¥k ♦"'■'! ♦-t ,.,V-^=M^, .,,*^ UNr ''''''' "-"^^^ UNIVERSITY LIBRARY Treasure "Room LII ^IH' n •4^.''- /: EDGAR HUNTLY; OS, MEMOIRS SLEEP-WALKER 3 To v-/-ri BY THE AUTHOK OF ARTHUR MERVYN, WIELAND, — ORMOXD, &C. VOL. II. PHILADELPHIA: PRINTED BY H. MAXWELL, No. 3 LETITIA COURT, AKD SOLD BY THOMAS D0B30N, ASBURY DICKINS, AND THIS PRINCIPAL BOOKSELLER*. 1799. COPY-RIGHT SECURED. EDGAR HUJ^TLT; MEMOIRS OF A SLEEP-WALKER. CHAPTER XI JNeXT 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 Avas rendered more difficult by these incumbrances, but my perseverance sur- mounted every impediment, and I gained, in a few hours, the foot of the tree, whose trunk was to serve me for a bridge. 275452 f EDGAR HUNTLY. 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 rever- berations, 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 pos- ture, 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 consi- r ■' EDGAR HUNTLY. 5 derable 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 termin- ating 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 fear- lessly penetrated. I was prepared to encounter obstacles and perils similar to those which I have already described, but was rescued from them by ascend- ing, 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 VOL. II. A 2 275452 f EDGAR HUNTLY. 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, v/hich rapidly and circuitously ascended. l^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 termina- tion 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 Cli- thero. He had not been roused by my approach, though my foot-steps were per- petually stumbling and sliding. This EDGAR HUNTLY. 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 slum- ber. 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 vinderstanding might be most success- fully addressed; to collect and arrange the topics fitted to rectify his gloomy and disastrous perceptions. Thou know est that I am qualified for such tasks neither by my education nor my genius. The headlong and fero- cious energies of this man could not be repelled or diverted into better paths by EUGAR HUNTLY. eflforts so undisciplined as mine. A des- pair so stormy and impetuous would drown my feeble accents. How should I attempt to reason with him? How should I outroot prepossessions so inve- terate ; 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 beli-eved her capable. He sought to rescue her from tormenting regrets and lingering agonies. EDGAR HUNTLY. 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 V 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 disas- ters, perceives the folly of ruminating on the past, and of fostering a grief which cannot reverse or recall the de- 10 EDGAR HUNTLY. crees of an immutable necessity; but every man who suffers is unavoidably shackled by the errors which he cen- sures 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 pro- perly employed by me on the present occasion. All that I could do was to offer him food, and, by pathetic suppli- cations, to prevail on him to eat. Famine, however obstinate, would scarcely re- frain 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 per- severance of benevolence, though silent, might work a gradual and secret revo- lution, and better thoughts might insen- EDGAR HUNTLY. 11 sibly 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 counte- nance. The emotions, which were visi- ble during wakefulness, had vanished during this cessation of remembrance and remorse, or were faintly discernible. They served to dignify and solem- nize 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 need- lessly abridged. I determined to await the operation of nature, and to prolong, by silence and by keeping interruption 12 EDGAR HUNTLY. at a distance, this salutary period of for- getfulness. 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 w^ould quickly perceive the victuals and would need no foreign inducements tc> eat. A provision, so unexpected and extraordi- nary, 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 EDGAR HUNTLY. 13 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 come. 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 ^^7 led under the^ branches of-Ae .elm which recent events had rendered^so memorar ble. Hence my reflections reverted to VOL. II. B 14 EDGAR HUNTLY. the circumstances which had lately occur- red 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 care- fully replaced. This had not been done by him on that occasion in which I was a v/itness of his behaviour. The earth was then hastily removed and as hastily thrown again into the hole from wliich it had been taken. ^ Some curiosity was naturally excited by this appearance. Either some other person, or Clithero, on a subsequent occa- sion, bad been here. I was now likewise led to reflect on the possible motives that prompted the maniac to tain up this earth. There is always some significance in the actions of a sleeper. Somewhat w?ts. EDGAR HUNTLY. 15 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 care- fully 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 day- light 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 qua- lify me. Influenced by these considera- tions, 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 1(3 EDGAR HUNTLY. retired, and there was no fear of obser- vation or interruption, I proposed to rise and hasten, with a proper implement, hither. One chamber, in Ingleneld'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 medi- tated 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 neces- sary. 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 EDGAR HUNTLY. 17 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 nov/ 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 Ingle- field. 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 work- manship. 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 VOL. II. B 2 18 EDGAR HUNTLY. was guilty of no known crime, was respon- sible 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 pro- duced, but no lock nor key-hole were discoverable. The lid was fast, but by what means it was fastened, the most accu- rate insDection could not detect. Hence she was compelled to lay aside her pro- ject. This chest had always stood in the chamber which I now occupied. EDGAR HUNTLY. 19 These incidents were now remem- bered, and I felt disposed to profit by this opportunity of examining this box. It stood in a corner, and was easily distin- guished by its form. I lifted it and found its weight by no means extraor- dinary. 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 accu- rate. The means by which they were made to cohere were invisible. Appearances on every side were uni- form, 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 v/orkmanship of his own hands. I looked at it, for some time, till the desire 20 EDGAR HUNTLY. insensibly arose of opening and exa- mining 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 v^c 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 intelli- gence to gain, and no doubts to solve. What excuse could I make to the pro- prietor, 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 with- out 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 EDGAR HUNTLY. 21 all things restored to their former condi- tion in a few minutes. I intended not a theft. I intended to benefit myself without inflicting injury on others. Nay, might not the disco- veries 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 ground- less. A thousand conceivable motives might induce him to pervert or conceal the truth. If he were thoroughly known, his character might assume a new appear- ance, and what is now so difficult to re- concile 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 22 EDGAR HUNTLY. to shev/ that he is worthy of compassion, and to suggest the best means of extir- pating 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, secu- rity, and strength, in the highest possible degree'. I looked upon this therefore with the eye of an artist, and was soli- citous to know the principles on which it was formed. I determined to examine, and if possible to open it. [23] EDGAR IIUJs'TLT; CHAPTER XII. I SURVEYED it with the ut- most attention. All its parts appeared equally solid and smooth. It could not be doubted that one of its sides served the purpose of a lid, and was possible to be raised. Mere strength could not be applied to raise it, because there was no projecture which might be firmly held by the hand, and by which force could be exerted. Some spring, therefore, secretly existed which might forever elude the senses, but on w^hich the hand, by being moved over it, in all directions, might accidentally light. 24 EDGAR HUNTLY. This process was effectual. A touch, casually applied at an angle, drove back a bolt, and a spring, at the same time, was set in action, by which the lid was raised above half an inch. No event could be supposed more fortuitous than this. An hundred hands might have sought in vain for this spring. The spot in which a certain degree of pressure was suffi- cient to produce this effect, was of all, the last likely to attract notice or awaken sus- picion. I opened the trunk with eagerness. The space within was divided into nume- rous compartments, none of which con- tained any thing of moment. Tools of different and curious constructions, and remnants of minute machinery, were all that offered themselves to my notice. My expectations being thus frustra- ted, I proceeded to restore things to their former state I attempted to close EDGAR HUNTLY. 25 the lid ; but the spring which had raised it refused to bend. No measure that I could adopt, enabled me to place the lid in the same situation in which I had found it. In my efforts to press down the lid, which were augmented in pro- portion to the resistance that I met with, the spring was broken. This obstacle beingremoved, the lid resumed its proper place ; but no means, within the reach of my ingenuity to discover, enabled roe to push forward the bolt, and thus to restore the fastening. I now perceived that Clithero had provided not only against the opening of his cabinet, but likewise against the possibility of concealing that it had been opened. This discovery threw me into some confusion. I had been tempted thus far, by the belief that my action was without witnesses, and might be for- VOL. II. c 26 EDGAR HUNTLY. ever concealed. This opinion was now confuted. If Clithero should ever re- claim his property, he would not fail to detect the violence of which I had been guilty. Inglefield would disapprove in another what he had not permitted to himself, and the unauthorized and clan- destine manner in which I had behaved, would aggravate, in his eyes, the hein- ousness of my offence. But now there was no remedy. All that remained was to hinder suspicion from lighting on the innocent, and to confess, to my friend, the offence which I had committed. Meanwhile my first project was resumed, and, the family being now wrapt in profound sleep, I left my chamber, and proceeded to the elm. The moon was extremely brilliant, but I hoped that this unfrequented road and unseasonable hour would hinder me from being observed. My chamber was above EDGAR HUNTLY. 27 the kitchen, with which it communicated by a small stair-case, and the building to which it belonged was connected with the dwelling by a gallery. I extinguished the light, and left it in the kitchen, in- tending to relight it, by the embers that still glowed on the hearth, on my return. I began to remove the sod, and cast out the earth, with little confidence in the success of my project. The issue of my examination of the box humbled and disheartened me. For some time I found nothing that tended to invigorate my hopes. I determined, however, to des- cend, as long as the unsettled condition of the earth shewed me that some one had preceded me. Small masses of stone were occasionally met with, which served only to perplex me with ground- less expectations. At length my spade struck upon something which emitted a very different sound. I quickly drew 28 EDGAR HUNTLT. it forth, and found it to be wood. Its regular form, and the crevices which were faintly discernible, persuaded me that it was human workmanship, and that there was a cavity within. The place in which it was found, easily suggested some con- nection betv/een this and the destiny of Clithero. Covering up the hole with speed, I hastened with my prize to the house. The door, by which the kitcheti was entered, was not to be seen from the road. It opened on a field, the farther limit of which was a ledge of rocks, which formed, on this side, the boundary of Inglefield's estate and the westernmost barrier of Norwalk. As I turned the angle of the house, and came in view of this door, methought I saw a figure issue from it. I was startled at this incident, and, stopping, crouched close to the wall, that I might not be dis- covered. As soon as the figure passed EDGAR HUNTLY. 29 beyond the verge of the shade, it was easily distinguished to be that of Cli- thero ! He crossed the field with a rapid pace, and quickly passed beyond the reach of my eye. This appearance was mysterious. For what end he should visit this habi- tation, could not be guessed. Was the contingency to be lamented, in conse- quence of which an interview had been avoided? Would it have compelled me to explain the broken condition of his trunk? I knew not whether to rejoice at having avoided this interview, or to deplore it. These thoughts did not divert me from examining the nature of the prize which I had gained. I relighted my candle and hied once more to the cham- ber. The firs* object, which, on entering it, atracted my attention, was the cabinet VOL. II. c 2 30 EDGAR HUNTLY. broken into twenty fragments, on the hearth. I had left it on a low table, at a distant corner of the room. No conclusion could be formed, but that Clithero had been here, had disco- vered the violence which had been com- mitted on his property, and, in the first transport of his indignation, had shattered it to pieces. I shuddered on reflecting how near I had been to being detected by him in the very act, and by how small an interval I had escaped that resentment, which, in that case, would have probably been wreaked upon me. My attention was withdrawn, at length, from this object, and fixed upon the contents of the box which I had dug up. This was equally inaccessible with the other. I had not the same motives for caution and forbearance. I was some- what desperate, as the consequences of my indiscretion could not be aggravated, and Et)GAR HUNTLY. 31 my curiosity was more impetuous, with regard to the smaller than to the larger cabinet. I placed it on the ground and crushed it to pieces with my heel. Something was within. I brought it to the light, and, after loosing numerous folds, at length drew forth a volume. No object, in the circle of nature, was more adapted than this, to rouse up all my faculties. My feelings were anew exci- ted on observing that it was a manuscript. I bolted the door, and, drawing near the light, opened and began to read. A few pages was sufficent to explain the nature of the work. Clithero had mentioned that his lady had composed a vindication of her conduct towards her ^ brother, when her intercession in his favour was solicited and refused. This performance had never been published, but had been read by many, and was preserved by her friends as a precious 32 EDGAR HUNTLY. monument of her genius and her virtue. This manuscript was now before me. That CUthero should preserve this manuscript, amidst the wreck of his hopes and fortunes, was apparently con- formable to his temper. That, having formed the resolution to die, he should seek to hide this volume from the profane curiosity of survivors, was a natural pro- ceeding. To bury it rather than to burn, or disperse it into fragments, would be suggested by the wish to conceal, without committing what his heated fancy would regard as sacrilege. To bury it beneath the elm, was dictated by no fortuitous or inexplicable caprice. This event could scarcely fail of exercising some influence on the perturbations of his sleep, and thus, in addition to other causes, might his hovering near this trunk, and throwing up this earth, in the intervals of slumber, be accounted for. Clithero. EDGAR HUNTLY. 33 indeed, had not mentioned this pro- ceeding in the course of his narrative; but that would have contravened the end for which he had provided a grave for this book. I read this copious tale with unspeak- able eagerness. It essentially agreed with that which had been told by Clithero. By drawing forth events into all their circumstances, more distinct impressions were 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 34 EDGAR HUNTLY. perniciousness of error. Exempt as this lady was from almost every defect, she was indebted for her ruin to absurd opi- nions 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 impu- tation of imaginary guilt, impelled him to the perpetration of genuine and enor- mous crimes. The perusal of this volume ended not but with the night. Contrary to my hopes, the next day was stormy andjwet. 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 wrapt myself, EDGAR HUNTLY. 35 and a bag of provisions, in a cloak of painted canvass and speeded to the dwel- ling of Clithero. I passed through the cave and reached the bridge which my own ingenuity had formed. At that moment, torrents of rain £oured from above, and stronger blasts thundered amidst these desolate re- cesses and.profQund chas^^ 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. As I crept with hands and feet, along my imperfect bridge, a sudden gust had nearly whirled me into the frightful abyss below. To preserve myself, I was oblidged to loose my hold of my burthen and it fell into the gulf. This incident disconcerted and distressed me. As soon as I had effected my dangerous passage, I 36 EDGAR HUNTLY, screened myself behind a cliff\_and gave myself up to reflection. The purpose of this arduous journey was defeated, by the loss of the provi- sions I had brought. I despaired of winning the attention of the fugitive to supplications, or arguments tending to smother remorse, or revive his fortitude. The scope of my efforts was to consist in vanquishing his aversion to food; but j these efforts would now be useless, since I had no power to supply his cravings. This deficiency, however, was easily supplied. I had only to return home and supply myself anew. No time was to be lost in doing this ; but I was willing to remain under this shelter, till the fury of the tempest had subsided. Besides, I was not certain that Clithero had again retreated hither. It was requisite to explore the summit of this hill, and ascer- tain v/hether it had any inhabitant. I EDGAR HUNTLY. 37 might likewise discover what had been the success of my former experiment, and whether the food, which had been left here on the former day, was consumed or neglected. While occupied with these reflec- tions, my eyes were fixed upon the oppo- site steeps. The, tops of the trees, waving to and. fro, in^the-wildest commotion, and theirjlrunks, occasionally bending to the blast, which, in these lofty regions, blew with a violence unknown in the tracts below, exhibited an awful spectacle. At length, my attention was attracted by the trunk which lay across the gulf, and which I had converted into a bridge. I perceived that it had already somewhat swerved from its original position, that every blast broke or loosened some of the fibres by which its root was connected with the opposite bank, and that, if the VOL. II. D 38 EDGAR HUNTLY. Storm did not speedily abate, there was imminent danger of its being torn froi|i the rock and precipitated into the chasm. Thus my retreat would be cut off, and the evils, from which I was endeavouring to rescue another, would be experienced by myself. I did not just then reflect that Clithero had found access to this hill by other means, and that the avenue by which he came, would be equally commodious to me. I believed my destiny to hang upon the expedition with which I should re-cross this gulf. The moments that were spent in these deliberations were critical, and I shuddered to observe that the trunk was held in its place by one or two fibres which were already stretched almost to breaking. To pass along the trunk, rendered slippery by the wet, and unsteadfast by the wind, was eminently dangerous. To EDGAR HUNTLY. 39 maintain my hold, in passing, in defiance of the whirlwind, required the most vigorous exertions. For this end it was necessary to discommode myself of my cloak, and of the volume, which I carried in the pocket of my cloak. I believed there was no reason to dread their being destroyed or purloined, if left, for a few hours or a day, in this recess. If laid beside a stone, under shelter of this cliff, they would, no doubt, remain unmolested till the disappearance of the storm should permit me to revisit this spot in the after- noon or on the morrow. Just as I had disposed of these incum- brances, and had risen from my seat, my attention was again called to the opposite steep, by the most unwelcome object that, at this time, could possibly occur. Something was perceived moving among the bushes and rocks, which, for a time, I hoped was no more than a 40 EDGAR HUNTLY. racoon or oppossum ; but which presently appeared to be a panther* His grey coat, extended claws, fiery eyes, and a cry which he at that moment uttered, and which, by its resemblance to the human voice, is peculiarly terrific, denoted him 10 be the most ferocious and untamable of that detested race*. The _ industry of our hum^^s- -has nearly banished „animals of pxey^from thes his vigilance could scarcely fail of detecting my assylum. The pit into which Glithero had sunk from my . view was at som€ distance. To reach it was the first im- pulse of my fear, but this could not be done without exciting the observation and pursuit of this enemy. I deeply regretted the untoward chance that had led me, when I first came over, to a differ- ent shelter. Should he retain his present station, my danger was scarcely lessened. To pass over in the face of a famished tyger was only to rush upon my fate. The falling of the trunk, which had lately 44 EDGAR HUNTLY. been so anxiously deprecated, was now, with no less solicitude, desired. Every new gust, I hoped, would tear asunder its remaining bands, and, by cutting off all communication between the opposite steeps, place me in security. My hopes, however, were destined to be frustrated. The fibres of the prostrate tree, were obstinately tenacious of their hold, and presently the animal scrambled down the rock and proceeded to cross it. Of all kinds of death, that which now menaced me was the most abhorred. To die by disease, or by the hand of a fellow- creature, was propitious and lenient in comparison with being rejit to pieces by the fangs of this savage. To perish, in this obscure retreat, by means' so imper- vious to the. anxious curiosity of my friends, to lose my portion of existence by so untoward and ignoble a destiny, was insupportable. I bitterly deplored EDGAR HUNTLY. 