EDGAR HUNTLY.
CHAPTER I.
I sit down, my friend, to comply with thy request. At length does the impetuosity of my fears, the transports of my wonder, permit me to recollect my promise and perform it. At length am I somewhat delivered from suspense and from tremors. At length the drama is brought to an imperfect close, and the series of events that absorbed my faculties, that hurried away my attention, has terminated in repose.
Till now, to hold a stedfast pen was impossible;—to disengage my senses from the scene that was passing or approaching;—to forbear to grasp at futurity;—to suffer so much thought to wander from the purpose which engrossed my fears and my hopes, could not be.
Yet am I sure that even now my perturbations are sufficiently stilled for an employment like this?—That the incidents I am going to relate can be recalled and arranged without indistinctness and confusion?—That emotions will not be reawakened by my narrative, incompatible with order and coherence?—Yet when I shall be better qualified for this task I know not. Time may take away these headlong energies, and give me back my ancient sobriety; but this change will only be effected by weakening my remembrance of these events. In proportion as I gain power over words, shall I lose dominion over sentiments. In proportion as my tale is deliberate and slow, the incidents and motives which it is designed to exhibit will be imperfectly revived and obscurely portrayed.
B
