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Edgar Huntly;

or,

Memoirs of a Sleep-Walker.

by

Charles Brockden Brown

To the Public.

The flattering reception that has been given, by the public, to ArthurMervyn, has prompted the writer to solicit a continuance of the samefavour, and to offer to the world a new performance.

America has opened new views to the naturalist and politician, but hasseldom furnished themes to the moral painter. That new springs of actionand new motives to curiosity should operate,--that the field ofinvestigation, opened to us by our own country, should differessentially from those which exist in Europe,--may be readily conceived.The sources of amusement to the fancy and instruction to the heart, thatare peculiar to ourselves, are equally numerous and inexhaustible. It isthe purpose of this work to profit by some of these sources; to exhibita series of adventures, growing out of the condition of our country, andconnected with one of the most common and most wonderful diseases oraffections of the human frame.

One merit the writer may at least claim:--that of calling forth thepassions and engaging the sympathy of the reader by means hithertounemployed by preceding authors. Puerile superstition and explodedmanners, Gothic castles and chimeras, are the materials usually employedfor this end. The incidents of Indian hostility, and the perils of theWestern wilderness, are far more suitable; and for a native of Americato overlook these would admit of no apology. These, therefore, are, inpart, the ingredients of this tale, and these he has been ambitious ofdepicting in vivid and faithful colours. The success of his efforts mustbe estimated by the liberal and candid reader.

C. B. B.

Edgar Huntly.

Chapter I.

I sit down, my friend, to comply with thy request. At length does theimpetuosity of my fears, the transports of my wonder, permit me torecollect my promise and perform it. At length am I somewhat deliveredfrom suspense and from tremors. At length the drama is brought to animperfect close, and the series of events that absorbed my faculties,that hurried away my attention, has terminated in repose.

Till now, to hold a steadfast pen was impossible; to disengage my sensesfrom the scene that was passing or approaching; to forbear to grasp atfuturity; to suffer so much thought to wander from the purpose whichengrossed my fears and my hopes, could not be.

Yet am I sure that even now my perturbations are sufficiently stilledfor an employment like this? That the incidents I am going to relate canbe recalled and arranged without indistinctness and confusion? Thatemotions will not be reawakened by my narrative, incompatible with orderand coherence? Yet when I shall be better qualified for this task I knownot. Time may take away these headlong energies, and give me back myancient sobriety; but this change will only be effected by weakening myremembrance of these events. In proportion as I gain power over words,shall I lose dominion over sentiments. In proportion as my tale isdeliberate and slow, the incidents and motives which it is designed toexhibit will be imperfectly revived and obscurely portrayed.

Oh, why art thou away at a time like this. Wert thou present, the officeto which my pen is so inadequate would easily be executed by my tongue.Accents can scarcely be too rapid; or that which words should fail toconvey, my looks and gestures would suffice to communicate. But I knowthy coming is impossible. To leave this spot is equally beyond my power.To keep thee in ignorance of what has happened would justly offend thee.There is no method of informing thee except by letter, and this methodmust I, therefore, adopt.