Edgar Huntly, or The Sleep Walker/Introduction
INTRODUCTION.
LIFE AND WRITINGS OF BROWN.
Charles Brockden Brown was one of the earliest American novelists, and is inferior to none of his countrymen who have succeeded him in the paths of romance, either in originality, power, or the faculty of conferring, during the perusal of his fictions, a deep and sustained interest. Indeed, it might truly be said, that in originality he has not been surpassed by any inventor of story of whatever age or country; for, though his style in composition is modelled on the intense and terribil via of Godwin, he has sought, in the hitherto unexplored phenomena of our nature, for the subject matter of his fables; and, by the agencies of these, he has produced effects equally new and stupendous, without violating the eternal laws of truth. To read, for the first time, one of Brown's best romances, is a memorable circumstance in our intellectual life. Were his themes supernatural or magical, we might forget them after perusal, or at any 'rate, the impression would not haunt our minds with unfailing tenacity; but as the scenes he loves to depict (strange though they are), arise out of those mysteries of our nature, the effects of which we have all witnessed, or may witness, and to which we are all more or less subject, we cannot "bid his shadows depart" after he has once raised them.
A writer, in a forgotten journal, comparing Brown with Godwin, thus characterises the former:-
"He was a close and successful copyist of the English sage's style; and they appear to have had community of thought in their views, moral, religious, and political. Here, however, the resemblance ceases, and Brown becomes a gigantic original. His stories are a succession of most romantic incidents. They consist, in a great degree, of ordinary events, clothed by circumstances with a ghostly horror, and of startling, uncommon situations, amid the wide-spread solitudes, the lone savannas, the unthreaded thickets of America—upon peaks inaccessible—in the 'hollow mines of earth.' It would seem that he was a much younger man than Godwin when he wrote: his imagination runs riot with him. He probably passed his early youth in the house of a settler, where the sight of a strange face furnished talk for a week, begetting at length, in the succeeding loneliness, doubts as to whether it was really of the earth or not. In such a situation he has sat by the fire-side and heard the plash of naked feet over-head in a deserted room; and fancied lights coming towards him on the staircases of unoccupied and locked-up houses; and seen faces not his own in the looking-glass; and caught a glimpse of eyes glaring over an enclosure upon one burying the dead at night; and encountered a man walking in his sleep about a solitary tree, miles from any human habitation. The loss of a key, even, becomes a terrific occurrence."
These are, for the most part, just remarks, and they are expressed with striking eloquence; but the writer, we think, has failed to perceive the peculiar characteristics of Brown's works. His events are not "ordinary," though they are reconcilable to nature. He has pried with bold and insatiable curiosity into the morbidities of human life, moral and physical; and the result of his investigations are a series of incidents and characters which at once startle and arrest our faculties, and extend our knowledge of ourselves and of our fellow creatures. The state of his native country at the time he lived—its imperfectly formed society—its mixture of savage and social life—and its infant settlements in the remote and solitary wildernesses, were favourable to the genius of the remarkable author of "Edgar Huntly."
Brown was born in the city of Philadelphia, on the 17th of January, 1771. He evinced, even in childhood, a fondness for intellectual enquiry; and being of a sickly constitution, he did not addict himself to the sports and recreations common to the young. His tendency to bad health was thus unhappily fostered, though it may be supposed, that the mind which was afterwards to shine so brightly in the world's eye, was enriched in proportion to the injury sustained by the body. On his leaving school, which took place before he had attained his sixteenth year, the young and eager student wrote several essays in verse and prose, and sketched plans for three Epics, one having for its subject, "The Discovery of America;" another, "Pizarro's Conquest of Peru;" and a third, "The Expedition to Mexico by Cortez."' These were lofty themes for the literary ambition of a boy; but it is the province and the privilege of genius to be daring; and, "for a time," says his biographer, Mr. Dunlap, "he thought life only desirable as a mean for the accomplishment of these high designs."
Amidst this mental labour, it was, however, necessary that he should make choice of a profession; and he selected that of the law, in the study of which he distinguished himself greatly. But this was not his destiny. His heart had other yearnings, which would not be repressed; and when he had fulfilled the stated period with the gentleman to whom he was articled, and was about to be called to practise on his own account, his mind shrank from the responsibility; and, in spite of the remonstrances of his family and friends, he abandoned a profession which he had voluntarily adopted, and betook himself to the more congenial pursuits of literature.
"He had formed," says Mr. Dunlap, "a world of his own, in which he delighted to dwell, and with whose inhabitants he was habituated to commune, to the exclusion of the dull or sordid beings of real life. The conversation which he heard passing among his fellow beings relative to those objects which constituted the sources of their joys and sorrows, appeared 'frivolous chat,' or, as doubtless it often was, the offspring of 'folly, ignorance, and cupidity.' Society was to him solitude, and in solitude he found delightful converse. It was this shrinking from society, this solitude, this wrong estimate of the views, motives, and characters of mankind, which wrought so powerfully upon the mind of Brown, as to make him turn aside from the obvious path which led to competence, honour, and self-approbation.
