters were bound
together in a compact form, lodged in
a parchment case, and placed in a secret
drawer. This 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 conscious. 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 pacquet
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 my understanding
and my memory. I could not
conceive the possibility of any motives
inducing me to alter my arrangements
in this respect, and was unable to recollect
that I had made this change

What remained? This invaluable
relique 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 pryed every where, unfolded
every article of cloathing, turned and scrutinized
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 irretreivable, was a
supposition not to be endured. Yet ominous
terrors haunted me. A whispering
intimation that a relique which I valued
more than life was torn forever away by
some malignant and inscrutable destiny.
The same power that had taken it from
this receptacle, 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 entered,
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 foot-step, 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
run to 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 inquired into
the cause. I did not answer his inquiries.
His appearance in my chamber
and in this guise, added to my surprise.
My mind was full of the late discovery,
and instantly conceived some connection
between this unseasonable visit and my
lost manuscript. I interrogated him in
my turn as to the cause of his coming.

Why, said he, I came to ascertain
whether it was 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 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
circumstances 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 intermission,
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 probable 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 unocupied,
except by lumber, and imperfectly
lighted by a small casement at one end.
In this room, were foot-steps heard by my
uncle.

The stair-case leading to it terminated
in a passage near my door. I snatched
the candle, and desiring him to follow me,
added, that I would ascertain the truth
in a moment 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 scattered
through it, but found nothing in
the shape of man. The cedar chest,
spoken of by Mr. Huntly, contained 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
repository, but there was nothing which
attracted my attention.

The way between the kitchen door,
and the door of the long-room, had no
impediments. Both were usually unfastened
but the motives by which any
stranger to the dwelling, or indeed any
one within it, could be prompted to
chuse this place and hour, for an employ-of
this kind, were wholly incomprehensible.

When the family rose, inquiries were
made but no satisfaction was obtained.
The family consisted only of four persons,
my uncle, my two sisters, and myself.
I mentioned to them the loss I had sustained,
but their conjectures were no less
unsatisfactory on this than on the former
incident.

There was no end to my restless
meditations. Waldegrave was the only
being, beside myself, acquainted with
the secrets of my cabinet. During his
life these manuscripts 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 approach
of death, no doubt he would have renewed,
with irresistable solemnity, his
injunctions to destroy them.

Now, however, they had vanished.
There were no materials of conjecture;
no probabilities to be weighed, or suspicions
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 conceive,
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 contemporary 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 person? I could not
reconcile the former incident with the
attributes of man, and yet a secret faith,

not to be outrooted 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 vital energies.
I, some times, 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 dazling.

From this attempt I was deterred by
reflecting that my own frame needed
the repairs of sleep. Toil and watchfulness,
if prolonged another day, would
deeply injure a constitution 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.