45 my rashness in coming hither unprovi- : ded for an encounter Uke this. The evil of my present circvimstances consiste d chiefly in suspense. My death was unavoidable, but my imagination had leisure to torment itself by anticipa- tions. One foot of the savage was slowly and cautiously moved after the other. He struck his claws so deeply into the bark that they were with difficulty with- , drawn. At length he leaped upon the I ground. We were now separated by an I interval of scarcely eight feet. To leave ! the spot v/here I crouched, was impos- : sible. Behind and beside me, the cliff \ rose perpendicularly, and before me was I this grim and terrific visage. I shrunk still closer to the ground and closed my eyes. From this pause of horror 1 was ; : roused by the noise occasioned by a I second spring of the animal. He leaped/ 46 EDGAR HUNTLY. into the pit, in which I had so deeply regretted that I had not taken refuge, and disappeared. My rescue was so sud- den, and so much beyond my behef ot my hope, that I doubted, for a moment, whether my senses did not deceive me. This opportunity of escape was not to be neglected. I left my place, and scram- bled over the trunk with a precipitation which had liked to have proved fatal. The tree groaned and shook under me, the wind blew with unexampled violence, and I had scarcely reached the opposite steep when the roots were severed from the rock and the whole fell thundering to the bottom of the chasm. My trepidations were not speedily quieted. I looked back with wonder on my hair-breadth escape, and on that singular concurrence of events, which had placed me, in so short a period, in absolute security. Had the trunk fallen EDGAR HUNTLY. 47 I a moment earlier, I should have been I Imprisoned on the hill or thrown head- long. Had its fall been delayed another , foment I should have been pursued; for the beast now issued from his den, and testified his surprise and disappointment by tokens the sight of which made my blood run cold. He saw me, and hastened to the verge qf the chasm. He squatted on his hind- l legs and assumed the attitude of one preparing to leap. My consternation was excited afresh by these appearances. It seemed at first as if the rift was too wide for any power of muscles to carry him in safety over; but I knew the unparal- \ Jeled agility of this animal, and that his experience had made him a better judge of the practicability of this exploit than I was. Still there was hope that he would relinquish this design as desperate. This 48 EDGAR HUNTLY. J hope was quickly at an end. He sprung,! and his fore-legs touched the verge off the rock on which I stood. In spite of vehement exertions, however, the surface was too smooth and too hard to allow him to make good his hold. He fell, and a piercing cry, uttered below, shewed that nothing had obstructed his descent to the bottom. Thus was I again rescued from death. Nothing but the pressure of famine could have prompted this savage to so audacious and hazardous an eflPort; but, by yeilding to this impulse, he had made my future visits to this spot exempt from peril. Clithero was, likewise, relieved from a danger that was immi- nent and unforeseen. Prowling over these grounds the panther could scarcely^ have failed to meet with this solita fugitive. i EDGAR HUNTLY. 49 Had the animal lived, my first duty would have been to have sought him out, and assailed him with my Tom- hawk; but no undertaking would have been more hazardous. Lurking in the grass^ or in the branches of a tree, his eye might have descried my approach, he might leap upon me unperceived, and my weapon would be useless. With an heart beating with unwonted rapidity, I once more descended the cliff, entered the cavern, and arrived at Huntly farm, drenched with rain, and exhausted by fatigue. By^ night the storm was dispelled; but my exhausted strength would not allow me to return to the mountain. At the customary hour I retired to my chamber. I incessantly ruminated on the adventures of the last day, and VOL. II. E 50 EDGAR HUNTLY. inquired into the conduct which I was next to pursue. The bridge being destroyed, my cus- tomary access was cut off. There was no possibiUty of restoring this bridge. My strength w^ould not suffice to drag a fallen tree from a distance, and there was none whose position would abridge or super- sede that labour. Some other expedient must, therefore, be discovered to pass this chasm. I reviewed the circumstances of my subterranean journey. The cavern was imperfectly explored. Its branches might be numerous. That which I had hitherto pursued, terminated in an opening at a considerable distance from the bottom. Other branches might exist, some of which might lead to the foot of the precipice, and thence a communication might be found with the summit of the Ulterior hill. EDGAR HUNTLY. 51 The danger of wandering into dark and untried paths, and the commodi- ousness of that road which had at first been taken, were sufficient reasons for having hitherto suspended my examina- tion of the different branches of this Ja^rinth. Now my customary road was no longer practicable, and another was to be carefully explored. For this end, on my next journey to the mountain, I determined to take with me a lamp, and unravel this darksome maze : This pro- ject I resolved to execute the next day. I now recollected what, if it had more seasonably occurred, would have taught me caution. Some months before this a farmer, living in the skirts of Norwalk, discovered two marauders in his field, whom he imagined to be a male and female panther. They had destroyed some sheep, and had been hunted by the farmer, with long and fruitless diligence. 52 EDGAR HUNTLY. Sheep had hkewise been destroyed in diiFerent quarters; but the owners had fixed the imputation of the crime upon dogs, many of whom had atoned for their supposed offences by their death. He who had mentioned his discovery^ panthers, received little credit from his neighbours; because a long time had elapsed since these animals were sup- posed to have been exiled from this district, and because no other person had seen them. The truth of this-_ seemed now to be confirmed by the tes- timony of my own senses; but, if the rumour were true, there still existed another of these animals, who might harbour in the obscurities of this desert, and against whom it was necessary to employ some precaution. Henceforth I resolved never to traverse the wilder- ness unfurnished with my tom-hawk. EDGAR HUNTLY. 53 These images, mingled with those which the contemplation of futurity sug- gested, floated, for a time, in my brain; but at length gave place to sleep. VOL. II. E X [54 1 EDGAR HUJ^TLT. CHAPTER XIII. w5lNCE 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 incon- gruous and half-seen form, to my dreams. During my sleep, the image of Walde- grave flitted before me. Methought the sentiment that impelled him to visit me, was not affection or complacensy, but EDGAR HUNTLY. 55 inquietude and anger. Some service or duty remained to be performed by me, which I had culpably neglected: to inspi- rit 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 sur- prise, 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 inter- view; the scheme of transcribing, for thy use, all the letters which, during his short but busy life, I received from 56 EDGAR HUNTLY. him; the nature of this correspondence, and the opportunity which this employ- ment 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 benevo- lence, 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 pur- posed to resume my way to the mountain. Could this interval be appropriated to a better purpose than in counting over my EDGAR HUNTLY. 57 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 58 EDGAR HUNTLY. with thy request, and which had for- merly so much excited thy surprise. Waldegrave, Uke 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 y 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 | EDGAR HUNTLY. 59 copious. Those of Waldegrave were too frequently devoted to the defence of his favourite tenets. Thou art acquainted with the revo- lution that afterwards took place in his mind. Placed within the sphere of reli- gious influence, and listening daily to the reasonings and exhortations of Mr. S 5 whose benign temper and blame- less deportment was a visible and con- stant 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 Vv^e were once more permitted to reside under the same roof. The inter- 60 EDGAR HUNTLY. course 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 tran- sient 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 manu- scripts, 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 re- spect to others, these letters wJuld com- EDGAR HUNTLY. 61 municate 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 let- ters. Beside, mixed up with abstract reasonings, were numberless passages which elucidated the character and his- tory of my friend. These were too precious to be consigned to oblivion, and to take them out of their present con- nection and arrangement, would be ta mutilate and deform th^m. His intreaties and remonstrances were earnest and frequent, but dlv/ays ineffiectual. He had too much purity of motives to be angry at my stubbornness, but his sense of the mischievous ten- dency of these. letters, was so great, that my intractability cost him many a pang. VOL. II. F 62 EDGAR HUNTLY. He was now gone, and I had not only determined to preserve these monu- ments, 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 re- finements. Thy religion is the growth of sensibility and not of argument. Thoii 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 pollu- tion 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 ar- dently devoted to cherishing the spirit of devotion in thy heart ? These ideas now occurred with more force than formerly. I had promised, EDGAR HUNTLY. 63 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 v/ith too much expe- dition. It was still dark, but my sleep was at an end, and, by a common appa- ratus, that lay beside my bed, I could instantly produce a light. The light was produced, and I pro- ceeded to the cabinet where all my papers and books are deposited. This was my own contrivance and w^orkman4^ ship, undertaken by the advice of Sarse- field, who took infiniie 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 struc- ture. For greater safety, it was con- 04 EDGAR HUNTLY. stantly placed in a closet, which was likev/ise locked. The key was found as usual, and die 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 confu- sion 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. KDGAR HUNT1.Y. 65 On the last evening I had doubtless removed it to some other corner, but had forgotten it. I tasked my under- standing 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 recol- lect that I had made this change What remained? This invaluable relique had disappeared. Every thought and every effort must be devoted to the s'n;5le 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 mv senses, but these senses were abused and depraved. To have passed, of its own accord, through the VOL. II. E X 66 EDL^AR HUNTLY. pores of this wood, was. impossible ; butr if it were gone, thus did it escape. r 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 scru- tinized every instrument and tool, but notloing availed. My thoughts were not speedily col- lected 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 omi- nous terrors haunted me. A whispering intimation that a relique which I valued more than life was torn forever away by .J some malignant and inscrutable destiny. The same power that had taken it from this receptacle, was able to waft it over J ETEECAR HITN-TLV. 67 the ocean or the mountains, and condemn me to a fruitless, and eternal- Sdcarch. But what was: he that committed the theft? Thou only, of the beings who live, wast acquainted with- the existence of these manuscripts. Thou a4?f many miles distant, and art utterly a stranger to the mode or place of their conceal^ mem. Not only access to the cabinet^ •but access to the room, without my knov^-^ ledge and permission, was impossible. Both were locked- during, this nightt Not five hours had elapsed since the cabinet and drawer had been opened,, and sdnce the letters ha'd been seen and touched, being in their ordinary position. During this interval, the thief had ente- red, 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 68 EDGAR HUNTLT. moving in the entry near my door. I started from my bed, as if 1 had gained SL ghmpse 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 per- turbation of my looks, and inquired into the cause. I did not answer his inqui- ries. His appearance in my chamber and in this guise, ^tdded to my surprise. My mind was fall 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 \\']z «^ t ^ " "T V ' 1 v." ? n V \\ o r not ".' 1 '• r> p^i-s- c cl i i IDGAR HUNTLY. 69 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 ihaii the usual period of my rising. But why did you go up stairs? Yoa might easily imagine that the sound of your steps would alarm those below, who would be puzzled to guess who 'n was that had thought proper to amusi himself in this manner. Up stairs ? I have not left my room this night. It is not ten minutes since i awoke, and ray door has not since beea opened. Indeed I That is> strange. Nay, il is impossible It was your feet surely that I heard pacing so solemnly and indefatigably across the lang-reom for 70 EDGAR HUNTLY. near an hour. I covild 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 inter- mission, 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 comer of this room. The walking was not resumed, and all was s"lent. He listened for a quarter of an hour, and busied EDGAR HUNTLY. 71 himself in conjecturing the cause of this disturbance. The most probable con- clusion 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 numer- ous apartments. The upper story con- stitutes a single room whose sides are the four walls of the house, and whose ceiling is the roof. This room is unocu- pied, 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 termina- ted 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 m.oment. He followed, but observed that the walking had ceased long enough for the person to escape. 72 EDGAR HUNTLY. I ascended to the room, and looked behind and among the tables, and chairs, and casks, v/hich, were confusedly scat- tered through it, but found nothing in the shape of man. The cedar chest, spoken of by Mn Huntly, contained old books, and remnants of maps and charts, I 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 unfas- tened 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 incomprehen-« sible. EDGAR HUNTLT. 73 When the family rose, inquiries were made but no satisfaction was obtained. The family consisted only of four per- sons, my uncle, my two sisters, and myself. I mentioned to them the loss I had sus- tained, 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 hisL 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 re- newed, with irresistable solemnity, his injunctions to destroy them. VOL. II. G 74 EDGAR HUNTLY. Now, however, they had vanished. There were no materials of conjecture; no probabiUties to be weighed, or sus- picions to revolve. Human artifice or power was unequal to this exploit. Means less than preternatural would not furnish a conveyance for this trea- sure. It was otherwise with regard to this unseasonable walker. His inducements indeed were beyond my power to con- ceive, 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 6f 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. I s EDGAR HUNTLY. 75 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 succeed- ing night, my intentions, with regard to this man, returned. I derived some slen- der consolation from reflecting, that time, in its long lapse and ceaseless revolu- tions, might dissipate the gloom that envi- roned me. Meanwhile I struggled to dismiss the images connected v/ith 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, intel- lectual and physical, and confided in the efficacy of my presence to alleviate or 76 EDGAR HUNTLT. suspend them. The provisions I had left would be speedily consumed, and the abstinence of three days was suffi- cient 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 watch- fulness, if prolonged another day, would deeply injure a constitution by no means distinguished for its force. I must, there- fore, 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. [77] EDGAR HUJ^TLT. CHAPTER XrV While sitting alone by the parlour fire, marking the effects of moon- light, I noted one on horseback coming towards the gate. At first sight, me- thought his shape and guise were not wholly new to me ; but all that I could discern was merely a resemblance to some one whom I had before seen. Presently he stopped, and, looking to- wards the house, made inquiries of a passenger who chanced to be near. Being apparently satisfied with the an- swers he received, he rode with a quick VOL. II. G 2 78 EDGAR HUNTLY. pace, into the court and alighted at the door. I started from my seat, and, going forth, waited with some impatience to hear his purpose explained. He accosted me with the formality of a stranger, and asked if a young man, by name Edgar Huntly, resided here. Being answered in the affirmative, and being requested to come in, he entered, and seated himself, without hesitation, by the fire. Some doubt and anxiety were visible in his looks. He seemed desi- rous of information upon some topic, and yet betrayed terror lest the answers he might receive should subvert some hope, or confirm some foreboding. Meanwhile I scrutinized his features with much solicitude. A nearer and more deliberate view convinced me that the first impression was just; but still I was unable to call up his name or the cir- cumstances of our former meeting. The- 1 EDGAR HUNTLY. 79 pause was at length ended by his saying, in a fahering voice ; ^ My name is Weymouth* I came hither to obtain information on a subject in which my happiness is deeply con- cerned. At the mention of his name, I started. It was a name too closely connected with the image of thy brother, not to call up affecting and vivid recollections. Wey- y mouth thou knowest, was thy brother's friend. It is three years since this man left America, during which time no tidings had been heard of him, at least, by thy brother. He had now returned, and was probably unacquainted with, the fate of his friend. After an anxious pause, he continued ....Since my arrival I have heard of an event which has, on many accounts, given me the deepest sorrow. I loved Waldegrave, and know not any person in 80 EDGAR IIUNTLY. the world whose life was dearer to me than his. There were considerations, however, which made it more precious to me than the life of one whose merits might be greater. With his life, my own existence and property were, I have rea- son to think, inseparably united. On my return to my country, after a long absence, I made immediate inqui- ries after him. I was informed of his untimely death. I had questions, of infinite moment to my happiness, to decide with regard to the state and disposition of his property. I sought out those of his friends who had maintained with him the most frequent and confidential inter- course, but they could not afford me any satisfaction. At length, I was informed that a young man of your name, and living in this district, had enjoyed more of his affection and society than any other, had regulated the property which he left EDGAR HUNTLY. ftl behind, and was best qualified to afford the intelligence which I sought. You, it seems, are this person, and of you I must make inquiries to which I conjure you to return sincere and explicit answers. That, said I, I shall find no diffi- culty in doing. Whatever questions you shall think proper to ask, I will answer with readiness and truth. What kind of property and to what amount was your friend possessed of at his death? It was money, and consisted of depo- sits at the bank of North America. The amount was little short of eight thousand dollars ? On whom has this property devolved? His sister was his only kindred, and she is now in possession of it? Did he leave any will by which he directed the disposition of his property? While thus speaking, Weymouth fixed 82 EDGAR HUNTLT. his eyes upon my countenance, and seemed anxious to pierce into my inmost soul. I was somewhat surprised at his questions, but much more at the manner in which they were put. I answered him, however, without delay He left no will, nor was any paper discovered, by which we could guess at his intentions. No doubt, indeed, had he made a will his sister would have been placed pre- cisely in the same condition in which she now is. He was not only bound to her by the strongest ties of kindred, but by affection and gratitude. Weymouth now withdrew his eyes from my face, and sunk into a mournful reverie. He sighed often and deeply. This deportment and the strain of his inquiries excited much surprise. His interest in the fate of Waldegrave ought to have made the information he had received, a source of satisfaction rather EDGAR HUNTLY. 