"To support himself against the persuasions and arguments of his friends, and against the suggestions of his own better judgment, he resorted to all the sophisms and paradoxes with which ignorance and ingenious prejudice had assailed the science or the practice of the law. He professed that he could not reconcile it with his ideas of morality to become indiscriminately the defender of right or wrong; thereby intimating, if not asserting, that a man must, in the practice of the law, not only deviate from morality, but become the champion of injustice. He would demand, 'What must be the feelings of a lawyer if he had become an auxiliary in the cause of wrong and rapine? If the widow and the orphan were thus by a legal robbery deprived of their just and righteous claims, through the superior artifice or eloquence of the advocate, was he not as criminal as the man who committed such felony without the sanction of a court of justice, and for which the same court would pronounce the severest punishment?' He endeavoured to persuade himself and his hearers, that unless a lawyer could reconcile his mind to the practice of all this iniquity, there was little prospect of his succeeding in his profession, and of course that the acquisition of fame and fortune were only to be considered as proofs of the wrongs done, and the miseries inflicted upon his fellow-men."
The disposition of Brown to investigate and turn to account the infirmities incident to human nature, was manifested in very early life. In a letter to one of his youthful friends, he says he had discovered that he was afflicted with myopism, by having accidentally put on spectacles accommodated to such a vision. Subsequent attention to this condition of sight enabled him to ascertain that he had a vision which, though in some respects imperfect, possessed rare privileges.
"He had only to apply to his eyes, what Dr. Rush calls the aid of declining vision, and he is ushered into a new and beautiful creation. He observes, that it is in his power to make the sun, the stars, and all surrounding creation sparkle upon his view with renovated lustre and beauty. Not satisfied with this, he goes on to compare his situation with the situation of those who had ever beheld the sun in all his majesty and effulgence. To him he had been in all his glories, a stranger; he had never been familiarly acquainted with so glorious a personage.
"On the other hand, those who had always revelled in the magnificence of nature, had become satiated with its glory. Creation to them could unfold .no new beauty; a glance of the eye satisfied them, and it was a glory that palled upon the sense. To him all this was a territory unseen, and it seemed as if Nature had veiled her radiance from his view, to the end that he might, when he pleased, indulge himself in the enjoyment of her bounties. He was able to discern light enough to guide his footsteps, and to answer all the purposes of social intercourse; all beyond this was novelty, was exquisite enjoyment. To those who were surrounded with more expanse of vision, all these blessings were denied. He, therefore, felicitated himself on the thought that he had not the optics of ordinary men."[1]
About the year 1797, Brown made his first attempt in the composition of fiction. He commenced his task without any definite conception of design; but his imagination warmed, and his facility of writing increased as he went on: and, thus encouraged, he brought his work, according to his own account, to completion. What were the name and subject of this romance does not appear; and indeed Mr. Dunlap, notwithstanding the author's assertion, says it was never finished. It is interesting, however, to regard Brown's own views of his first, probably crude, effort in novel-writing, and to trace in his high estimation of Mr. Godwin's "Caleb Williams," the standard by which be resolved to measure his own endeavours.
"I hardly know," says he, "how to regard this exploit. Is it a respectable proof of perseverance or not? Considering my character in its former appearance, this steadiness of application might not have been expected. What is the nature or merit of my performance? This question is not for me to answer. My decision is favourable or otherwise, according to the views which I take of the subject. When a mental comparison is made between this and the mass of novels, I am inclined to be pleased with my own production. But when the objects of comparison are changed, and I revolve the transcendent merits of 'Caleb Williams,' my pleasure is diminished, and is preserved from a total extinction only by the reflection that this performance is the first; that every new attempt will be better than the last, and that, considered in the light of a prelude or first link, it may merit that praise to which it may possess no claim, considered as a last best creation."
During his residence in New-York, in the year 1798, Brown, who had already seen the plague of Philadelphia, witnessed the appalling ravages of the yellow fever. This city had been attacked several years in succession by the pestilence; but it was hoped that its frightful malignity would be diminished in each new visitation. Of the events brought about by this awful infliction, our novelist gives many overwhelming particulars, in his letters to his brother James, written in answer to the earnest entreaties of his family that he would fly from New-York, as they had formerly done from Philadelphia; but he was not only settled, as be supposed, in a healthful part of the town, but resolved that he would in no case leave the sufferers to whom his assistance might be useful. Nothing could be more honourable to his character than this almost self-sacrifice for the good of others.
"In the present healthful state," says he, "of this neighbourhood, it would be absurd to allow fear to drive me away. When there is actual and indisputable danger, it would be no less absurd to remain; since, even if the disease terminate favourably, or even were certain so to terminate, we are sure of being infinitely troublesome to others, and of undergoing much pain. E. H. S. has extensive and successful practice in this disease. Through fatigue and exposure to midnight airs, he is at present somewhat indisposed, but will shortly do well. If, when this fever attacks our neighbourhood, I run away, I am not sure that I shall do right. E. H. S. at least, probably Johnson, will remain, at all events; and if I run the risk of requiring to be nursed, I must not forget that others may require to be nursed by me, in a disease where personal attentions are all in all."
