University of Virginia Library

1. EDGAR HUNTLY;
ON,
MEMOIRS OF A SLEEP-WALKER.
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
suspence 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 re-awakened 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 pourtrayed.

O! 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
forboding 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 sun-rise 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 noon-day ramble.

By night-fall 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 remisness 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 befel 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 re-acted. 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 recognize 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 exercised my penetration
and my zeal in pursuit of his
assassin. Once more my meditations
and exertions were doomed to be disappointed.

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 agonize, 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. Methought
that to ascertain the hand who killed my
friend, was not impossible, and to punish
the crime was just. That to forbear
inquiry or withold 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
scrutinize its trunk. What could I expect
to find? Had it not been an hundred times
examined? Had I not extended my search
to the neighbouring groves and precipices?
Had I not pored upon the brooks,
and pryed 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 appearance
of conformity with prudence, and I felt
myself irresistably prompted to repeat
my search. Some time had elapsed

since my departure from this district.
Time enough for momentous changes
to occur. Expedients that formerly 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. Thoughtless or fearless
of my return, it was possible that he
might, at this moment, be detected hovering
near the scene of his 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 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
advanced, it was desirable not to
reach home till the dawn.

I proceeded in this new direction
with speed. Time, however, 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 objects
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, leapt 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 described through
the dusk the wide-spread 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
circumference, 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 distinguishable by its motions, was
likewise noted. I faultered and stopt.

To a casual observer this appearance
would have been unnoticed. To me, it
could not but possess a powerful significance.
All my surmises and suspicions,
instantly returned. This apparition
was human, it was connected with
the fate of Waldegrave, it led to a disclosure
of the author of that fate. What
was I to do? To approach unwarily
would alarm the person. Instant flight
would set him beyond discovery and
reach.

I walked softly to the road-side.
The ground was covered 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 employed in
digging the earth. Something like flannel
was wrapt round his waist and covered
his lower limbs. The rest of his
frame was naked. I did not recognize
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 wrapt in meditation; but the
pause was short, and succeeded by sobs,
at first low, 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 additional force, and
tears found their way spontaneously to
my eyes. I left the spot where I stood,
and advanced within the verge of the
shade. My caution had forsaken me,
and instead of one whom it was duty
to persecute, I beheld, in this man,
nothing but an object of compassion.

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 hesitated to
advance, there was nothing to hinder me
from calling.

What, ho! said I. Who is there?
What are you doing?

He stopt, 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 me-thought
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
vehemence 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 features. 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 and
incongruous. It could not fail to terminate
in one conjecture, that this person
was asleep. Such instances were not
unknown to me, through the medium of
conversation and books. Never, indeed,
had it fallen under my own observation
till now, and now it was conspicuous and
environed with all that could give edge
to suspicion, and vigour to inquiry. To
stand here was no longer of use, and I
turned my steps toward my uncle's habitation.