83 than of regret. The property which Waldegrave left was much greater than his mode of hfe, and his own professions had given us reason to except, but it was no more than sufficient to insure to thee an adequate subsistence. It ascertained the happiness of those who were dearest to Waldegrave, and placed them forever beyond the reach of that poverty which had hitherto beset them. I made no attempt to interrupt the silence, but pre- pared to answer any new interrogatory. At length, Weymouth resumed: Waldegrave was a fortunate man, to amass so considerable a sum in so short a time. I remember, when we parted, he was poor. He used to lament that his scrupulous integrity precluded him from all the common roads to wealth. He did not contemn riches, but he set the highest value upon competence; and imagined that he was doomed forever 84 EDGAK HUNTLY. to poverty. His religious duty com- pelled him to seek his livelihood by teaching a school of blacks. The labour was disproportioned to his feeble con- stitution, and the profit was greatly dis- proportioned to the labour. It scarcely supplied the necessities of^nature, and was reduced sometimes even below that standard by his frequent indisposition. I rejoice to find that his scruples had somewhat relaxed their force, and that he had betaken himself to some more profitable occupation. Pray, what was his new way of business? Nay, said I, his scruples continued as rigid, in this respect, as ever. He was teacher of the Negro free-school when he died. Indeed! How then came he to amass so much money? Could he blend any more lucrative pursuit with his duty as a school -master ? EDGAR HUNTLY. 85 So it seems. What was his pursuit? That question, I believe, none of his friends are quaUfied to answer. I thought myself acquainted with the most secret transactions of his life, but this had been carefully concealed from me. I was not only vinapprised of any other employ- ment of his time, but had not the slightest suspicion of his possessing any property beside his clothes and books. Ransacking his papers, with a different view, I lighted on his bank-book, in which was a regular receipt for seven thousand five hundred dollars. By what means he acquired this money, and even the acquisition of it, till his death put us in possession of his papers, was whoUy unknown to us. Possibly he might have held it in trust for another. In this case some VOL. It H 86 EDGAR HUNTLY. memorandums or letters would be found explaining this affair. True. Tiiis supposition could not fail to occur, in consequence of which the most diligent search was made among his papers, but no shred or scrap was to be found which countenanced our conjecture. You may reasonably be surprised, and perhaps offended, said Weymouth, at these inquiries; but it is time to explain my motives for making them. Three years ago I was, like Waldegrave, indi- gent, and earned my bread by daily labour. During seven years service in a public office, I saved, from the expen- ces of subsistence, a few hundred dollars. I determined to strike into a new path^ and, with this sum, to lay the foundation of better fortune. I turned it into a bulky commodity, freighted and loaded a small vessel, and went with it to Barcelona in < i EDGAR HUNTLY. Spain. I was not unsuccessful in my projects, and, changing my abode to England, France and Germany, according as my interest required, I became finally possessed of sufficient for the supply of all my wants. I then resolved to return to my native country, and, laying out my money in land, to spend the rest of my days in the luxury and quiet of an opu- lent farmer. For this end I invested the greatest part of my property in a cargo of v/ine from Madeira. The remainder I turned into a bill of exchange for seven thousand five hundred dollars. I had maintained a friendly correspon- dence with Waldegrave during my ab- sence. There w^as no one v/ith whom I had lived on terms of so much intimacy, and had boundless confidence in his integrity. To him therefore I determined to transmit this bill, requesting him to take the money into safe keeping until 88 EDGAR HUNTLY. my return. In this manner I endeavoured to provide against the accidents that might befall my person or my cargo in crossing the ocean. It was my fate to encounter the worst of these disasters. We were overtaken by a storm, my vessel was driven ashore on the coast of Portugal, my cargo was utterly lost, and the greater part of the i crew and passengers were drowned. I was rescued from the same fate by some fishermen. In consequence of the hard- ships to which I had been exposed, having laboured for several days at the pumps, and spent the greater part of a winter night, hanging from the rigging of the ship, and perpetually beaten by the waves, I contracted a severe disease, which bereaved me of the use of my limbs. The fishermen who rescued me, carried me to their huts, and there I EDGAR HUNTLY. 89 remained three weeks helpless and miser- able, c That part of the coast on which I was thrown, was, in the highest degree, sterile and rude. Its few inhabitants subsisted precariously on the produce of the ocean. Their dwellings were of mud, low, filthy, dark, and comfortless. Their fuel was the stalks of shrubs, sparingly scattered over a sandy desert. Their poverty scarcely allowed them salt and black bread with their fish, which was obtained in unequal and sometimes insuf- ficient quantities, and which -they ate with all its impurities and half cooked. | My former habits as well as my present indisposition required very different treat- ment from what the ignorance and penury of these people obliged them to bestow. I lay upon the moist earth, imperfectly sheltered from the sky, and with neither VOL. II. H 2 90 EDGAR HUNTLY. raiment or fire to keep me warm. My hosts had Uttle attention or compassion to spare to the wants of others. They could not remove me to a more hospitable district, and here, without doubt, I should have perished had not a monk chanced to visit their hovels. He belonged to a convent of St. Jago, some leagues farther from the shore, who used to send one of its members annually to inspect the religious concerns of those outcasts. Happily this was the period of their visi- tations. My abode in Spain had made me somewhat conversant with its language. The dialect of this monk did not so much differ from Castilian, but that, with the assistance of Latin, we were able to converse. The jargon of the fisher- men was unintelligible, and they had vainly endeavoured to keep up my spirit? by informing me of this expected visit. EDGAR HUNTLY. 91 This monk was touched with com- passion at my calamity, and speedily provided the means of my removal to his convent. Here I was charitably enter- tained, and the aid of a physician was pro^ cured for me. He was but poorly skilled in his profession, and rather confirmed than alleviated my disease. The Portu- guese of his trade, especially in remoter districts, are little more than dealers in talismans and nostrums. For a long time I was unable to leave my pallet, and had no prospect before me but that of consuming my days in the gloom of this cloister. All the members of this convent, but he who had been my first benefactor, and whose name was Chaledro, were ,bigot- ted and sordid. Their chief motive for treating me with kindness, was the hope of obtaining a convert from heresy. They spared no pains to subdue my errors, 92 EDGAR HUNTLY. and were v/illing to prolong my impri- sonment, in the hope of finally gaining their end. Had my fate been governed by those, I should have been immured in this convent, and compelled, either to adopt their fanatical creed or to put an end to my own life, in order to escape their well meant persecutions. Chaledro, however, though no less sincere in his faith and urgent in his intreaties, yet finding me invincible, exerted his influ- ence to obtain my liberty. After many delays, and strenuous ex- ertions of my friend, they consented to remove me to Oporto. The journey was to be performed in an open cart over a mountainous country, in the heats of sum- mer. ^ The monks endeavoured to dis- suade me from the enterprize, for my own sake, it being scarcely possible that one in my feeble state, should survive a journey like this ; but I despaired of improving my EDGAR HUNTLY. 93 condition by other means. I preferred death to the imprisonment of a Portu- guese monastery, and knew that I could hope for no alleviation of my disease, but from the skill of Scottish or French phy- sicians, whom I expected to meet with in that city. I adhered to my purpose with so much vehemence and obstinacy, that they finally yielded to my wishes. My road lay through the wildest and most rugged districts. It did not exceed ninety miles, but seven days were con- sumed on the way. The motion of the vehicle racked me with the keenest pangs, and my attendants concluded that every stage would be my last. They had been selected without due regard to their characters. They were knavish and inhuman, and omitted nothing, but actual violence, to hasten my death. They pur- posely retarded the journey, and pro- tracted to seven, what might have been 94 EDGAR HUNTLY. readily performed in four days. They neglected to execute the orders which they had received, respecting my lodg- ing and provisions, and from them, as well as from the peasants, who were sure to be informed that I was an heretic, I suffered every species of insult and injury. My constitution, as well as my frame, possessed a fund of strength of which I had no previous conception. In spite of hardship and exposure and absti- nence, I, at last, ari'ived at Oporto. Instead of being carried, agreeably to Chaledro's direction, to a convent of St. Jago, I was left, late in the evening, in the porch of a common hovSpital. My attendants, having laid me on the pave- ment and loaded me with imprecations, left me to obtain admission by my own efforts. I passed the live-long night in this spot, and in the morning was received into the house, in a state which EDGyVR HUNTLY. 95 left it uncertain whether I was alive or dead. After recovering my sensibility, I made various efforts to procure a visit from some English merchant. This was no easy undertaking for one in my deplo- rable condition. I was too v/eak to articu- late my words distinctly, and these ^j^ords were rendered by my foreign accent, scarcely intelligible. The likelihood of my speedy death made the people about me more indifferent to my wants and petitions. I v/ill not dv/ell upon my repeated disappointments, but content myself with mentioning that I gained the attention of a French gendeman, w^hose curiosity brought him to view the hospital. Through him, I obtained a visit from an English merchant, and finally gained the notice of a person, who formerly resided m America, and of whom I had 96 EDGAR HUNTLY. imperfect knowledge. By their kindness I was removed from the hospital to a private house. A Scottish surgeon was summoned to my assistance, and in seven months, I was restored to my present ^tate of health. At Oporto, I embarked, in an Ameri- can ship, for New- York. I was destitute of all property, and relied, for the pay- ment of the debts which I was obliged to contract, as well as for my future subsist- ence, on my remittance, to Waldegrave, I hastened to Philadelphia, and was soon informed that my friend was dead. His death had taken place a long time since my remittance to him, hence this disaster was a subject of regret chiefly on his own account. I entertained no doubt but that my property had been secured, and that either some testamentary directions, or some papers had been left behind respecting this affair EDGAR HUNTLY. 97 I sought out those who were formerly our mutual acquamtance, I found that they were wholly strangers to his affairs. They could merely relate some particu- lars of his singular death, and point out the lodgings which he formerly occupied. Hither I forthwith repaired, dkid disco- vered that he lived in this house with his sister, disconnected with its other inhabitants. They described his mode of life in terms that shewed them to be very imperfectly acquainted with it. It was easy indeedto infer, from their aspect and manners, that little sympathy or union could have subsisted between them and their co-tenants, and this inference was confirmed by their insinuations, the growth of prejudice and envy. They told me that Walde grave's sister had gone to live in the country, but whither or for how long, she had not condescended to VOL. II I b>8 EDGAR HUNTLY. inform them, and they did not care to ask. She was a topping dame whose notions were much too high for her station. Who was more nice than wise, and yet was one who could stoop, when it most became her to stand upright. It was no business of theirs, but they could not but mention their suspicions that she had good reasons for leaving the city, and for concealing the place of her retreat. Some things were hard to be disguised. They spoke for themselves, and the 3nly way to hinder disagreeable disco- veries, was to keep out of sight. I was wholly a stranger to Walde- grave's sister. I knew merely that he had such a relation. There was nothing therefore to outbalance this unfavour- able report, but the apparent malignity and grossness of those who gave it. It was not, however, her character about w, hich [ was solicitous, but merely the place EDGAR HUNTLY. 99 where she might be found, and the suit- able inquiries respecting her deceased brother, be answered. On this head, these people professed utter ignorance and were either unable or unwilling to direct me to any person in the city who knew more than themselves. After much discourse they, at length, let fall an intimation that if any one knew her place of retreat, it was probably a country lad, by name Huntly, who lived near tht Forks of Delaware. After Waldegrave's death, this lad had paid his sister a visit, and seemed to be admitted on a very confidential footing. She left the house, for the last time, in his company, and he, therefore, was most likely to know what had become of her. The name of Huntly was not totally unknown to me. I myself was bom and brought up in the neighbouring township of Chetasco. I had some ioo EDGAR HUNTLY, knowledge of your family, and your name used often to be mentioned by Walde- grave, as that of one who, at a maturer age, would prove himself useful to his country. I determined therefore to apply to you for what information you could give. I designed to visit my father who lives in Chetasco and relieve him from that disquiet v/hich his ignorance of my % fate could not fail to have inspired, and both these ends could be thus, at the same time, accomplished. Before I left the city, I thought it proper to apply to the merchant on whom my bill had been drawn. If this bill had been presented and paid, he had doubtless preserved some record of it, and hence a clue might be afforded, though every other expedient should fail. My usual ill fortune pursued mc upon this occasion, for the merchant had lately become insolvent, and, to avoid the EDGAR HUNTLY. 101 rage of his creditors, had fled, without leaving any vestige of this or similalr transactions behind him. He had, some years since, been an adventurer from Holland, and was suspected to have returned thither. vol.. II. I a [ 102 ] EDGAR HUJ^TLT. CHAPTER V^IV.' 1 CAME hither with an heart desponding of success. Adversity had weakened my faith in the promises of the future, and I was prepared to receive just such tidings as you have communicated. Unacquainted with the secret motives of Waldegrave and his sister, it is impossible for me to weigh the probabihties of their rectitude. I have only my own assertion to produce in support of my claim. All other evidence, all vouchers and papers, which might attest my veracity, or sanction my claim in a court of law, are buried in the ocean. The bill was transmitted just I EDGAR HUNTLY. 103 before my departure from Madeira, and the letters by which it was accompanied, informed Waldegrave of my design to follow it immediately. Hence he did not, it is probable, acknowledge the receipt of my letters. The vessels in which they were sent, arrived in due season. I was assured that all letters were duly depo- sited in the post-oifice, where, at present, mine are not to be found. You assure me that nothing has been found among his papers, hinting at any pecuniary transaction between him and me. Some correspondence passed be- tween us previous to that event. Have no letters, with my signature, been found ? Are you qualified, by your knowledge of his papers, to answer me explicitly? Is it not possible for some letters to have been mislaid? I am qualified, said I, to answer your inquiries beyond any other person in 104 EDGAR HUNTLY. the world. Waldegrave maintained only general intercourse with the rest of mankind. With me his correspondence was copious, and his confidence, as I ima- gined, without bounds. His books and papers were contained in a single chest, at his lodgings, the keys of which he had about him when he died. These keys I carried to his sister, and was authorized by her to open and examine the contents of this chest. This was done with the utmost care. These papers are now in my possession. Among them no paper, of the tenor you mention, was found, and no letter with your signature. Neither Mary Waldegrave nor I are capable of disguising the truth or committing an injustice. The moment she receives conviction of your right she will restore this money to you. The moment I im- bibe this conviction, I will exert all my influence, and it is not small, to induce EDGAR HUNTLY. 105 her to restore it. Permit me, however, to question you in your turn. Who was the merchant on whom your bill was drawn, what was the date of it, and when did the bill and its counterparts arrive? I do not exactly remember the date of the bills. They were made out, how- ever, six days before I myself embarked which happened on the tenth of August 1784. They were sent by three vessels, one of which was bound to Charleston and the others to New-York. The last arrived within two days of each other, and about the middle of November in the same year. The name of the payer was Monteith,^ After a pause of recollection, I an- swered, I will not hesitate to apprise you of every thing which may throw light upon this transaction, and whether fa- vourable or otherwise to your claim. I have told you among my friends' papers 106 EDGAR HUNTLY* your name is not to be found. I must likewise repeat that the possession of this money by Waldegrave was wholly unknown to us till his death. We are likewise unacquainted with any means by which he could get possession of so large a sum in his own right. He spent no more than his scanty stipend as a teacher, though this stipend was insuf- ficient to supply his wants. This Bank- receipt is dated in December 1784, a fortnight, perhaps, after the date that you have mentioned. You will perceive how much this coincidence, which could Bcarcely have taken place by chance, is favourable to your claim. Mary Waldegrave resides, at pre- sent, at Abingdon. She will rejoice, as I do, to see one who, as her brother's friend, is entitled to her affection. Doubt not but that she will listen with impar- tiality and candour to all that you can EDGAR HUNTLT. 107 urge in defence of your title to this money. Her decision will not be preci- pitate, but it will be generous and just, and founded on such reasons that, even if it be adverse to your wishes, you will be compelled to approve it. I can entertain no doubt, he answered, as to the equity of my claim. The coin- cidences you mention are sufficient^ to convince me, that this sum was receive upon my bill, but this conviction must necessarily be confined to myself. No one but I can be conscious to the truth of my own story. The evidence on which I build my faith, in this case, is that of my own memory and senses ; but this evidence cannot make 'tself con- spicuous to you. You have nothing but my bare assertion, in addition to some probabilities flowing from the conduct of Waldegrave. What facts may exist to corroborate my claim, which you have h 108 EDGAR HUNTLY. forgotten, or which you may think proper to conceal, I cannot judge. I know not what is passing in the secret of your hearts ; I am unacquainted with the cha- racter of this lady and with yours. I have nothing on which to build surmises and suspicions of your integrity, and nothing to generate unusual confidence, the frailty of your virtue and the strength of your temptations I know not. How- ever she decides in this case, and whate- ver opinion I shall form as to the rea- sonableness of her decision, it will not become me either to upbraid her, or to nourish discontentment and repinings. I know that my claim has no legal support: that, if this money be resigned to me, it will be the impulse of spontane- ous justice, and not the coercion of law to which I am indebted for it. Since, therefore, the justice of my claim is to be measured not by law, but by simple \ EDGAR HUNTLY. 100 equity. I will candidly acknowledge, that as yet it is uncertain whether I ought to receive, even should Miss Walde- grave be willing to give it. I know my own necessities and schemes, and in what degree this money would be sub- servient to these ; but I know not the views and wants of others, and cannot estimate the usefulness of this money to them. However I decide upon your condu6l in withholding or retaining it, I shall make suitable allowance for my imperfect knowledge of your motives and wants, as well as for your unavoid- able ignorance of mine. I have related my sufferings from shipwreck and poverty, not to bias your judgment or engage your pity, but merely because the impulse to relate them chanced to awake ; because my heart is softened by the remembrance of Walde- VOL. II. K no EDGAR HUNTLV. grave, who has been ray only friend, and by the sight of one whom he loved. I told you that my father lived in Chetasco. He is now aged, and I am his only child. I should have rejoiced in being able to relieve his grey hairs from labour to which his failing strength cannot be equal. This was one of my inducements in coming to America. Another was, to prepare the v/ay for a woman whom I married in Europe, and who is now awaiting intelligence from me in London. Her poverty is not less than my own, and by marrying against the wishes of her kindred, she has bereaved herself of all support but that of her husband. Whether I shall be able to rescue her from indigence, whether I shall alleviate the poverty of my father or increase it by burthening his scanty friends by my own maintenance as well as his, the future alone can determine. J EDGAR HUNTLY. Ill I confess that my stock of patience and hope lias never been large, and that my misfortunes have nearly exhavisted it. The flower of my years has been consumed in struggling with adversity, and my constitution has received a shock from sickness and mistreatment in Por- tugal, which I cannot expe6l long to survive. ...But I make you sad (he con- tinued.) I have said all that I meant to say in this interview. I am impatient to see my father, and night has already come. I have some miles yet to ride to his cottage and over a rough road. I will shortly visit you again, and talk to you at greater leisure on these and other topics. At present I leave you. I was unwilling to part so abruptly with this guest, and intrcated him to prolong his visit, but he would not be prevailed upon. Repeating his promise of shortly seeing me again, he mounted 112 EDGAR HUNTLY. his horse and disappeared. I looked after him with affefting and complex emotions. I reviewed the incidents of this unexpeded and extraordinary inter- view, as if it had existed in a dream. An hour had passed, arid this stranger had alighted among us as from the clouds, to draw the veil from those obscu- rities which had bewildered us so long, to make visible a new train of disastrous consequence flowing from the untimely death of thy brother, and to blast that scheme of happiness on which thou and I had so fondly meditated. But what wilt thou think of this new born claim ? The story, hadst thou observed the features and guize of the relater, would have won thy implicit credit. His countenance exhibited deep traces of the affliftions he had endvired and the fortitude which he had exercised. He was sallow and emaci- J EDGAR HUNTLY. 