In the above year our author published his novel entitled "Wieland." This extraordinary romance brought him into universal notice; and it was shortly followed by "Ormond, or the Secret Witness," which, however, neither obtained nor deserved the same success. Brown, nevertheless, did not relax in his toil for fame; but actually began and proceeded in the composition of no less than five novels, of which two, namely, "Arthur Mervyn," and "Edgar Huntly" were finished and published in the year 1799. The main subject of the former tale was derived from the tragical circumstances consequent on the advent of the plague in the author's native city of Philadelphia, in the year 1793; and as he had been himself a witness of many of the calamities of that trying time, he gave, in "Arthur Mervyn," sketches of them, which have, by universal opinion, been considered worthy of being ranked with Thucydides's account of the plague of Athens, Boccaccio's narrative of the plague of Florence, and Defoe's History of the Plague of London. In the novel now before the reader, and which, in order of publication, is Brown's fourth work of fiction, he has "chosen for a cause by which to produce effects at once stupendous and mysterious, that disease called Somnambulism. 'Edgar Huntly' unites to events founded on this, 'incidents of Indian hostility, and the perils of the western wilderness.'"[2] This romance is one of the very finest of the creations of the great American novelist; and, independently of the fixing interest of the plot, and the novelty to English readers of the subject, we know not where could be found such striking and grand descriptions of American forests, wildernesses, and caverns, and such fearful pictures of savage life and desperate adventure, as occur in the pages before us. But we will not forestall the anxiety of the reader, by threading beforehand the mazes of the story, nor weaken the effect of some of its electrical touches. Brown's spell is irresistible: like the magic of Prospero, you can only be delivered from its influence by abiding the fulness of time; or, in other words, by reading every page of the book.
Our author's last novel was entitled "Jane Talbot." It was published in 1804. At the latter end of this year he was married to Miss Elizabeth Linn, and from that time settled himself permanently in his native city of Philadelphia. He continued to be occupied in literary pursuits, and speculations, particularly in the annual publication of "The American Register," of which five volumes were published before his death.
But his tendency to consumption began now to make rapid advances on him, encouraged by his intense study and sedentary habits. His friends were, not without cause, seriously alarmed, and frequently urged him to seek, in the salutary effects of a sea voyage, and in change of scene and climate, some relief from the ravages of the insidious disease. But Brown did not, until it was too late, determine on a tour in pursuit of health. "It was resolved," says Mr. Dunlap, "that, in the spring of 1810, he should visit his brother James, who resided in England; but he lived not to see that spring. On the 10th of November, 1809, he was attacked by a violent pain in his side, for which he was bled, and retired to his chamber to be nursed, as he thought, for a few days. From this time to the twenty-second of February, he was confined to his room; his sufferings were then relieved by death. During this long confinement, he scarcely ever enjoyed ease, and sometimes suffered greatly; yet he never uttered a murmur or impatient exclamation, and scarcely a complaint.
"Such is the testimony of one who witnessed, with the tenderest anxiety, his protracted sufferings—his beloved companion, his nurse, his wife.
"From the same source the following particulars of the illness and death of this lamented man are derived:—
"'He always felt for others more than for himself; and the evidences of sorrow in those around him, which could not at all times be suppressed, appeared to affect him more than his own sufferings. Whenever he spoke of the probability of a fatal termination to his disease, it was in an indirect and covert manner, as 'You must do so and so when I am absent,' or 'when I am asleep.' He surrendered not up one faculty of his soul but with his last breath. He saw death in every step of his approach, and viewed him as a messenger that brought with him no terrors. He frequently expressed his resignation, but his resignation was not produced by apathy or pain; for while he bowed with submission to the divine will, he felt, with the keenest sensibility, his separation from those who made this world but too clear to him. Towards the last, he spoke of death without disguise, and appeared to wish to prepare his friends for the event, which he felt to be approaching. A few days previous to his change, sitting up in the bed, he fixed his eyes on the sky, and desired not to be spoken to until he first spoke. In this position, and with a serene countenance, he continued for some minutes, and then said to his wife, 'When I desired you not to speak to me, I had the most transporting and sublime feelings I ever experienced. I wanted to enjoy them, and know how long they would last;' concluding with requesting her to remember the circumstance.
"'On the morning of the 19th of February, 1810, it was observed that a change for the worse had taken place. He thought himself dying, and desired to see all his family, and spoke to each in the tenderest and most affectionate manner. He, however, remained in this dying state until the 22d, frequently conversing with his friends, in perfect possession of his faculties to the last.'"
Such was the death of Charles Brockden Brown, at the age of thirty-nine; but even in this short life, he had achieved works whose merits will assuredly tend to perpetuate his name as a distinguished writer of romance.
November, 1831.
*** It is the intention of the Proprietors of the "Standard Novels" to include in the series some of the other tales of the present writer.