I wish I could like this novel more than I do, but (as with Weiland), although it is innovative, although it possesses all the plot ingredients and much of the atmosphere for a first-class, genuinely American gothic novel, yet its prose is so pedestrian, its structure so flawed, its imagery so disorganized and its narrative so lacking in either suspense or drive that I had difficulty completing it. And yet . . . old growth forests, forbidding mountain crags and precipices, sinister caverns, marauding Indians, a mad Irish immigrant with a violent history, sleepwalkers, important documents buried under a tree, wooden chests with secret compartments: it's all here, like the antique furniture of a ruined gothic mansion strewn randomly across a lawn.
I have to admit, though, that the conclusion of the book is interesting. Although we question many of narrator Huntly's interpretations of reality, we grow to trust his moral instincts and his evaluation of character, in spite of how extreme some of his actions may be. But in the end, he brings his friends into jeopardy, and we come to question even his moral instincts. The novel then becomes a radical critique of the reliability of the moral heart divorced from reason--an interesting combination of enlightenment attitudes and romantic sensibilities.
Still, it's a mess. And often a boring mess at that.