113 ated, but his countenance was full of seriousness an J dignity. A sort of rug- gedness of brow, the token of gre^^t mental exertion and varied experie.Qce, argued a premature old age. What a mournful tale! Is sr^ch the lot of those who wander fr oiu their rustic homes in search of fortone. Our countrymen are prone to entf ;rp|.i2e, and are scattered over every sea r^rnd e veryland in pursuit of that wealth vehich will not screen them from disea^^e and infirmity^ which is missed mrich oftener thaa found, and which, w ben gained, by no means compensates them for the hard- ships and vicissicudes endured in the pursuit. But what if the truth of these pre- tentions be admitted ? The money must be restored to its right owner. I know that whatever inconveniences mayfoll^^w the. deed, thou wilt not he&itate ta aft ^ 2 114 EDGAR HUNTLV. justly. Affluence and dignity, however valuable, may be purchased too dear^ Honesty will not take away its keenness, from the winter blast, its ignominy and unwholesomeness from servile labour^ or strip of it charms the life of elegance and leisure ; but these, unaccompanied with self-reproach, are less deplorable than wealth and honour, the possessioa of which is marred by our own disap- probation.. I know the bitterness of this sacrifice. I know the impatience with which^^ur poverty has formerly been borne, how mu^ your early education is at war with that degradation and obscurity to which your youth has been condemned,. How earnestly your wishes panted after a state,, which might exempt you from dependence upon daily labour and on the caprices of others, and might secure to you kisvure to cultivate and indulge E0GAR H^NTLY, 115 your love of knowledge and your social and beneficent affeftions. Your motive for desiring a change of fortune has been greatly enforced' since we have become known to each other. Thou hast honoured me with thy affe6lion, but that a union, on which we rely for happiness, could not take ,/ place while both of us were poor. My habits, indeed, have made labour and rustic obscurity less painful than they would prove to my friend, but my present condition is wholly inconsistent with marriage. As long as my exertions are insufficient to mantain as both, it would be unjustifiable to burthen you with new cares and duties. Of this you are more thoroughly convintjed than 1 am. The love of independence and ease, and impatience of drudgery, are woven into your constitution. Perhaps they are carried to an erroneous extreme j^ Il6 EDGAR HUNTLY. and derogate from that uncommon excel- lence by which yovir chara6ler is, in other respedts, distinguished, but they cannot be removed. This obstacle was unexpe£ledly removed by the death of your brother. However justly to be deplored was this catastrophe, yet like every other event, some of its consequences were good. By giving you possession of the means of independence and leisure, by enabling us to complete a contract which poverty alone had thus long delayed, this event has been, at the same time, the most disastrous and propitious which could have happened. Why thy brother should have con* cealed from us the possession of this money ; why, with such copious means of indulgence and leisure, he should still pursue his irksome trade, and live in so penurious a manner, has been EDGAR HUNTLY. 117 a topic of endless and unsatisfa6loiy conje6lure between us. It was not dffi- cult to suppose that this money was held in trust for another, but in that case it was unavoidable that some document or memorandum, or at least some claimant would appear. Much time has since elapsed, and you have thought yourself at length justified in appropriating this money to your own use. Our flattering prospects are now shut in. You must return to your original poverty, and once more depend for precarious subsistence on your needle You cannot restore the whole, for una- voidable expenses, and the change of your mode of living, has consumed some part of it. For so much you must consider yourself as Weymouth's debtor. Repine not my friend, at this unlook- ed-for reverse. Think upon the merits and misfortunes of your brother's friend^ 118 EDGAR HUNTLY. think upon his aged father whom we*' shall enable him to rescue from poverty^ think upon his desolate wife, whose merits are, probably, at least equal to- your own, and whose helplessness is^ likely to be greater. I am not insensible to the evils which have returned upon us with augmented force, after having, for a moment, taken their flight. I know the precariousness of my condition, and that of my sisters, that our subsist- ence hangs upon the life of an old man. My uncle's death will transfer this property to his son, who is a stranger and an enemy to us, and the first act -/ of whose authority will unquestionably be to turn us forth from these doors. Marriage with thee was anticipated with joyous emotions, not merely on my own account, or on thine, but likewise for the sake of those beloved girls, to I.DGAR HUNTLY* 119 whom that event would enable me to furnish an asylum. But wedlock is now more distant than ever. My heart bleeds to think of the sufferings v/hich my beloved Mary is again fated to endure, but regrets are only aggravations of calamity. They are pernicious, and it is our duty to shake them off. I can entertain no doubts as to the equity of Weymouth's claim. So many coincidences could not have happened by chance. The non-appearance of any let- ters or papers connefted with it is indeed a mysterious circumstance, but why should Waldegrave be studious of pre- serving these ? They were useless pa- per, and might, without impropriety, be cast away, or made to serve any tem- porary purpose. Perhaps, indeed, they still lurk in some unsuspe6led corner. To wish that time may explain this 120 £dgar huntly. mystery in a diffierent manner, and so as to permit our retention of this money is, perhaps, the dictate of selfishness, The transfer to Weymouth will not be produ6live of less benefit to him and to his family, than we should derive from the use of it. These considerations, however, will be weighed when we meet. Meanwhile I will return to mv narrative. I li^l ] EDGAR HUJV^TLT. CHAPTER XV llERE, my friend, thou must permit me to pause. The following inci- dents are of a kind to which the most ardent invention has never conceived a parallel. Fortune, in her most wayward mood, could scarcely be suspected of an influence like this. The scene was preg- nant with astonishment and horror. I cannot, even now, recall it without reviv- ing the dismay and confusion which I then experienced. Possibly, the period will arrive when I shall look back without agony on the VOL. II. L 122 EDGAR HUNTLY.. perils I have undergone. That period is still distant. Solitude and sleep arc now no more than the signals to summon up a tribe of ugly phantoms. Famine, and blindness, and death, and savage enemies, never fail to be conjured up by the silence and darkness of the night. I cannot dissipate them by any efforts of reason. My cowardice requires the per- petual consolation of light. My heart droops when I mark the decline of the sun, and I never sleep but with a candle burning at my pillow. If, by any chance, 1 should awake and find myself immersed in darkness, I know not what act of des- peration I might be suddenly impelled to commit. I have delayed this narrative, longer than my duty to my friend enjoined. Now that I am able to hold a pen, I will hasten to terminate that uncertainty with regard to my fate, in which my silence lEDGAR HUNTLY. 123 has involved thee. I will recall that series of unheard of and disastrous vicis- situdes which has constituted the latest portion of my life. I am not certain, however, that I shall relate them in an intelligible manner. One image runs into another, sensations succeed in so rapid a train, that I i'ear, I shall be unable to distribute and express them with sufficient perspicuity. As I look back, my heart is sore and aches within my bosom. I am conscious to a kind of complex sentiment of distress and forlorn- ness that cannot be perfectly pourtrayed by words ; but I must do as well as I can. In the utmost vigour of my faculties, no eloquence that I possess would do justice to the tale. Now in my languishing and feeble state, I shall furnish thee with little more than a glimpse of the truth. With these glimpses, transient and faint as they are, thou must be satisfied. EDGAR HUNTLY. 124 I have said that I slept. My memory f assures me of this : It informs of the previous circumstances of my laying aside my clothes, of placing the light upon a chair within reach of my pillow, of throwing myself upon the bed, and of gazing on the rays of the moon reflected on the wall, and almost obscured by those of the candle. I remember my occasional relapses into fits of incoherent fancies, the harbingers of sleep : I remember, as it Vv^ere, the instant when my thovights ceased to flow, and my senses were arrested by the leaden wand of forge tfulness. My return to sensation and to con- sciousness took place in no such tranquil scene. I emerged from oblivion by degrees so slow and so faint, that their svtccession cannot be marked. When enabled at length to attend to the infor- mation which my senses afforded, I was EDGAR HUNTLY. 125 conscious, for a time, of nothing but existence. It was unaccompanied with lassitude or pain, but I feh disincUned to stretch my limbs, or raise my eye-lids. My thoughts were wildering and mazy, and though consciousness were present, it was disconnected with the loco-motive or voluntary power. From this state a transition was spee- dily effected. I perceived that my posture was supine, and that I lay upon my back. I attempted to open my eyes. The weight that oppressed them was too great for a slight exertion to remove. The exertion which I made cost me a pang more acute than any which I ever experienced. My eyes, however, were opened; but the darkness that environed me was as intense as before. I attempted to rise, but my limbs were cold, and my joints had almost lost their VOL. II. L 2 126 EDGAR HUNTLY. flexibility. My efforts were repeated, and at length I attained a sitting posture. I was now sensible of pain in my shoulders and back. I was universally in that state to which the frame is reduced by blows of a club, mercilessly and endlessly repeated; my temples throbbed and my face was covered with clamy and cold drops, but that which threw me into deepest consternation was, my inability to see. I turned my head to different • quarters, I stretched my eye-lids, and exerted every visual energy, but in vain. I was wrapt in the murkiest and most impenetrable gloom. The first effort of reflection was to suggest the belief that I was blind ; that disease is known to assail us in a moment and without previous warning. This surely was the misfortune that had now befallen me. Some ray, however fleeting and uncertain, could not fail to be EDGAR HUNTLY. 127 discerned, if the power of vision were not utterly extinguished. In what circum- stances could I possibly be placed, from which every particle of light should, by other means, be excluded. This led my thoughts into a new train. I endeavoured to recall the past, but the past was too much in contradic- tion to the present, and my intellect was too much shattered by external violence, to allow me accurately to review it. Since my sight availed nothing to the knowledge of my condition, I betook myself toother instruments. The element which I breathed was stagnant and cold. The spot where I lay was rugged and hard. I was neither naked nor clothed, a shirt and trossars composed my dress, and the shoes and stockings, which always accompanied these, were now wanting, What could I infer from this scanty garb, this chilling atmosphere, this stony bed ? 128 EDGAR HUNTLY. I had awakened as from sleep. What was my condition when I fell asleep? Surely it was different from the present. Then I inhabited a lightsome chamber, and was stretched upon a down bed. Now I was supine upon a rugged surface and immersed in palpable obscurity. Then I was in perfect health ; now my frame- was covered with bruises and every joint was racked with pain. What dungeon or den had received me, and , by whose command was I transported hither? After various efforts I stood upon tny feet. At first I tottered and stag- gered. I stretched out my hands on all sides but met only with vacuity. I advanced forward. At the third step my foot moved something which lay upon the ground, I stooped and took it up, and found, on examination, that it was an Indian Tom-hawk. This incident affor- EDGAR HUNTLY. 129 ded me no hint from which I might conjecture my state. Proceeding irresolutely and slowly forward, my hands at length touched a wall. This, like the flooring, was of stone, and was rugged and impenetrable. I followed this wall. An advancing angle occurred at a short distance, which r r was followed by similar angles. I con- ' tinned to explore this clue, till the suspicion occurred that I was merely going round the walls of a vast and irregular apartment. The utter darkness disabled me from comparing directions and distances. This discovery, therefore, was not made on a sudden and was still entangled with some doubi. My blood recovered some warmth, and my muscles some elasticity, but in proportion as my sensibility returned my pains augmented. Over- powered by my fears and my agoniesi 130 EDGAK: HUNTLY. Idesisted from my fruitless search, and sat down, supporting my back against the wall. My excruciating sensations for a time occupied my attention. These, in com- bination with other causes, gradually pro- duced a species of delirium. I existed as it were in a wakeful dream. With nothing to correct my erroneous percep- tions, the images of the past occurred in capricious combinations, and vivid hues. Methought I was the victim of some tyrant who had thrust me into a dungeon of his fortress, and left me no power to determine whether he intended I should perish with famine, or linger out a long life in hopeless imprisonment: Whether the day was shut out by insuperable walls, or the darkness that surrounded me, was owing to the night and to the smallness of those cranies through which day-light was to be admitted, I conjectured in vain. EDGAR HUNTLY. 131 Sometimes I imagined myself buried alive. Mediought I had fallen into seem- ing death and my friends had consigned me to the tomb, from which a resurrec- tion was impossible. That in such a case, my limbs would have been confined to a coffin, and my coffin to a grave, and that I should instantly have been suffocated, did not occur to destroy my supposition: Neither did this sup- position overwhelm me with terror or prompt my efforts at deliverance. My state was full of tumult and confusion, and my attention was incessantly divi- ded between my painful sensations and my feverish dreams, There is no standard by which time can be measured, but the succession of our thoughts, and the changes that take place in the external world. From the latter I .was totally excluded. The former made the lapse of some hours 132 EDGAR HUNTLY. appear like the tediousness of weeks and i months. At length, a new sensation, : recalled my rambling meditations, and gave substance to my fears. I now felt the cravings of hunger, and perceived that unless my deliverance were speedily effected, I must suffer a tedious and lingering death. I once more tasked my understanding and my senses, to discover the nature of my present situation and the means of escape. I listened to catch some sound. I heard an unequal and varying echo, sometimes near and sometimes distant, sometimes dying away and sometimes swelling into loudness. It was unlike anything I had beifore heard, but it was evident that it arose from wind sweeping through spacious halls and winding pas- sages. These tokens were incompatible with the result of the examination I had made. If my hands were true I was EDGAH HUNTLY. 133 immured between walls, through which there was no avenue. I now exerted my voice, and cried as loud as my wasted strength would admit. Its echoes were sent back to me in broken and confused sounds and from above. This effort was casual, but some part of that uncertainty in which I was involved, was instantly dispelled by it. In passing through the cavern on the former day, I have mentioned the verge of the pit at which I arrived. To acquaint me as far as was possible, with the dimensions of the place, I had hallooed with all my force, knowing that sound is reflected according to the distance and relative positions of the substances from which it is repelled. The effect produced by my voice on this occasion resembled, with remarkable exactness, the effect which was then pro- VOL. II. M 134 EDGAR HUNTLY. duced. Was I then shut up in the same cavern? Had I reached the brink of the same precipice and been thrown head- long into that vacuity? Whence else could arise the bruises which I had re- ceived, but from my fall ? Yet all remem- brance of my journey hither was lost. I had determined to explore this cave on the ensuing day, but my memory informed me not that this intention had been carried into effect. Still it was only possible to conclude that I had come hither on my intended expedition and had been thrown by another, or had, by some ill chance, fallen into the pit. This opinion was conform.able to what I had already observed. The pave- ment and walls were rugged like those of the footing and sides of the cave through which I had formerly passed. But if this were true, what was the abhorred catastrophe to which I was now EDGAR HUNTLY. 135 reserved? The sides of this pit were inac- cessible: human foot-steps would never wander into these recesses. My friends were unapprised of my forlorn state. Here I should continue till wasted by famine. In this grave should I linger out a few days, in unspeakable agonies ^nd then perish forever. The inroads of hunger were alre^iy experienced, and this knowledge of the desperateness of my calamity, urged me to phrenzy. I had none but capricious and unseen fate to condemn. The author of my distress and the means he had taken to decoy me hither, were incom- prehensible. Surely my senses were fettered or depraved, by some spell. I was still asleep, and this was merely a tormenting vision, or madness had seized me, and the darkness that environed and the hunger that afflicted me, existed only in my own distempered imagination. /136 EDGAR HUNTLY. The consolation of these doubts could not last long. Every hour added to the proofs that my perceptions were real. My hunger speedily became ferocious. I tore the linen of my shirt between my teeth and swallowed the fragments. I felt a strong propensity to bite the flesh from my arm. My heart overflowed with cruelty, and I pondered on the delight I should experience in rending some living animal to pieces, and drink- ing its blood and grinding its quivering fibres between my teeth. This agony had already passed beyond the limits of endurance. I saw that time, instead of bringing respite or relief, would only aggravate my wants, and that my only remaining hope was to die before I should be assaulted by the last extremes of famine. I now recollected that a Tom-hawk was at hand, and rejoiced in the possession of an instrument by which EDGAR HUNTLY. 137 I could SO effectually terminate my suf- ferings. I took it in my hand, moved its edge over my fingers, and reflected on the force that was required to make it reach my heart. I investigated the spot where it should enter, and strove to fortify myself with resolution to repeat the stroke a second or third time, if the first should prove insufficient. I was sensible that I might fail to inflict a mortal wound, but delighted to consider that the blood which would be made to flow, would finally release me, and that meanwhile my pains would be alleviated by swal- lowing this blood. You will not wonder that I felt some reluctance to employ so fatal though indispensable a remedy. I once more ruminated on the possibility of rescuing myself by other means. I now reflected VOL. II. M 2 138 EDGAR HUNTLY. that the upper termination of the wall could not be at an immeasurable distance from the pavement. I had fallen from an height, but if that height had been considerable, instead of being merely bruised, should I not have been dashed into pieces? Gleams of hope burst anew upon my soul. Was it not possible, I asked, to reach the top^of this pit. The sides were rugged and uneven. Would not their projectures and abruptnesses serve me as steps by which I might ascend in safety. This e^tpedient was to be tried without delay. Shortly my strength would fail and my doom would be irrevocably sealed. I will not enumerate my laborious efforts, my alternations of despondency and confidence, the eager and unwea- ried scrutiny with which I examined the surface, the attempts which I made. EDGAR HUNTLY. 139 and the failures which, for a time, suc- ceeded each other. An hundred times, when- 1 had ascended some feet from the bottom, I was compelled to relinquish my undertaking by the untenable smooth- ness of the spaces which remained to be gone over. An hundred times I threw myself, exhausted by fatigue and my pains, on the ground. The consciousness was gradually restored that till I had at- tempted every part of the wall, it was absurd to despair, and I again drew my tottering limbs and aching joints to that part of the wall which had not been sur- veyed. At length, as I stretched my hand upward, 1 found somewhat that seemed like a recession in the wall. It was pos- sible that this was the top of the cavity, and this might be the avenue to liberty. My heart leaped with joy, and I pro- ceeded to climb the vvrall. No undertak- 140 EDGAR HUNTLY. ing could be conceived more arduous than this. The space between this verge and the floor was nearly smooth. The verge was higher from the bottom than my head. The only means of ascending that were offered me were by my hands, with which I could draw myself upward so as, at length, to maintain my hold with my feet. My efforts were indefatigable, and at length I placed myself on the verge, when this was accomplished my strength was nearly gone. Had I not found space enough beyond this brink to stretch my- self at length, I should unavoidably have fallen backward into the pit, and all my pains had served no other end than to deepen my despair and hasten my de- struction. What impediments tod perils remain- ed to be encountered I could not judge. I was now inclined to forbode the worst. EDGAR HUNTLY. 141 The interval of repose which was neces- sary to be taketi, in order to recruit my strength, would accelerate the ravages of famine, and leave me without the power to proceed. In this state, I once more consoled myseif that an instrument of death was at hand. I had drawn up with me the X?JIl::h§J^vk» being sensible that should this impediment be overcome others might remain that w^ould prove insu- perable. Before I employed it, however, I cast my eyes wildly and languidly around. The darkness was no less intense than in the pit below, and yet two objects were distinctly seen. They resembled a fixed. and obscure flame. They were motionless. Though lustrous themselves they created no illu- mination around them. This circum- stance, added to others, which reminded me of similar objects, noted on former 142 EDGAR HUNTLY. occasions, immediately explained the nature of what I beheld. These were the eyes of a panther. Thus had I struggled to obtain a post where a savage was lurking, and waited only till my efforts should place me within reach of his fangs. The first impulse was to arm myself against this enemy. The desperateness of my con- dition was, for a moment, forgotten. The weapon which was so lately lifted against my own bosom, was now raised to defend my life against the assault o( another. There was no time for deliberation and delay. In a moment he might spring from his station and tear me to pieces. My utmost speed might not enable me to reach him where he sat, but merely to encounter his assault. I did not reflect how far my strength was adequate to EDGAR HUNTLY. 143 save me. All the force that remained was mustered up and exerted in a throw. No one knows the powers that are latent in his constitution. Called forth by imminent dangers, our efforts fre- quently exceed our most sanguine belief. Though tottering on the verge of disso- lution, and apparently unable to crawl rom this spot, a force was exerted in this throw, probably greater than I had ever before exerted. It was resistless and unerring. I aimed at the middle space between these glowing orbs. It penetrated the scull and the animal fell, struggling and shrieking, on the ground. My ears quickly informed me when his pangs were at an end. His cries and his convulsions lasted for a moment and then ceased. The effect of his voice, in these subterranean abodes, was un- speakably rueful. 144 EDGAR HUNTLY. The abruptness of this incident, and the preternatural exertion of my strength, left me in a state of languor and sinking from which slowly and with difficulty I recovered. The first suggestion that occurred was to feed upon the carcass of this animal. My hunger had arrived at that pitch where all fastidiousness and scruples are at an end. I crept to the spot.. ..I will not shock you by relating the extremes to which dire necessity had driven me. I review this scene with loathing and horror. Now that it is past I look back upon it as on some hideous dream. The whole appears to be some freak of insanity. No alternative was offered, and hunger was capable to be appeased, even by a banquet so detes- table. If this appetite has sometimes sub- dued the sentiments of nature, and com- pelled the mother to feed upon the flesh EDGAR HUNTLY. 145 of her offspring, it will not excite amaze- ment that I did not turn from the yet warm blood and reeking fibres of a brute, One evil was now removed, only to give place to another. The first sensa- tions of fullness had scarcely been felt when my stomach was seized by pangs whose acuteness exceeded all that I ever before experienced. I bitterly lamented my inordinate avidity. The excruciations of famine were better than the agonies which this abhorred meal had produced. Death was now impending with no less proximity and certainty, though in a dif- ferent form. Death was a sweet relief for my present miseries, and I vehemently longed for its arrival. I stretched my- self on the ground. I threw myself into every posture that promised some alleviation of this evil. I rolled along the pavement of the cavern, wholly inat- VOL. II. N ¥ ^46 EDGAR HUNTLY. tentive to the dangers that environed me. That I did not fall into the pit, whence I had just emerged, must be ascribed to some miraculous chance. How long my miseries endured, it is not possible to tell. I cannot even form a plausible conjecture. Judging by the lingering train of my sensations, I should conjecture that some days elapsed in this deplorable condition, but nature could not have so long sustained a conflict like this. Gradually my pains subsided and 1 fell into a deep sleep. I was visited by dreams of a thousand hues. They led me to flowing streams and plenteous ban* quets, v/hich, thougji placed within my view, some power forbade me to approach. From this sleep I recovered to the frui- tion of solitude and darkness, but my frame was in a state less feeble than before. That which I had eaten had EDGAR HUNTLY. 147 produced tomporary distress, but on the whole had been of use. If this food had not been provided for me I should scarcely have avoided death. I had reason therefore to congratulate myself on the danger that had lately occured. I had acted without foresight, and yet no wisdom could have prescribed more salutary measures. The panther was. slain, not from a view to the relief of my hunger, but from the self-preser- ving and involuntary impulse. Had I fore-known the pangs to which my rave- nous and bloody meal would give birth, I should have carefully abstained, and yet these pangs were a useful effort of nature to subdue and convert to nourish- ment the matter I had swallowed. I was now assailed by the torments of thirst. My invention and my courage were anew bent to obviate this pressing evil. I reflected that there was some 148 EDGAR HUNTLY. recess from this cavern, even from the spot where I now stood. Before, I was doubtful whether in this direction from this pit any avenue could be found, but since the panther had come hither there was reason to suppose the existence of some such avenue. I now likewise attended to a sound, which, from its invariable tenour, deno- ted somewhat different from the whistling of a gale. It seemed like the murmur of a running stream. I now prepared to go forward, and endeavoured to move along in that direction in which this sound apparently came. On either side and above my head, there was nothing but vacuity. My steps were to be guided by the pavement, which, though unequal and rugged, ap- peared, on the whole, to ascend. My safety required that I should employ both hands and feet in exploring my way. EDGAR HUNTLY. 149 I went on thus for a considerable period. The murmur, instead of be- coming more distinct, gradually died away. My progress was arrested by fatigue, and I began once more to des- pond. My exertions, produced a per-^ spiration, which, while it augmented my thirst, happily supplied me with imper- fect means of appeasing it. This expedient would, perhaps, have been accidentally suggested, but my in- genuity was assisted by remembering the history of certain English prisoners in Bengal, whom their merciless enemy imprisoned in a small room, and some of whom preserved themselves alive merely by swallowing the moisture that flowed from their bodies. This experiment I now performed with no less success. This was slender and transitory con- solation. I knew that, wandering at VOL. II. N 2 150 EDGAR HUNTI.Y. random, I might never reach the outlet of this cavern, or might be disabled, by- hunger and fatigue, from going farther than the outlet. The cravings which had lately been satiated, would speedily return, and my negligence had cut me off from the resource which had recently been furnished. I thought not till now that a second meal might be indispen- sable. To return upon my foot-steps to the spot where the dead animal lay was an heartless project. I might thus be placing myself at an hopeless distance from liberty. Besides my track could not be retraced. I had frequently deviated from a straight direction for the sake of avoiding impediments. All of which I was sensible was, that I was travelling up an irregular acclivit} . I hoped some- time to reach the summit, but had no EDGAR HUNTLY. 151 reason for adhering to one line of ascent in preference to another. To remain where I was, was mani- festly absurd. Whether I mounted or descended, a change of place was most likly to benefit me. I resolved to vary my direction, and, instead of ascending, keep along the side of what I accounted an hill. J had gone some hundred feet when the murmur, before described, once more saluted my ear. This sound, being imagined to proceed from a running stream, could not but light up joy in the heart of one nearly perishing with thirst. I proceeded with new courage. The sound approach- ed no nearer nor became more distinct, but as long as it died not away, I was satisfied to listen and to hope. I was eagerly observant if any the least glimmering of light, should visit this recess. At length, on the right I 152 EDGAR HUNTLY. hand a gleam, infinitely faint, caught my attention. It was wavering and unequal. I directed my steps towards it. It be- came more vivid, and permanent. It was of that kind, hovv^ever, which pro- ceeded from a fire, kindled with dry sticks, and not from the sun. I now lieard the crackling of flames. This sound made me pause, or at least to proceed with circumspection. At length the scene opened, and I found myself at the entrance of a cave. I quickly reached a station when I saw a fire burning. At first no other object was noted, but it was easy to infer that the fire was kindled by men, and that they who kindled it could be at no great dis- tance. [ 153 ] EDGAR HUJ^TLT. CHAPTER XVI Thus was I delivered from my prison and restored to the enjoyment of the air and the light. Perhaps the chance was almost miraculous that led me to this opening. In any other direction, I might have involved myself in an inextricable maze, and rendered my destruction sure: but w^hat now remained to place me in absolute security? Beyond the fire I could see nothing; but since the smoke rolled rapidly away, it was plain that on the opposite side the cavern was open to the air. 154 EDGAR HUNTLY. I went forward, but my eyes were fixed upon the fire; presently, in conse- quence of changing my station, I perceived several feet, and the skirts of blankets. I was somewhat startled at these appearan- ces. The legs were naked, and sqpred into uncouth figures. The mocassins which lay beside them, and which were adorned in a grotesque manner, in addition to other incidents, immediately suggested the suspicion that they were Indiapii, No spectacle was more adapted than this to excite wonder and alarm. Had some mysterious power snatched me from the earth, and cast me, in a moment, into the heart of the wilderness? Was I still in the vicinity of my paternal habitation, or was I thousands of miles distant? Were these the permanent inhabitants of this region, or were they wanderers and robbers? While in the heart of the mountain I had entertained a vague EDGAR HUNTLY* 155 belief that 1 was still within the pre- cincts _of Norwalk. This opinion was shaken for a vHioment by the objects which I now beheld, but it insensibly returned; yet, how was this opinion to be reconciled to appearances so strange and uncouth, and what measure did a due regard to my safety enjoin me to take? I now gained a view of four brawny and terrific figures, stretched upon the ground. They lay parallel to each other, on their left sides; in consequence of which their faces were turned from me. Between each was an interval where lay a musket. Their right hands seemed placed upon the stocks of their guns, as if to seize them on the first moment of alarm. The aperture through v/hich these objects were seen, was at the back of the cave, and some feet from the ground. It was merely large enough to suffer a,n 156 EDGAR HUNTLY. human body to pass. It was involved in profound darkness, and there was no danger of being suspected or discovered as long as I maintained silence, and kept out of vew. It was easily imagined that these guests would make but a short, sojourn in this spot. There was reason to suppose that it was now night, and that after a short repose, they would start vip and resume their joixrney. It w^as my first design to remain shrowded in this covert till their departure, and I prepared to endure imprisonment and thirst some- what longer. Meanwhile my thoughts were busy in accounting for this spectacle. I need . not tell thee that Norwalk is the termina- tion of a sterile and narrow tract, which begins in the Indian country. It forms a sort of rugged and rocky veinj_and continues upw^ards of fifty miles. Jt is EDGAR HUNTLY. 157 crossed in a few places by narrow and intricate paths, by which a communica- tion is maintained between the farms and settlements on the opposite sides of the ridge. L ""^During former Indian wars, this J de surface was sometimes traversed by / > the Red-men, and they made, by means of it, frequent and destructive inroads into the heart of the English settlements. During the last war, notwithstanding the progress of population, and the ttnultiplied perils of such an expedition, fa band of them had once penetrated into Norwalk, and lingered long enough to pillage and murder some of the neighbouring inhabitants. '^'^ I have reason to remember that event. My father's house was placed on the verge of this solitude. Eight of these assassins^ assailed it at the dead of night. VOL. II. o 158 EDGAR HUNTLY. My parents and an infant child were murdered in their beds; the house was pillaged, and then burnt to the ground. Happily, myself and my two sisters were abroad upon a visit. The preceding day had been fixed for our return to our father's house, but a storm occurred, which made it dangerous to cross the river, and by obliging us to defer our journey, rescued us from cap- tivity or death. Most men are haunted by some spe- cies of terror or antipathy, which they are, for the most part, able to trace to some incident which befel them in their early years. You will not be surprized that the fate of my parents, and t he sight pf the body of one of this. savage band, who, in the pursuit that was made after them, was overtaken and killed, should produce lasting and terrific images in my fsgicy. I never looked upon, or called EDGAR HUNTLY. 159 up the image of a savage witligut shud- dering. I knew that, at this time, some hos- tihties had been committed on the fron- tier; that a long course of injuries and encroachments had lately exasperated the Indian tribes; that an implacable and exterminating war was generally expected. We imagined ourselves at an inaccessible distance from the dan- ger, but I could not but remember that this persuasion was formerly as strong as at present, and that an expe- dition, which had once succeeded, might possibly be attempted again. Here was every token of enmity and bloodshed. Each prostrate figure was furnished with a rifled musquet, and a leathern bag tied round his waist, which was, probably, stored with powder and ball. From these reflections, the sense of my own danger was revived and en- 160 EDGAR HUNTLY. forced, but I likewise ruminated on the evils which might impend over others. I should, no doubt, be safe by remaining in this nook; but might not some means be pursued to warn others of their danger? Should they leave this spot, without notice of their approach being given to the fearless and pacific tenants of the neighbouring district, they might commit, in a few hours, the most horrid and irreparable devastation. The alarm could only be diffused in one way. Could I not escape, unper- ceived, and without alarming the sleep- ers, fom this cavern? The slumber of an Indian is broken by the slightest noise ; but if all noise be precluded, it is com- monly profound. It was possible, I conceived, to leave my present post, to descend into the cave, and issue forth without the smallest signal. Their supine posture assured me that they were EDGAR HUNTLY. 161 asleep. Sleep usually comes at their bidding, and if, perchance, they should be wake£uLaiL5IlJl-^.s^^^^^^t^l^ moment, they ajwj^s sit,u{Mi^ haunches, and, leaning their elbojvS(. on jtheir knees, cou- sume the tedious hoursin smoking. My peril would be great. Accidents which I could not foresee, and over which I had no command, might occur to awaken some one at the moment I was passing the fire. Should I pass in safety, I might issue forth into a wilderness, of which I had no knowledge, where I might wander till I perished with famine, or where my foot-steps might be noted and pursued, and overtaken by these implacable foes. These perils were enormous and im- minent; but I likewise considered that I might be at no great distance from the habitations of men, and, that my escape might rescue them from the most dread- ful calamities, I determined to make VOL. II. o i 16^ EDGAR HUNTLT. this damgerous experiment without de- lay. I came nearer to the aperture, and had, consequently, a larger view of this recess. To my unspeakable dismay, I now caught a glimpse of one, seated at the fire. His back was turned towards me so that I could distinctly survey his gigantic form and fantastic, ornaments. My project was frustrated. This one was probably commissioned to watch and to awaken his companions when a due portion of sleep had been taken. That he would not be unfaithful or remiss in the performance of the part assigned to him was easily predicted. To pass him without exciting his notice, and the entrance could not otherwise be reached, was impossible. Once more I shrunk back and revolved with hopeless- ness and anguish, the necessity to which I was reduced. EDGAR HUNTLY. 16S This interval of dreary foreboding did not last long. Some motion in him that was seated by the fire attracted my notice. I looked, and beheld him rise from his place and go forth from the cavern. This unexpected incident led my thoughts into a new channel. Could not some advantage be taken of his ab- sence? Could not this opportunity be seized for making my escape? He had left his gun and hatchet on the ground* It was likely, therefore, that he had not gone far, and would speedily return. Might not these weapons be seized, and some provision be thus made against the danger of meeting him without, or of being pursued? Before a resolution could be formed, a new sound saluted my ear. It was a deep groan, succeeded by sobs that seemed struggling for utterance, but 164 EDGAR HUNTLY. were vehemently counteracted by the sufferer. This low and bitter lamenta- tion apparently proceeded from some one within the cave. It could not be from one of this swarthy band. It must then proceed from a captive, whom they had reserved for torment or servitude, and who had seized the opportunity afforded by the absence of him that watched, to give vent to his despair. I again thrust my head forward, and beheld, lying on the ground, apart from the rest, and bound hand and foot, a young girl. Her dress was the,. coarse russet garb of the country, ^nd bespoke her to be some farmer's daughter. Her features denoted the last degree of fear and anguish, and she moved her limbs in such a manner as shewed that the liga- tures by which she was confined, pro- duced, by their tightness, the utmost degree of pain. EDGAR HUNTLY. 165 My wishes were now bent not only to preserve myself, and to frustrate the future attempts of these sava^es^ but like- wise to relieve this miserable victim. This could only be done by escaping from the cavern and returning with sea- sonable aid. The sobs of the girl were likely to rouse the sleepers. My appear- ance before her would prompt her to tes- tify her surprise by some exclamation or shriek. What could hence be predicted but that the band would start on their feet, and level their unerring pieces at my head! I know not why I was insensible to these dangers. My thirst was rendered by these delays intolerable. It took from me, in some degree, the power of deliber- ation. The murmurs which had drawn me hither continued still to be heard. Some torrenLor cascade could not be far distant from the entrance of the cavern. 166 EDGAR HUNTLY. and it seemed as if one draught of clear water was a luxury cheaply purchased by death itself. This, in addition to con- siderations more disinterested, and which I have already mentioned, impelled me forward. The girl's cheek rested on the hard rock, and her eyes were dim with tears. As they were turned towards me, how- ever, I hoped that my movements would be noticed by her gradually and without abruptness. This expectation was ful- filled. I had not advanced many steps before she discovered me. This moment was critical beyond all others in the course of my existence. My life was suspended, as it were, by a spider's thread. All rested on the effect which this discovery should make upon this feeble victim. I was watchful of the first movement of her eye, which should indicate a con- EDGAR HUNTLY. 167 sciousness of my presence. I laboured, by gestures and looks, to deter her from betraying her emotion. My attention was, at the same time, fixed upon the sleepers, and an anxious glance was cast towards the quarter whence the watchful savage might appear. I stooped and seized the musquet and hatchet. The space beyond the fire was, as I expected, open to the air. I issued forth with trembling steps. The sensations inspired by the dangers which environed me, added to my recent hor- rors, and the influence of the moon, which had now gained the zenith, and whose lustre dazzled my long benighted senses, cannot be adequately described. For a minute I was unable *to distin- guish objects. This confusion was spee- dily corrected, and I found myself on the verge of a steep. Craggy eminences arose on all sides. On the left hand was a 168 EDGAR HUNTLY. "space that offered some footing, and hither I turned. A torrent was below me, and this path appeared to lead to it. It quickly appeared in sight, and all foreign cares were, for a time, suspended. TJiis water fell from the upper regions of the hill, upon a fiat projecture which was continued on either side, and on part of which I was now standing. The path was bounded on the left by an inaccessi- ble wall, and on the right terminated at the distance of two or three feet from the wall, in a precipice. The water was eight or ten paces distant, and no impe- diment seemed likely to rise betweenjis.^ I rushed forward with speed. My progress was quickly checked. Close tOctJie falling water, seated on the edge, his back supported by the rock, and his legs hanging over the precipice, I now beheld the savage who left the cave EDGAR HUNTLY. 169 before me. The noise of the cascade and the improbability of interruption, at least from this quarter, had made him inattentive to my motions. I paused. Along this verge lay the only road by which I could reach the water, and by which I could escape. The passage was completely occupied by this anlaTOriis t. To advance towards him, or to remain where I was, would produce the same effect. I should, in either case, be detected. He was unarmed; but his outcries would instantly summon his companions to his aid. I could not hope to overpower him, and pass him in defi- ance of his opposition. But if this were effected, pursuit would be instantly com- menced. I was unacquainted with the way. The way was unquestionably dif- ficult. My strength was nearly annihi- lated: I should be overtaken in a moment, VOL. II. p 170 EDGAR HUNTLY. or their deficiency in speed would be sup- plied by the accuracy of their aim. Their bullets, at least, would reach me. There was one method of removing t his impediment. The piece which I held in my hand was cocked. There could be no doubt that it was loaded. A pre- caution of this kind would never be omitted by a warrior of this hue. At a greater distance than this, I should not fear to reach the mark. Should I not discharge it, and, at the same moment, rush forward to secure the road which my adversary's death would open to me? Perhaps you will conceive a purpose like this* to have argued a sanguinary and murderous disposition. Let it be remembered, however, that I entertained no doubts about the hostile designs of these men. This was sufficiently indi- cated by their arms, their guise, and the captive who attended them. Let the fate EDGAR HUNTLY. 171 of my parents be, likewise, remembered. I was not certain but that these very men were the assassins of my family, and were those who had reduced me and my sisters to the condition of orphans and dependants. No words can describe the torments of my thirst. Relief to these torments, and safety to my life, were within view. How could I hesi- tate? Yet I did hesitate. My aversion to bloodshed was not to be subdued but by the direst necessity. I knew, indeed, that the discharge of a musquet would only alarm the enemies which remained behind; but I had another and a better weapon in my grasp. I could rive the head of my adversary, and cast him headlong, without any noise which should be heard, into the cavern. Still I was willing to withdraw, to re-enter the cave, and take shelter in the 172 XDGAR HUNTLY. darksome recesses from which I had emerged. Here I might remain, unsus- pected, till these detested guests should depart. The hazards attending my re- entrance were to be boldly encountered, and the torments of unsatisfied thirst were to be patiently endured, rather than imbrue my hands in the blood of my fellow men. But this expedient would be ineffectual if my retreat should be observed by this savage. Of that I was bound to be incontestibly assured. I retreated, therefore, but kept my eye fixed at the same time upon the enemy. Some ill fate decreed that I should not retreat unobserved. Scarcely had I withdrawn three paces when he started from his seat, and, turning towards me, walked with ^aquick.pace^. The shadow of the rock, and the improbability of meeting an enemy here, concealed- me for a moment from his observation. I I EDGAR HUNTLY. l73 Stood Still. The slightest motion would have attracted his notice. At present, the narrow space engaged all his vigi- lance. Cautious foot-steps, and attention to the path, were indispensable to his safety. The respite was momentary, and I employed it in my own defence. How otherwise could I act? The dan- ger that impended aimed at nothing less than my life. To take the life of another was the only method of averting it. The means were in my hand, and they were used. In an extremity like this, my muscles would have acted almost in defi- ance of my will. The stroke was quick as lightning, and the wound mortal and deep. He had not time to descry the author of his fate; but, sinking on the path, expired without a groan. The hatchet buried VOL. II. P 2 174 EDGAR HUNTLY. itself in his breast, and rolled with him to the bottom of the precipice. Never before had I taken the life of an human creature. On this head, I had, indeed, entertained somewhat of religious scruples. These scruples did not forbid me to defend myself, but they made me cautious and reluctant to de- cide. Though they could not withhold my hand, when urged by a necessity like this, they were sufficient to make me look back upon the deed with remorse and dismay. I did not escape all compunction in the present instance, but the tumult of my feelings was quickly allayed. To quench my thirst was a consideration by which all others were supplanted. I approached the torrent, and not only drank copiously, but laved my head, neck, and arms, in this delicious element* [175 ] EDGAR HUMTLT. CHAPTER XVII. JN EVER was any delight wor- thy of comparison with the raptures which I then experienced. Life, that was rapidly ebbing, appeared to return upon me with redoubled violence. My languors, my excruciating heat, vanished in a moment, and I felt prepared to un- dergo the labours of Hercules. Hav- ing fully supplied the demands of nature in this respect, I returned to reflection on the circumstances of my situation. The path winding round the hill was now free from all impediments What remained bvit to precipitate my flight? 1 176 EDGAR HUNTLY. might speedily place myself beyond all danger. I might gain some hospitable shelter, where my fatigues might be repaired by repose, and my wounds be cured. I might likewise impart to my protectors seasonable information of the enemies who meditated their destruction. I thought upon the condition of the hapless girl whom I had left in the power of the savage s. Was it impossi- ble to rescue her? Might I not relieve her from her bonds, and make her the companion of my flight ? The exploit was perilous but not impracticable. There was something dastardly and ignomini- ous in withdrawing from the danger, and leaving an helpless being exposed to it. A single minute might sufiice to snatch her from death or captivity. The parents might deserve that I should hazard or even sacrifice my life, in the cause of their child. EDGAR HUNTLY. 177 After some fluctuation, I determined to return to the cavern, and attempt the rescue of the girl. The success of this project depended on the continuance of their sleep. It was proper to approach with wariness, and to heed the smallest token which might bespeak their condi- tion. I crept along the path, bending my ear forward to catch any sound that might arise. I heard nothing but the half-stifled sobs of the girl. I entered with the slowest and most anxious circumspection. Every thing was found in its pristine state. The girl noticed my entrance with a mixture of terror and joy. My gestures and looks enjoined upon her silence. I stooped down, and taking another hatchet, cut assunder the deer-skin thongs by which her wrists and ancles were tied. I then made signs for her to rise and follow m.e. She willingly eompHed with my directions^ but her 178 EDGAR HUNTLY. benumbed joints and lacerated sinews, ^ refused to support her. There was no time to be lost; I therefore, lifted her in my arms, and, feeble and tottering as I was, proceeded with this burthen, along the perilous steep, and over a most rug- ged path. I hoped that some exertion would enable her to retrieve the use of her limbs. I set her, therefore, on her feet, exhorting her to walk as well as she was able, and promising her my occasional assistance. The poor girl was not defi- cient in zeal, and presently moved along with light and quick steps. We spee- dily reached the bottom of the hill. No fancy can conceive a scene more wild and desolate than that which now presented itself. The soil was nearly covered with sharp fragments of stone. Between these sprung brambles and creeping vines, whose twigs, crossing EDGAR HUNTLY. 179 and intertwining with each other, added to. the roughness below, made the pas- sage infinitely toilsome. Scattered over this space were single cedars with their ragged spines and wreaths of moss, and copses of dwarf oaks, which were only new emblems of sterility. I was wholly unacquainted with the scetie before me. Na.ilUrks_of habita- tionjor^culmre, no traces of the foot- steps of mea, were discernible. I scarce- ly knew in what region of the globe I was placed. I had come hither by means so inexplicable, as to leave it equally in doubt, whether I was separated from my paternal abode by a river or an ocean I made inquiries of my companion, but she was unable to talk coherently. She answered my questions with weep- ing, and sobs, and intreaties, to fly from the scene of her distress. I collected from her, at length, that her father's 180 EDGAR HUNTLY. house had been attacked on the preced- ing evening, and all the family but her- self destroyed. Since this disaster she had walked very fast and a great way, but knew not how far or in what direc- tion. In a wilderness like this, my only hope was to light upon obscure paths, made by cattle*. Meanwhile I endea- voured to adhere to one line, and to burst through the vexatious obstacles which encvunberedour way. The ground was concealed by the bushes, and we were perplexed and fatigued by a con- tinual succession of hollows and promi- nences. At one moment we were nearly thrown headlong into a pit. At another we struck our feet against the angles of stones. The branches of the oak reboun- ded in our faces or entangled our legs, and the unseen thorns inflicted on us a thousand wounds. EDGAR HUNTLY. 181 I was obliged, in these arduous cir- cumstances, to support not only myself but my companion. Her strength was overpowered by her evening journey, and the terror of being overtaken, inces- santly harrassed her. Sometimes we lighted upon tracks which afforded us an easier footing, and inspired us with courage to proceed. These, for a time, terminated at a brook or in a bog, and we were once more ; compelled to go forward at random. One of these tracks insensibly became more beaten, and, at length, exhibited the traces of wheels. To this I adhered, confident that it would finally conduct us to a dwelling. On eitlicr side, the undergrowth of shrubs and brambles continued as before. Sometimes small spaces were observed, which had lately been cleared by fire. VOL. II. Q, 182 EDGAR HUNTLY. At length a vacant space of larger dimensions than had hitherto occured, presented itself to my view. Jj was a, field of some acres, that had, apparentl}^, been upturned by the hoe. At the corner of this field was a small house. My heart leaped with joy at this sight. I hastened toward it, in the hope that my uncertainties, and toils, and dangers, were now drawing to a close. This dwelling was suited to the poverty and desolation which surrounded it. It consisted of a few unhevvn. logs laid upon each other, to the height of eight or ten feet, including a quadran- gular space of similar dimensions, and covered by thatch. There was no window, light being sufiiciently admitted into the crevices between the logs. These had formerly been loosely pla«— J tered with clay, but air and rain had crumbled and washed the greater part EDGAR HUNTLY. 183 of this rude cement away. Somewhat like a chTmney, built of half-burnt bricks, was perceived at one corner. The door was fastened by a leathern thong, tied to a peg. All within was silence and darkness. I knocked at the door and called, but no one moved or answered. The tenant, whoever he was, was absent. His leave could not be obtained, and I, therefore, entered without it. The autumn had made some progress, and the air was frosty and sharp. My mind and muscles had been, of late, so strenuously occu- pied, that the cold had not been felt. The cessation of exercise, however, quickly restored my sensibility in this respect, but the unhappy girl complained of being half frozen. Fire, therefore, was the first object of my search. Happily, some em.bers were found upon the hearth, together 134 EDGAR HUNTLY. with potatoe stalks and dry chips. OF these, with much difficuhy, I kindled a fire, by which some warmth was imparted to our shivering hmbs. The Hght enabled me, as I sat upon the ground, to survey the interior of this mansion. / Three saplins, stripped of their / branches, and bound together at their ends by twigs, formed a kind of bed- stead, which was raised from the ground by four stones. Ropes srtetched across these, and covered by a blanket, consti- tuted the bed. A board, of which one end rested on the bedstead, and the other was thrust between the logs that com- posed the wall, stistained the stale frag- ments of a rye -loaf, and a cedar bucket kept entire by withs instead of hoops. In the bucket was a little water, full of droppings from the roof, drowned insects and sand, a basket or two neatly made, and an hoe, with a stake thrust into it EDGAR HUNTLY. 185 by way of handle, made up all the fumi-;' turc that was visible - Next to cold, hunger was the most urgent necessity by which we were now pressed. This was no time to give ear to scruples. We, therefore, uncerimo- niously divided the bread and the water between us. I had now leisure to bestow some regards upon the future. These remnants of fire and food convinced me that this dwelling was usually inhabited, and that it had lately been deserted. Some engagement had probably carried the tenant abroad.. His absence might be terminated in a few minutes, or might endure through the night. On his return, I questioned not my power to appease any indignation he might feel at the liberties which I had taken. I was willing to suppose him one who would readily afford us all the information and succour that we peeded. VOL. U. (^ 2 186 EDGAR HUNTLY. If he should not return till sunrise, I meant to resume my journey. By the comfortable meal we had made, and the repose of a few hours, we should be con- siderably invigorated and refreshed, and the road would lead us to some more hospitable tenement. My thoughts were too tumultuous, and my situation too precarious, to allow me to sleep. The girl, on the contrary, soon sunk into a sweet oblivion of all her cares. She laid herself, by my advice, upon the bed, and left me to ruminate without interruption. I was not wholly free from the ap- prehension of danger. What influence his boisterous and solitary life might have upon the temper of the being who inhabited this hut, I could not predict. How soon the Indians might awake, and what path they would pursue, I was \ EDGAR HUNTLY. 187 equally unable to guess. It was by no means impossible that they might tread upon my foot-steps, and knock, in a few minutes, at the door of this cottage. It b ehoved me to make all the preparation .in my power against untoward inci- dents. I had not parted with the gun which I had first seized in the cavern, nor with the hatchet which I had afterwards used to cut the bands of the girl. These were, at once, my trophies and my means of defence, which it had been rash and absurd to have relinquished. My present reliance v/as placed upon these. I now, for the first time, examined the prize that I had made. Other consi- derations had prevented me till now, from examining the structure of the piece, but I could not but observe that it had two barrels, and was lighter and 188 EDGAR HUNTLY. smaller than an ordinary musquet. The light of the fire now enabled me to inspect it with more accuracy. •« Scarcely had I fixed my eyes upon the stock, when I perceived marks that were familiar to my apprehension. Shape, ornaments, and cyphers, were evidently the same with those of a piece which I had frequently handled. The marks were of a kind which could not be mis- taken. This piece was mine ; and when I left my uncle's house, it was deposited, as I believed, in the closet of my cham- ber. Thou wilt easily conceive the infer- ence which this circumstance suggested. My hairs rose and my teeth chattered with horror. My whole frame was petri- fied, and I paced to and fro, hurried from the chimney to the door, and from the door to the chimney, with the mis- guided fury of a maniac. F EDGAR HUNTLY. 189 I needed no proof of my calamity more incontestible than this. My uncle and my sisters had been murdered; the I dwelling had been pillaged, and this had been a part of the plunder. Defence- } less and asleep, they were assailed by these inexorable enemies, and I, who I ought to have been their protector and l champion, was removed to an immea- surable distance, and was disabled, by I some accursed chance, from affording I them the succour which they needed. For a time, I doubted w^hether I had not witnessed and shared this catastrophe. I had no memory of the circumstances that preceded my awaking in the pit. Had not the cause of my being cast into this abyss some connec- tion with the ruin of my family? Had I not been dragged hither by these savages, and reduced, by their malice, to that breathless and insensible condi- 190 EDGAR HUNTLY. tion? Was I born to a malignant destiny never tired of persecuting? Thus had my parents and their infant offspring perished, and thus completed was the fate of ail those to whom my affections cleaved, and whom the first disaster had spared. Hitherto the death of the savage, » ■»«<■■ whom I had dispatched with my hatchet, had not been remembered without some remorse. Now my emotions were totally changed: I was somewhat comforted in thinking that thus much of necessary vengeance had been executed. New and more vehement regrets were excited by reflecting on the forbearance I had practised when so much was in my power. All the miscreants had been at my mercy, and a bloody retribution might, with safety and ease, have been inflicted on their prostrate bodies. EDGAR HUNTLY. 191 It was now too late. What of consola- tion or of hope remained to me ? To return to my ancient dwelling, now polluted with blood, or perhaps, nothing but a smoking ruin, was abhorred. Life, connected with remembrance of my misfortunes was detestable. I was no longer anxious for flight. No change of the scene but that which terminated all consciousness, could I endure to think of. Amidst these gloomy meditations the idea was suddenly suggested of returning, with the utmost expedition, to the cavern. It was possible that the a,ssassins were still asleep. He who was appointed to watch and to make, in due season, the signal for resuming their march, was forever silent. Without this signal it was not unlikely that they would sleep till dawn of day. But if they should be roused, they might be over- taken or met, and, by choosing a proper 192 EDGAR HUNTLY. Station, two victims might at least fall. The ultimate event to myself would surely be fatal; but my own death was an object of desire rather than of dread. To die thus speedily, and after some atonement was made for those who had already been slain, was sweet. The way to the mountain was difficult and tedious, but the ridge was distinctly seen from the door of the cottage, and I trusted that auspicious chance would lead me to that part of it where my prey was to be found. I snatched up the gun and tom-hawk in a transport of eagerness. On examining the former, I found that both barrels were deeply loaded. This piece was of extraordinary workmanship. It was the legacy of an English officer, who died in Bengal, to Sarsefield. It was constructed for the purposes not of sport but of war. The BDGAR HUNTLY. 193 the artist had made it a congeries of tubes and springs, by which every purpose of protection and offence was effectually served. A dagger's blade was attached to it, capable of being fixed at the end, and of answering the destructive purpose of a bayonet. On his departure from Solcbury, my friend left it, as a pledge of his affection, in my possession. Hitherto I had chiefly employed it in shooting at a mark, in order to improve my sight; now was I to profit by the gift in a different way. Thus armed, I prepared to sally forth on my adventurous expedition. Sober views might have speedily suc- ceeded to the present tempest of my passions. I might have gradually dis- covered the romantic and criminal temerity of my project, the folly of re- venge, and the duty of preserving my life VOL. II. R 194 EDGAR HUNTLY. for the benefit of mankind. I might have suspected the propriety of my conclu- sion, and have admitted some doubts as to the catastrophe which I imagined to have befallen my uncle and sisters. I might, at least, have consented to ascertain their condition with my own eyes; and for this end have returned to the cottage, and have patiently waited till the morning light should permit me to resume my journey. This conduct was precluded by a new incident. Before I opened the door I looked through a crevice of the wall, and perceived three human figures at the farther end of the field. They approach- ed the house. Though indistinctly seen, something in their port persuaded me that these were the Indians from whom I had lately parted. I was startled but not dismayed. My thirst of vengeance was still powerful, and I believed that the moment of its gratifi- 1 EDGAR HUNTLY, 195 cation was hastening. In a short time they would arrive and enter the house. In what manner should they be received? I studied not my own security. It was the scope of my wishes to kill the whole number of my foes; but that being done, I was indifferent to the conse- quences. I desired not to live to relate or to exult in the deed. To go forth was perilous and useless. All that remained was to sit vipon the ground opposite the door, and fire at each as he entered. In the hasty survey I had taken of this apartment, one object had been overlooked, or imperfectly noticed, Close to the chimney was an aperture, formed by a cavity partly in the wall and in the ground. It was the entrance of an oven, which resembled, on the outside, a mound of earth, and which was filled with dry stalks of pota- toes and other rubbish. 196 EDGAR HUNTLY. Into this it was possible to thrust my body. A sort of screen might be formed of the brush-wood, and more deUberate and effectual execution be done upon the enemy. I weighed not the disadvantages of this scheme, but precipitately threw myself into this cavity. I discovered, in an instant, that it was totally unfit for my purpose, but it was too late to repair my miscarriage. This wall of the hovel was placed near the verge of a sand-bank. The oven was erected on the very brink. This bank being of a loose and mutable soil, could not sustain my weight. It sunk, and I sunk along with it. The height of the bank was three or four feet, so that, though disconcerted and embarrassed, I received no injury. I still grasped my gun, and resumed my feet in a moment. What was now to be done? The bank screened me from the view of the , EDGAR HUNTLY. 197 '^ savages. The thicket was hard by, ! and if I were eager to escape, the way was obvious and sure. But though single, though enfeebled by toil, by > abstinence and by disease, and though so much exceeded in number and strength, by my foes, I was determined to await and provoke the contest. In addition to the desperate impulse of passion, I was swayed by thoughts of the danger which beset the sleeping girl, and from which my flight would leave her without protection. How strange is the destiny that governs man» kind! The consequence of shrouding myself in this cavity had not been foreseen. It was an expedient which courage, and not cowardice suggested? and yet it was the only expedient by which flight had been rendered practi- cable. To have issued from the door VOL. II. R , 198 EDGAR HUNTLY. would only have been to confront, and not to elude the danger. The first impulse prompted me to re-enter the cottage by this avenue, but this could not be done with certainty and expedition. What then remained? While I deliberated, the men approached, and, after a moment's hesitation, entered the house, the door being partly open. The fire on the hearth enabled them to survey the room. One of them -utv tered a sudden exclamation of surprize. This was easily interpreted. They had noticed the girl who had lately been their captive lying asleep on the blanket. Their astonishment at finding her here, and in this condition, may be easily con- ceived. I now reflected that I might place myself, without being observed, near the entrance, at an angle of the building, and shoot at each as he successively i EDGAR HUNTLY. 199 came forth. I perceived that the bank conformed to two sides of the house, and that I might gain a view of the front and of the entrance, without ex- posing myself to observation. I lost no time in gaining this station The bank was as high as my breast. It was easy, therefore, to crouch beneath it, to bring my eye close to the verge, and, laying my gun upon the top of it among the grass, with its muzzles pointed to the door, patiently to wait their forth- coming. My eye and my ear were equally attentive to what was passing. A low and muttering conversation was main- tained in the house. Presently I heard an heavy stroke descend. I shuddered, and my blood ran cold at the sound. I entertained no doubt but that it was the stroke of an hatchet on the head or breast of the helpless sleeper. 200 EDGAR HUNTLY. It was followed by a loud shriek. The continuance of these shrieks proved that the stroke had not been instantly- fatal. I waited to hear it repeated, but the sounds that now arose were like those produced by dragging somewhat along the ground. The shrieks, mean- while, were incessant and piteous. My heart faltered, and I saw that mighty efforts must be made to preserve my joints and my nerves stedfast. All de- pended on the strenuous exertions and the fortunate dexterity of a moment. One now approached the door, and came forth, dragging the girl, whom he held by the hair, after him. What hindered me from shooting at his first appearance, I know not. This had been my previous resolution. My hand touch- ed the trigger, and as he moved, the piece was levelled at his right ear. EDGAR HUNTLY. 201 Perhaps the momentous consequences of my failure, made me wait till his ceasing to move might render my aim more svire. Having dragged the girl, still pite- ously shrieking, to the distance of ten feet from the house, he threw her from him with violence. She fell upon the ground, and observing him level his piece at her breast, renewed her supplications in a still more piercing tone. Little did the forlorn wretch think that her deliver- ance was certain and near. I rebuked myself for having thus long delayed. I fired, and my enemy sunk upon the ground without a struggle. Thus far had success attended me in this unequal contest. The next shot would leave me nearly powerless. If that, however, proved as unerring as the first, the chances of defeat were lessened. The savages within, knowing the inten- 202 EDGAR HUNTLY. tions4)fjtheir a3spj^^^ regard to the captive girl, would probably mistake the report which they heard for that of his piece. Their mistake, however, would speedily give place to doubts, and they would rush forth to ascertain the truth. It behoved me to provide a similar recep- tion for him that next appeared. It was as I expected. Scarcely was my eye again fixed upon the entrance, when a tawny and terrific visage was stretched fearfully forth. It was the signal of his fate. His glances cast wildly and swiftly round, lighted upon me, and on the fatal instrument which was pointed at his forehead. His mus- cles were at once exerted to withdraw his head, and to vociferate a warning to his fellow, but his movement was too slow. The ball entered above his ear: He tumbled headlong to the ground, r EDGAR HUNTLY. 203 bereaved of sensation, though not of life, and had power only to struggle and mutter. [ 204 ] EDGAR HUJ^TLT. CHAPTER XVIII 1 H INK not that I relate these things with exuhation or tranquiUty. All my education and the habits of my life tended to unfit me for a contest and a scene like this. But I was not governed by the soul which usually regulates my conduct. I had imbibed from the unpar- alleled events which had lately happened a spirit vengeful, unrelenting, and fero- cious. There was now an interval for flight. Throwing my weapons away, I might gain the thicket ii^ moment. I had no ammunition, nor would time be afforded EDGAR HUNTLY. 205 me to re-load my piece. My antagonist would render my poniard and my speed of no use to me. Should he miss me as I fled, the girl would remain to expiate, by her agonies and death, the fate of his companions. These thoughts passed through my mind in a shorter time than is demanded to express them. They yielded to an ex- pedient suggested by the sight of the gun that had been raised to destroy the girl, and which now lay upon the ground. I am not large of bone, but am not defi- cient in agility and strength. All that remained to me of these qualities was now exerted ; and dropping my own piece, I leaped upon the bank, and flew to seize my prize. It was not till I snatched it from the ground, that the propriety of regaining my former post, rushed upon my appre- VOL. 11. s 206 EDGAR HUNTLY. hension. He that was still posted in the ^ hovel would mark me through the seams of the wall, and render my destruction sure. I once more ran towards the bank, with the intention to throw myself below it. All this was performed in an instant ; but my vigilant foe was aware of his advantage, and fired through an opening between the logs. The bullet grazed my cheek, and produced a benumbing sensation that made me instantly fall to the earth. Though bereaved of strength, and fraught with the belief that I had received a mortal wound, my caution was not remitted. I loosened not my grasp of the gun, and the posture into which I accidentally fell enabled me to keep an eye upon the house and an hand i upon the trigger. Perceiving my condi- tion, the savage rushed from his covert i in ord^r to complete his work; but at three steps from the threshold, he received EDGAR HUNTLY. 207 my bullet in his breast. The uplifted tom-hawk fell from his hand, and, utter- ing a loud shriek, he fell upon the body of his companion. His cries struck upon my heart, and I wished that his better fortune had cast this evil from him upon me. Thus I have told thee a bloody and disastrous tale. When thou reflect- est on the mildness of my habits, my ajitipathy to scenes of violence and blood- shed, my unacquaintance with the use of fire-arms, and the motives of a soldier, thou wilt scarcely allow credit to my story. That one rushing into these dangers, unfurnished with stratagems or weapons, disheartened and enfeebled by hardships and pain, should subdue four antagonists, trained from their infancy to the artifices and exertions of Indian warfare, will seem the vision of fancy," rather than the lesson of truth. / 208 EDGAR HUNTLY. I lifted my head from the ground and pondered upon this scene. The magnitude of this exploit made me question its reahty. By attending to my own sensations, I discovered that I had received no wound, or at least, none of which there was reason to complain. The blood flowed plentifully from my cheek, but the injury was superficial. It was otherwise with my antagonists. The last that had fallen now ceased to groan. Their huge limbs, inured to combat and xvar-morriy were useless to their own defence, and to the injury of others. The destruction that I witnessed was vast. Three beings,^ full of energy and heroism, endowed with minds strenuous and lofty, poured out their lives before me. I was the instrument of their destruction. This scene of carnage and blood was laid by me. To this havock EDGAR HUNTLY. 209 and horror was I led by such rapid foot- steps! " My anguish was mingled with aston- ishment. In spite of the force and vini- formity with which my senses were impressed by external objects, the transi- tion I had undergone was so wild and inexplicable; all that I had performed; all that I had witnessed since my egress from the pit, were so contradictory to precedent events, that I still clung to the belief that my thoughts were confused by delirium. From these reveries I was at length recalled by the groans of the girl, who lay near me on the ground. I went to her and endeavoured to console her. I found that while lying in the bed, she had received a blow upon the side, which was still productive of acute pain. She was unable to rise or to walk, and it was plain that one or VOL. II. s ^ 210 EDGAR HUNTLY. more of her ribs had been fractured by i the blow. I knew not what means to devise for our mutual relief. It was possible that the nearest dwelling was many leagues distant. I knew not in what direction to go in order to find it, and my strength would not suffice to carry my wounded companion thither in my arms. There was no expedient but to remain in this field of blood till the morning. I had scarcely formed this resolvition before the report of a musquet was heard at a small distance. At the same mo- ment, I distinctly heard the whistling of a bullet near me. I now remembered that of the five Indians whom I saw in the cavern, I was acquainted with the destiny only of four. The fifth might be still alive, and fortune might reserve for him the task of avenging his compa- EDGAR nUNTLY. 211 nions. His steps might now be tending hither in search of them. The musquet belonging to him who was shot upon the threshold, was still charged. It was discreet to make all the provision in my power against danger. I possessed myself of this gun, and seating myself on the ground, looked carefully on all sides, to descry the aproach of the enemy. I listened with breathless eagerness. Presently voices were heard. They ascended from that part of the thicket from which my view was intercepted by the cottage. These voices had some- thing in them that bespoke them to belong to friends and countrymen. As yet I was unable to distinguish words. Presently my eye was attracted to one quarter, by a sound as of feet tramp- ling down bushes. Several heads were seen moving in succession, and at length. 112 EDGAR HL/NTLY. the whole person was conspicuous. One after another leaped over a kind of mound which bordered the field, and made towards the spot where I sat. This band was composed of ten or twelve persons, with each a gun upon his shoulder. Their guise, the moment it was perceived, dissipated all my ap- prehensions. They came within the distance of a few paces before they discovered me. One stopped, and bespeaking the at- tention of his followers, called to know who was there ? I answered that I was a friend, who intreated their assistance. I shall not paint their astonishment when, on coming nearer, they beheld me sur- rounded by the arms and dead bodies of my enemies. I sat upon the ground, supporting my head with my left hand, and resting on my knee the stock of an heavy mus- EDGAR HUNTLY. 213 quet. My countenance was wan and haggard, m)' neck and bosom were died in blood, and my limbs, almost stripped by the brambles of their slender cover- ing, were lacerated by a thousand wounds. Three savages, two of whom were steeped in gore, lay at a small dis- tance, with the traces of recent life on their visages. Hard by was the girl, venting her anguish in the deepest groans, and intreating relief from the new comers. One of the company, on approaching the girl, betrayed the utmost pertur- bation. "Good God!" he cried, "is this a dream? Can it be you? SpeakI" "Ah, my father! my father!" answered she, "it is I indeed." The company, attracted by this dialogue, crowded round the girl, whom her father, clasping in his arms, lifted from the ground, and pressed, in a 214 EDGAR HUNTLY. transport of joy to his breast. This delight was succeeded by soHcitude rejecting her condition. She could only answer his inquiries by complain- ing that her side was bruised to pieces. How came you here?.. ..Who hurt you? ......Where did the Indians carry you? were questions to which she could make no reply but by sobs and plaints. My own calamities were forgotten in contemplating the fondness and com- passion of the man for his child. I derived new joy from reflecting that I had not abandoned her, and that she owed her preservation to my efforts. The inquiries which the girl was unable to answer, were now put to me. Every one interrogated who I was, whence I had come, and what had given rise to this bloody contest. I was not willing to expatiate on my story. The spirit which had hitherto EDGAR HUNTLY. 215 sustained me, began now to subside. My strength ebbed away with my blood. Tremors, lassitude, and deadly cold, invaded me, and I fainted on the ground. Such is the capricious constitution of the human mind. While dangers were at hand, while my life was to be pre- served only by zeal and vigilance, and courage, I was not wanting to myself. i Had my perils continued or even mul- tiplied, no doubt my energies would have kept equal pace with them, but the moment that I was encompassed by protectors, and placed in security, I grew powerless and faint. My weakness was proportioned to the duration and intensity of my previous efforts, and the swoon into which I now sunk, was no doubt, mistaken by the spectators, for death. 216 EDGAR HUNTLY. On recovering from this swoon, my sensations were not unlike those which I had experienced on awaking in the pit. For a moment a mistiness involved every object, and I was able to distin- guish nothing. My sight, by rapid degrees, was restored, my painful diz- ziness was banished, and I surveyed the scene before me w^ith anxiety and wonder. I found myself stretched upon the ground. I perceived the cottage and the neighbouring thicket, illuminated by a declining moon. My head rested upon something, which, on turning to examine, I found to be one of the slain Indians. The other two remained upon the earth at a small distance, and in the attitudes in which they had fallen. Their arms, the wounded girl, and the troop who were near me when I fainted, were gone. EDGAR HUNTLY. 217 My head had reposed upon the breast of him whom I had shot in this part of his body. The blood had ceased to ooze from the wound, but my dishev- elled locks were matted and steeped in that gore which had overflowed and choaked up the orifice. I started from this detestable pillow, and regained my feet. I did not suddenly recall what had lately passed, or comprehend the nature of my situation. At length, however, late events were recollected. That I should be abandoned in this forlorn state by these men, seemed to argue a degree of cowardice or cruelty, of which I should have thought them incapable. Presently, however, I reflec- ted that appearances might have easily misled them into a belief of my death: on this supposition, to l^ave carried me VOL. II. T 218 EDGAR HUNTLY. away, or to have stayed beside me, would be useless. Other enemies might be abroad, or their families, now that their fears were somewhat tranquilized, might require their presence and pro- tection. I went into the cottage. The fire still burned, and afforded me a genial warmth. I sat before it and began to ruminate on the state to which I was reduced, and on the measures I should next pursue. Day-light could not be very distant. Should I remain in this hovel till the morningy or immediately resume my journey? I was feeble, indeed, but By remaining here should I not increase my feebleness? The sooner I should gain some human habitation the better ; whereas watchfulness and hunger would render me, at each minute, less able to proceed than on the former. EDGAR HUNTLY. 219 This spot might be visited on the next day; but this was involved in uncer- tainty. The visitants, should any come, would come merely to examine and bury the dead, and bring with them neither the clothing nor the food which my necessities demanded. The road was sufficiently discernible, and would, una- voidably, conduct me to some dwelling. I determined, therefore, to set out with- out delay. Even in this state I was not unmindful that my safety might require the precaution of being armed. Besides the fusil, which had been given me by Sarsefield, and which I had so unexpec- tedly recovered, had lost none of its value in my eyes. I hoped that it had escaped the search of the troop who had been here, and still lay below the bank, in the spot where I had dropped it. In this hope I was not deceived. It was found. I possessed myself of the 220 EDGAR HUNTLY. powder and shot belonging to one of the savages, and loaded it. Thus equip- ped for defence, I regained the road, and proceeded, with alacrity, on my way. For the wound in my cheek, nature had provided a styptic, but the soreness was extreme, and I thought of no remedy but water, with which I might wash away the blood. My thirst likewise incommoded me, and I looked with eagerness for the traces of a spring. In a soil like that of the wilderness around me, nothing was less to be expected than to light upon water. In this respect, however, my destiny was propitious. I quickly perceived water in the ruts. It trickled hither from the thicket on one side, and, pursuing it among the bushes, I reached the bub- bling source. Though scanty and bi-ac- kish, it afforded me unspeakable refresh- ment. EDGAR HUNTLY. 221 Thou Avilt think, perhaps, that my perils were now at an end; that the blood I had already shed was sufficient for my safety. I_ fervently hoped that no new exigence would occur, compelling me to use the arms that I bore in my own de- fence. I formed a sort of resolution to shun the contest with a new enemy, almost at the expense of my own life. I was satiated and gorged with slaughter, and thought upon a new act of destruc- tion with abhorrence and loathing. But though I dreaded to encounter a new enemy, I was sensible that an enemy might possibly be at hand. I had moved forward with caution, and my sight and hearing were attentive to the slightest tokens. Other troops, besides that which I encountered, might be hover- ing ilear, and of that troop, I remem- bered that one at least had survived. VOL. II. T 2 222 EDGAR HUNTLY. The gratification which the spring had afforded me was so great, that I was in no haste to depart. I lay upon a rock, which chanced to be shaded by a tree behind me. From this post I could overlook the road to some distance, and, at the same time, be shaded from the observation of others. My eye was now caught by move- ments which appeared like those of a beast. In different circumstances, I should have instantly supposed it to be a wolf, or panther, or bear. Now my suspicions were alive on a different account, and my startled fancy figured to itself nothing but an human adver- sary. A thicket was on either side of the roaxL That opposite to my station was discontinued at a small distance by th^ cultivated field. The road continued along this field, bounded by the thicket EDGAR HUNTLY. 223 onjhe^one side, and the open space on the other. To this space the being who was now descried was cautiously ap- proaching. He moved upon all fours, and pre- sently came near enough to be distin- guished. His disfigured limbs, pendants from his ears and nose, and his shorn locks, were indubitable indications of a savage. Occasionally he reared himself above the bushes, and scanned, with suspicious vigilance, the cottage and the space surrounding it. Then he stooped, and crept along as before. I was at no loss to interpret these appearances. This was my surviving enemy. He was unacquainted with the fate of his associates, and was now ap- proaching the theatre of carnage, to as- certain their fate. Once more was the advantage afforded me. From this spot might unerring aim 224 EDGAR HUNTLY. be taken, and the last of this hostile troop be made to share the fate of the rest. Should I fire or suffer hira to pass in safety ? My abhorrence of bloodshed was not abated. But I had not foreseen this occurrence. My success hitherto had seemed to depend upon a combination of fortunate incidents, which could not be expected again to take place ; but now was I invested with the same power. The mark was near; nothing obstructed or delayed; I incurred no danger, and the event was certain. Why should he be suffered to live? He came hither to murder and despoil my friends; this work he has, no doubt, performed. Nay, has he not borne his part in the destruction of my uncle and my sisters? He will live only to pursue the same sanguinary trade ; to drink the blood and exult in the laments of his EDGAR HUNTLY. 225 unhappy foes, and of my own brethren. Fate has reserved him for a bloody and violent death. For how long a time soever it may be deferred, it is thus that his career will inevitably terminate. Should he be spared, he will still roam in the wilderness, and I may again be fated to encounter him. Then our mutual situation may be widely differ- ent, and die advantage I now possess may be his. While hastily revolving these thoughts I was thoroughly aware that one event might take place which would render all deliberation useless. Should he spy me where I lay, my fluctuations must end. My safety would indispensably require me to shoot. This persuasion made me keep a stedfast eye upon his mo- tions, and be prepared to anticipate his assault. 226 EDGAR HUNTLY. It now most seasonably occurred to me that one essential duty remained to be performed. One operation, without which fire arms are useless, had been unaccountably omitted. My piece was uncocked. I did not reflect that in mov- ing the spring, a sound would necessarily be produced, sufficient to alarm him. But I knew that the chances of escaping his notice, should I be perfectly mute and still, were extremely slender, and that, in such a case, his movements would be quicker than the light; it behoved me, therefore, to repair my omission. The sound struck him with alarm. He turned and darted at me an inquiring glance. I saw that forbearance was no longer in my power; but my heart sunk while I complied with what may surely be deemed an indispensable necessity. This faltering, perhaps it was, that made me swerve somewhat from the fatal line. EDGAR HUNTLY. 227 He was disabled by the wound, but not killed. He lost all power of resistance, and was, therefore, no longer to be dreaded. He rolled upon the ground, uttering doleful shrieks, and throwing his limbs into those contorsions which bespeak the keenest agonies to which ill-fated man is subject. Horror, and compassion, and. remorse, were mingled into one senti- ment, and took possession of my heart. To shut out this spectacle, I withdrew from the spot, but I stopped before I had moved beyond hearing of his cries. The impulse that drove me from the scene was pusillanimous and cowardly. The past, however deplorable, could not be recalled; but could not I afford some relief to this wretch? Could not I, at least, bring his pangs to a speedy close? Thus he might continue, writhing and calling upon death for hours. Why 228 EDGAR HUNTLY. should his miseries be uselessly pro- longed? There was but one way to end them. To kill him outright, was the dictate of compassion and of duty. I hastily re- turned, and once more levelled my piece at his head. It was a loathsome obliga- tion, and was performed with uncon- querable reluctance. Thus to assault and to mangle the body of an enemy, already prostrate and powerless, was an act worthy of abhorrence; yet it was, in this case, prescribed by pity. My faltering hand rendered this se- cond bullet ineffectual. One expedient, . still more detestable, remained. Having gone thus far, it would have been inhu- man to stop short. His heart might easily be pierced by the bayonet, and his strug- gles would cease. This task of cruel lenity was at length finished. I dropped the weapon EDGAR HUNTLY. 229 and threw myself on the ground, over- powered by the horrors of this scene. Such are the deeds which perverse nature/ compels thousands of rational beings to perform and to witness! Such is the spec- tacle, endlessly prolonged and diversi- fied, which is exhibited in every field of battle ; of which, habit and example, the temptations of gain, and the illusions of honour, will make us, not reluctant or indifferent, but zealous and delighted actors and beholders ! Thus, by a series of events impossi- ble to be computed or foreseen, was the destruction of a band, selected from their fellows for an arduous enterprise, distin- guished by prowess and skill, and equally armed against surprize and force, com- pleted by the hand of a boy, uninured to hostility, unprovided with arms, precipi- tate and timerous! I have noted men VOL. II. X 230 EDGAR HUNTLY. who seemed born for no end but by their achievements to beUe experience, and baffle foresight, and outstrip beUef. Would to God that I had not deserved to be numbered among these ! But what power was it that called me from the sleep of death, just in time to escape the mer- ciless knife of this enemy? Had my swoon continued till he had reached the spot, he would have effectuated my death by new wounds and torn away the skin from my brows. Such are the subtile threads on which hangs the fate of man and of the universe ! While engaged in these reflections, I perceived that the moon-light had began to fade before that of the sun. A dusky and reddish hue spread itself over the east. Cheered by this appearance, I once more resumed my feet and the road. I left the savage where he lay, but made prize of his tom-hawk. I had left my EDGAR HUNTLY. 231 own in the cavern; and this weapon added Uttle to my burden. Prompted by some freak of fancy, I stuck his mus- quet in the ground, and left it standing upright in the middle of the road. [ 232 ] EDGAR HUJV^TLT. CHAPTER XIX 1 MOVED forward with as quick a pace as my feeble limbs would permit. I did not allow myself to meditate. The great object of my wishes was a dwelling where food and repose might be pro- cured. I looked earnestly forward, and on each side, in search of some token of human residence; but the spots of culti- vation, the well-pole^ the worm-fence jdiXid the hay-rickj were no where to be seen. I did not even meet with a wild hog, or a bewildered cow. The path w^as narrow, and on either side was a trackless wil- derness. On the right and left were EDGAR HUNTLY. 233 the waving lines of mountainous ridges which had no peculiarity enabling me to ascertain whether I had ever before seen them. At length I noticed that the tracks of wheels had disappeared from the path that I was treading; that it became more narrow, and exhibited fewer marks of being frequented. These appearances were discouraging. I now suspected that I had taken a wrong direction, and instead of approaching, was receding from the habitation of men. It was wisest, however, to proceed. The road could not but have some origin as well as end. Some hours passed away in this uncertainty. The sun rose, and by noon-day I seemed to be farther than ever from the end of my toils. The path Vv^as more obscure, and the wilder- ness more rugged. Thirst more incom- VOL. II. X i 234 EDGAR HUNTLY. moded me than hunger, but reUef was seasonably afforded by the brooks that flowed across the path. Coming to one of these, and having slaked my thirst, I sat down upon the bank, to reflect on my situation. The circuity of the path had frequently been noticed, and I began to suspect that though I had travelled long, I had not moved far from the spot where I had commenced my pilgrimage. Turning my eyes on all sides, I noticed a sort of pool, formed by jhe rivulet, at a few paces distant from the road. In approaching and inspecting it, I observed the foot-steps of cattle, who had retired by a path that seemed much beaten; Ilikewise noticed a cedar bucket, broken and old, lying on the margin. These tokens revived my drooping spi- rits, and I betook myself to this new track. It was intricate ; but, at length, EDGAR HUNTLY. 235 led up a steep, the summit of which was of better soil than that of which the flats consisted. A clover field, and several apple-trees, sure attendents of man, were now discovered. From this space I entered a corn-field, and at length, to my inexpressible joy, caught a glimpse of an house. This dwelling was far different from tliat I had lately left. It was as small and as low, but its walls consisted of boards. A window of four panes admit- ted the light, and a chimney of brick, well burnt, and neatly arranged, peeped over the roof. As I approached I heard the voice of children, and the hum of a spinning-wheel. 1 cannot make thee -conceive the delight which was afforded me by all these tokens. I now found myself, indeed, among beings like myself, and from whom hospitable entertainment might be confi- 236 EDGAR HUNTLY. dently expected. I compassed the house, and made my appearance at the door. A good woman, busy at her wheel, with two children playing on the ground before her, were the objects that now presented themselves. The uncouthness of my garb, my wild and weather-worn appearance, my fusil and tom-hawk, could not but startle them. The woman stopt her wheel, and gazed as if a spectre had started into view. I was somewhat aware of these con- sequences, and endeavoured to elude them, by assuming an air of supplication and humility. I told her that I was a traveller, who had unfortunately lost his way, and had rambled in this wild till nearly famished for want. I intreated her to give me some food; any tiling however scanty or coarse, would be ac- ceptable. EDGAR HUNTLY. 237 After some pause she desired me, though not without some marks of fear, to walk in. She placed before me some brown bread and milk. She eyed me while I eagerly devoured this morsel. It was, indeed, more delicious than any I had ever tasted. At length she broke silence, and expressed her astonishment and commiseration at my seemingly for- lorn state, adding, that perhaps I was the man whom the men were looking after who had been there some hours before. My curiosity was roused by this inti- mation. In answer to my interrogations, she said, that three persons had lately stopped, to inquire if her husband had not met, within the last three days, a person of whom their description seemed pretty much to suit my person and dress. He was tall, slender, wore nothing but 238 EDGAR HUNTLY. shirt and trowsers, and was wounded on the cheek. What, I asked, did they state the rank or condition of the person to be ? He hved in Solebury. He was supposed to have rambled in the moun- tains, and to have lost his way, or to have met with some mischance. It was three days since he had disappeared, but had been seen, by some one, the last night, at Deb's hut. What and where was Dd3!s-hut?. It was a hut in the wilderness, oc- cupied by an old Indian woman, known among her neighbours by the name of Old Deb. Some people called her Queen Mab. Her dwelling was eight lo7ig miles from this house. A thousand questions were pre- cluded, and a thousand doubts solved by this information. Qiieen Mab were EDGAR HUNTLV. 2-39 sounds familiar to my ears; for they originated with myself. This woman oiiginally belonged to the tribe of Delawares or Lennilennapee. All these districts were once comprised within the dominions of that nation. About thirty years ago, in consequence of perpetual encroachments of the Eng- lish colonists, they abandoned their an- cient seats and retired to the banks of the Wabash and Muskingum. This emigration was concerted in a general council of the tribe, and obtained f the concurrence of all but one female. Her birth, talents, and age, gave her much consideration and authority among her countrymen; and all her zeal and eloquence were exerted to induce them to lay aside their scheme. In this, how- ever, she could not succeed. Finding them refractory, she declared her resolu- tion to remain behind, and maintain pos- 240 EDGAR HUNTLY. session of the land which her country- men should impiously abandon. The village inhabited by this clan was built upon ground which now consti- tutes my uncle's barn yard and orchard. On the departure of her countrymen, this female burnt the empty wigwams and retired into the fastnesses of Nor- walk. She selected a spot suitable for an Indian dwelling and a small plantation of maize, and in which she was seldom liable to interruption and intrusion. Her only companions were three dogs, of the Indian or wolf species. These animals differed in nothing from their kinsmen of the forest, but in their attachment and obedience to their mistress. She governed them with abso- lute sway: they were her servants and protectors, and attended her person or guarded her threshold, agreeable to her directions. She fed them with corn and EDGAR HUNTLY. 241 they supplied her and themselves with meat, by hunting squirrels, racoons, and rabbits. To the rest of mankind they were aliens or enemies. They never left the desert but in company with their mis- tress, and when she entered a farm- house, waited her return at a distance. They would suffer none to approach them, but attacked no one who did not imprudently crave their acquaintance, or who kept at a respectful distance from their wigwam. That sacred asylum they would not suffer to be violated, and no stranger could enter it but at the im- minent hazard of his life, unless accom- panied and protected by their dame. The chief employment of this woman, when at home, besides plucking the weeds from among her corn; bruising the grain between two stones, and setting her VOL. II. Y 242 EDGAR HUNTLY. snares, for rabbits and apossums, was to talk. Though in sohtude, her tongue was never at rest but when she was asleep ; but her conversation was merely addressed ta her dogs. Her voice was sharp and shrill, and her gesticulations were vehement and grotesque. An hearer would natu^ rally imagine that she was scolding; but, in truth, she was merely giving them directions. Having no other object of contemplation or subject of discourse, she always found, in their postures and looks, occasion for praise, or blame, or command. The readiness with which they understood, and the docility with which they obeyed her movements and words, were truly wonderful. If a stranger chanced to wander near her hut, and overhear her jargon, inces- sant as it was, and shrill, he might specu- late in vain on the reason of these sounds. If he waited in expectation of hearing EDGAR HUNTLV. 243 some reply, he waited in vain. The strain, always voluble and sharp, was never intermitted for a moment, and would continue for hours at a time. She seldom left the hut but to visit the neighbouring inhabitants, and demand from them food and cloathing, or what- ever her necessities required. These were exacted as her due: to have her wants supplied was her prerogative, and to withhold what she claimed was rebel- lion. She conceived that by remaining behind her countrymen she succeeded to the government, and retained the pos- session of all this region. The English were aliens and sojourners, who occu- pied the land merely by her connivance and permission, and whom she allowed to remain on no terms but those of sup- plying her wants. Being a woman aged and harmless, her demands being limited to that of 244 EDGAR HUNTLY. which she really stood in need, and which her own industry could not pro- cure, her pretensions were a subject of mirth and good humovir, and her injunc- tions obeyed with seeming deference and gravity. To me she early became an object of curiosity and speculation. I delighted to observe her habits and humour her prejudices. She frequently came to my uncle's house, and I some- times visited her; insensibly she seemed to contract an affection for me, and regarded me with more complacency and condescension than any other re- ceived. She always disdained to speak En- glish, and custom had rendered her intel- ligible to most in her native language, with regard to a few simple questions. I had taken some pains to study her jargon, and could make out to discourse with her on the few ideas which she possessed. EDGAR HUNTLY. 245 This circumstance, likewise, wonderfully prepossessed her in my favour. The name by which she was for- merly known was Deb ; but her preten- sions to royalty, the wildness of her aspect and garb, her shrivelled and dimi- nutive form, a constitution that seemed to defy the ravages of time and the influence of the elements ; her age, which some did not scruple to affirm exceeded an hun- dred years^ her romantic solitude and mountainous haunts suggested to my fancy the appellation of Q^iiee7i Mclb, There appeared to me some rude analogy between this personage and her whom the poets of old-time have delighted to celebrate: thou perhaps wilt discover nothing but incongruities between them, but, be that as it may. Old Deb and Queen Mab soon came into indiscrimi- nate and general use. VOL. II, Y 246 EDGAR HUNTLY. She dwelt in Norwalk ..upwards of twenty years. She was not forgotten by her countrymen, and generally recei- ved from her brothers and sons an autumnal visit; but no solicitations or entreaties could prevail on her to return with them. Two years ago, some suspi- cion or disgust induced her to forsake her ancient habitation, and to seek a new one. Happily she found a more convenient habitation twenty miles to the westward, and in a spot abundantly sterile and rude. This dwelling was of logs, and had been erected by a Scottish emigrant, who not being rich enough to purchase land, and entertaining a passion for soli- tude and independence, cleared a field in the unappropriated wilderness, and subsisted on its produce. After somp;i time he disappeared. Various conjec- tures were formed as to the cause of his EDGAR HUNTLY. 247 absence. None of them were satisfac- tory; but that which obtained most credit was, that he had been murdered by the Indians, who, about the same period, paid their annual visit to the Queen, This conjecture acquired some force, by ob- serving that the old woman shortly after took possession of his hut, his imple- ments of tillage, and his corn-field. She was not molested in her new abode, and her life passed in the same quiet tenour as before. Her periodical rambles, her regal claims, her guardian wolves, and her uncouth volubility, were equally remarkable, but her circuits were new. Her distance made her visits to Solebury more rare, and had prevented me from ever extending my pedestrian excursions to her present abode. These recollections were now sud- denly called up by the information of my hostess. The hut where I had 248 EDGAR HUNTLY. sought shelter and reUef was, it seems, the residence of Queen Mab. Some for- tunate occurrence had called her away during my visit. Had she and her dogs been at home, I should have been set upon by these ferocious centinels, and, before their dame could have interfered, have been, together with my helpless companion, mangled or killed. These animals never barked, I should have entered unaware of my danger, and my fate could scarcely have been averted by my fusil. Her absence at this unseasonable hour was mysterious. It was now the time of year when her countrymen were accustomed to renew their visit. Was there a league between her and the plun- derers whom I had encountered? But who were they by whom my foot-steps were so industriously traced? Those whom I had seen at Deb's hut EDGAR HUNTLY. 249 Were strangers to me, but the wound upon my face was known only to them. To this circumstance was now added my place of residence and name. I supposed them impressed with the belief that I was dead; but this mistake must have speedily been rectified. Revisiting the spot, finding me gone, and obtaining some intelligence of my former condition, they had instituted a search after me. But what tidings were these? I was supposed to have been bewildered in the mountains, and three days were said to have passed^ since my disappearance. Twelve hours had scarcely elapsed since 1 emerged from the cavern. Had two days and an half been consumed in my subterranean prison? These reflections were quickly sup- planted by others, I now gained a suf- ficient acquaintance with the region that was spread around me. I was in the 250 EDGAR HUNTLY. midst of a vale, included between ridges that gradually approached each other, and when joined, were broken up into hollows and steeps, and spreading them- selves over a circular space, assumed the appellation of Norwalk. This vale gradually widened as it tended-, to the westward, and was, in this place ten or twelve miles in breadth. My devious foot-steps had brought me to the foot of the southern barrier. The outer basis of this was laved by the river, but, as it tended eastward, the mountain and river receded from each other, and one of the cultivable districts lying between them was Solebury, my natal tozvnsbip. Hither it was now my duty to return with the utmost expedition. There were two ways before me. One lay along the interior base of -^he hill, over a sterile and trackless space, and exposed to the encounter of savages, EDGAR HUNTLY. 251 some of whom might possibly be lurking here. The other was the well frequented road, on the outside and along the river, and which was to be gained by passing over this hill. The practicability of the passage was to be ascertained by inqui- ries made to my hostess. She pointed out a path that led to the rocky summit and down to the river's brink. The path was not easy to be kept in view or to be trodden, but it was undoubtedly to be preferred to any other. A route, somewhat circuitous, would terminate in the river road. Thence- forward the way to_§jQlebury was level and direct ; but the whole space which I had to traverse was not less than thirty miles. In six hours it would be night, and, to perform the journey in that time would demand the agile boundings of a leopard and the indefatigable sinews of an elk. 252 EDGAR HUNTLY. My frame was in miserable plight. My strength had been assailed by an- guish, and fear, and watchfulness; by toil, and abstinence, and wounds. Still, however, some remnant was left; would it not enable me to reach my home by night-fall? I had delighted, from my childhood, in feats of agility and perse- verance. In roving through the maze of thickets and precipices, I had put my energis both moral and physical, fre- quently to the test. Greater achieve- ments than this had been performed, and I disdained to be out-done in per- spicacity by the lynx, in his sure-footed instinct by the roe, or in patience under hardship, and contention with fatigue, by the Mohawk. I have ever aspired to transcend the rest of animals in all that is common to the rational and brute, as well as in all by which they are distin- guished from each other. END OF VOL. II. ^ :•■: ' '^-■-' I- Brown Sde-sr Huntley 2ngl. 230 Budd 3dey GHR •^>l/V3o /S67 813.23 B877EB T.2 275452